My brain, my mind, my soul -- whatever terrestrial or transcendental organ you choose to assign responsibility for the functionality of my person -- does not work. It is broken, and it has consequently spent the duration of its existence trying to dismantle itself. My better angel is defective, and the manufacturer has been extremely uncooperative in my attempts to obtain a replacement. Indeed, much of my treatment has involved convincing myself not to approach the executive prematurely, to demand an explanation of his organization's incompetence.
- Triggered: A Memoir of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Fletcher Wortmann
descensus Averno facilis est