It took me a while but I eventually bought in to the sick brain narrative. It was expensive getting there. My initial (and only) psych hospitalization was somehow paid for with money left over from my college fund. We’re talking six figures—money dealing that would put Oliver North to shame. My delusions were so ingrained that those seven weeks were one long joke–soon I’d be exonerated even celebrated as the truth would be revealed to all. Each morning I dovetailed to the New York Times expecting to see something on the front page. This was a month before Election Day 1992 and the revelations of my convoluted family history could sway the result. I was living a Tom Clancy novel. It was actually kind of fun.