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Emily Colas uses humor so dark that sometimes it's almost impenetrable, writing about her struggle to cope with debilitating obsessive-compulsive behaviors. This is not a comfortable book, and I didn't even really like Emily, but I found it impossible not to admire her courage and determination to conquer her problems.

There’s no denying this recovery memoir has laughs. With sharp wit, she describes her hemophobia, myrmecophobia, and mysophobia. But two things bugged me. First, to her credit, she never feels sorry for herself. But she never acknowledges the pain, grief, rage, and endless hassle her fears about blood, ants, and contamination put other people through – especially her husband. Second, her lack of interest in getting to the roots of her own fears made me think that she expresses that defiant know-nothingism usual with many people these days: "Facts schmax. Don't get in my face with that face-reality jazz!". Prejudiced reader that I am, I had to conclude she never read or even tried to learn anything about her OCD. She hates therapy, because she hates talking about herself. She feels that without having fears and symptoms, the pursuit of happiness is just a bore. Cripes, read a book. Despite my qualms, I recommend this book to those interested in reading about how OCD can torment an otherwise ordinary life.

pretty good