Back when I was an entertainment lawyer representing clients like Michael Jackson, Quincy Jones, Lionel Richie, and major motion picture studios, I had to show up at work every day ready to meet with movers and shakers. My law firm was in Beverly Hills, and you don’t just shlep around Beverly Hills, lest God forbid you’re mistaken for a tourist. No, I had to appear like I truly belonged to that insular world of wealth, prestige, and celebrity.

And that meant always looking the part.

I did everything I could to meet the unspoken but stringent expectations—the hundred-dollar haircut, the charcoal gray Armani suit. My embossed vellum business card exuded credibility, my crocodile portfolio was the epitome of professionalism. No one would ever suspect the truth that lay beneath my polished facade: that I was severely mentally ill, struggling with a pernicious case of treatment-resistant bipolar disorder. I was convinced that the only way to keep myself safe—and employed—was to hide my secret self.

So I never showed up at........

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