I had a thousand dollars in my bank account. It felt strange just to

think that, let alone say it. A thousand dollars. Extra. That I did not
immediately need. It took weeks for me to come to terms with this fact,
but as I did, I began to experience the most powerful advantage of
money: the ability to think of things besides money.

My professors came into focus, suddenly and sharply; it was as if
before the grant I’d been looking at them through a blurred lens. My
textbooks began to make sense, and I found myself doing more than
the required reading.

It was in this state that I first heard the term bipolar disorder. I was
sitting in Psychology 101 when the professor read the symptoms aloud
from the overhead screen: depression, mania, paranoia, euphoria,
delusions of grandeur and persecution. I listened with a desperate
interest.

This is my father, I wrote in my notes. He’s describing Dad.
A few minutes before the bell rang, a student asked what role mental
disorders might have played in separatist movements. “I’m thinking of
famous conflicts like Waco, Texas, or Ruby Ridge, Idaho,” he said.

Idaho isn’t famous for many things, so I figured I’d have heard of
whatever “Ruby Ridge” was. He’d said it was a conflict. I searched my
memory, trying to recall if I’d ever heard the words. There was
something familiar in them. Then images appeared in my mind, weak
and distorted, as if the transmission were being disrupted at the
source. I closed my eyes and the scene became vivid. I was in our
house, crouching behind the birchwood cabinets. Mother was kneeling
next to me, her breath slow and tired. She licked her lips and said she
was thirsty, then before I could stop her she stood and reached for the