Over stimulated
Under nourished
Ill informed
I am Benny. I am 16 years old. I am mentally ill. I masturbate over images of young boys and girls. I have fondled and sexually aroused children. I had a disturbed childhood. My childhood was perfect. I cannot tell anyone about my illness because most would happily kill me or burn me in Hell. There is no escape. I cannot tell anyone. It will destroy my life - my family, my friends, my associates, my community. I will be ostrazised.
I am the friendly boy next door but it’s not true. I smile and wave to my neighbours and feel immense guilt. I am a sicko, a pervert, an abomination, they do not know that, nor suspect it, therefore I am deceitful. Yet, I hate myself profoundly and realise every decent and good action I commit is undermined by my sickness. There is no help for me. I can only attempt to help myself alone. But even if I get my life onto a better track, many many years from now, I cannot escape the line I have crossed, shake off the shame, ignore the darkness I have welcomed into my mind, the terror and disgust at what I have done: impossible to repair, take back, regain.
Truly, I desired to tell someone, a psychiarist, a psychologist, anyone with ears to hear and understand. But I could not face the ramification of such a confession. Verifying it would make it real. Reality would make me culpable. I would be a criminal, a deviant, a pedophile. I felt uttterly alone. I knew I was not the only one. But I knew that this activity must be being practiced by dozens, hundreds, if not thousands of people, without anyone knowing of it or suspecting. I wondered how they coped with this sickness in their live. I wondered how their masks shifted and cracked. I wondered how many of them committed suicide without anyone ever knowing the cave of their darkness. A darkness that swallowed them alive - something they could not escape from, overcome.
The majority of people hate pedophiles because they have never uncovered a dark patch in their minds eye, or they certianlydon’t believe they have such potential, or are certianly not letting on. Sickness, whether murder rape molestation cruelty or lie, is a category only for everyone else to impose upon someoone else. Everyone else escapes scot free. They sit in judgement of the mentally ill because they have never seen the edge of themselves. They will not over come mental illness because they will not face the reality of its existence: that sickness comprises part of reality.
Have I made myself clear: I know I am sick. I know I have trespassed against others. I understand the human shadow perfectly well, and I am convinced that I am not alone, in admiting this portion of my darkness. I understand the need for God, Confession, Priests and the imagined possibility of Eternal Heaven and Eternal Hell. I understand the need for escape, for chaos, for building walls against pain. I understand the moral contraditions and the moral mire facing individuals, groups and societies. I understand the desperate need for firm moral principles. People need a safe guard. There is no easy resolution. People will have to face the facts. People must admit the darkness they harbour, if indeed, they harbour darkness. Only by dealing with our own shadow can we do something redemptive to the world and our human future.
My name is Benny and I am desperate and sick lonely lost. I understand your hatred. I understand your disgust. I understand your complete lack of sympathy. I understand why I must be destoryed. I understand that I am your black sheep. Your poison. Your target practice. Your war. Your abomination. Your shame. Your perversion. Your violence. Your quandary. Your enemy. Your retardation. Your lack of understanding. I am the margin of error. I am the crossing of the line. I am the Great Immoralist. I understand my death sentence.
My name is Benny and this is part of my truth. There are many parts to my truth. I know that truth is kaleidoscopic. It refracts and bends and moves, through light chaos and symmetry. Now I am coming to a close, I have said far too much already, this confession has ended, this note is over, rest easy dear reader, for I am now dead.
Rope. Tree. Pedophile.