He tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath found The head and source of all your son’s distemper.

We are ever looking for the cause.
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul.
Or what we are hoping to be the cause.
We want to know the trigger when the gun’s been fired. Why? What made him do that? What made him lose his marbles? It must have BEEN something. An event? A disappointment? A sudden cruelty or act of violence? But the truth of these things, the truth of real madness (not the kind you make up to throw murderous uncles off your scent) rarely has a trigger. It is highly unsatisfying to probe the onset of it and find no trigger, no smoking gun, just a possible change in brain chemistry or some wiring that just sort of came loose.
There is no satisfaction to be had, no explanation that makes sense, no context to insure us that it won’t happen to us. Because it could. It could.

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