So you know someone who has bipolar. If you’re asking him or her one of these questions—don’t. We’re sick of hearing them.

My hands were shaking uncontrollably as I paced down the hallway, praying to God that nobody would see me. I was actually on a loop: five floors, two stairwells, and I had made six complete laps so far. My thoughts raced, my attention being dragged around to everything within eyesight. I knew I was incapable of a comprehensible conversation at that point. And if someone asked me a question with any substance, my cover would be completely blown, and I had no idea what the consequences would be. I was having a full-blown manic attack in the middle of a work day. I’d sent a panicked text to my wife to bring me a Xanax, indicating that it was an emergency. (I couldn’t drive.) I didn’t know how long it had been, but it felt like an eternity. This is the reality I live with, as someone living with bipolar disorder working a professional job.