It's nearly impossible to convey the tragic impact that pedophilia leaves on its victims. For anyone who hasn't experienced it personally, it is an unfathomable violation. To have your innocence stripped away by someone you trust- that is the heinous nature of this crime. Pedophiles are widely regarded as contemptible figures, and their crimes inflict damage that is far-reaching, resonating throughout a victim's life. In some instances, this trauma can manifest as a deep-seated resentment, as in my case. This article aims to shed light on this oft-ignored aspect of abuse and hold those responsible accountable.

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At just seven years old, my own sense of safety was forever shattered by an act of sexual abuse. The face of my perpetrator, another child only two years my senior. Below the age of criminal responsibility, nonetheless, the impact is no less damaging. I have long suspected the parents of this child to be the sinister orchestrators behind this act, yet the authorities merely regarded this as 'suspicious.' They did little to determine the underlying cause of why I, now an adult, am easily triggered by authoritive abuse.

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A common misconception is that therapy should only be considered for visible or physical issues. But the truth is far from it. A traumatized child requires immediate and deliberate assistance to heal. 

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• The physical healing may ensue quickly but psychological healing is far more complex and time-consuming.

• Therapy is an essential aspect of recovery after trauma.

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Yet, why was I neglected when I needed it the most? Even after all these years, every facet of my life seems shrouded by a shadow that this traumatic event cast. This is more than just a misunderstanding of my condition. The problem is systemic, born out of a lack of understanding and, possibly, a lack of desire to rectify the situation.

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We need to delve deeper into this dreadful issue that is rarely acknowledged. It's imperative for society to understand the wide-reaching and lasting impacts of childhood sexual abuse. There is clear, insurmountable evidence highlighting the intensity and the magnifying effects it has especially when the abuse is carried out by another child. 

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Imagine, if you can, seeing your abuser's face every day; in that of a child, a being who is barely crossing the threshold of understanding the world itself. Deplorably, the law, as they say, is blind and often so is justice. The age of criminal responsibility here seems to serve more as a convenient buffer rather than a true reflection of right or wrong. 

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When these severe crimes go unnoticed or dismissed, is it really any surprise that the victims are left to fend for themselves emotionally and psychologically? As such, the reverberations not only echo throughout their adolescence but well into adulthood. This much cannot be understated. 

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But dare we address the elephant in the room? Can we ponder this deeply unsettling proposal and the insinuation that the minor perpetrator was himself a puppet in the hands of more sinister forces? This hypothesis may appear contentious, but can we afford to disregard it completely? The notion points to a disturbing reality that these acts of depravity may be happening under the tutelage of adult caretakers.

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In my experience, I've found that the authorities are often reluctant to entertain such suggestions. Instead of reinstalling faith in justice, their apathy can ignite a deep-seated resentment, particularly insidious when one feels exploited by those supposed to be protecting them. This perpetuates a vicious cycle of psychological unrest. 

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Further worsening this condition is the lamentable oversight on mental health support for victims. Counseling, therapy, and help should be immediate and accessible. If the wound is so deep that it echoes through the existence of a person, should not the healing be equally profound? It's high time society understands this and works towards implementing a better, more empathetic response system for abuse victims. To date I have never been offered any help despite everyone involved in my care knowing the truth.

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Examining my personal journey is often a daunting task. Yes, there have been moments when my actions may have seamed harsh or wrong, while I always believed I was acting out of valid reasoning and discernment. However, my perspective is often influencing my judgement. My view of the world is based on the harsh realities that lurk in every nook and cranny. There is a saying that no matter how dire your situation may be, there's always someone else out there suffering more. Is this statement truly accurate?

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Often as humans, we aspire for greatness but quite readily settle for mediocrity. It is all too common to pass judgments or harbor prejudices, especially in the case of those suffering from mental illnesses. Remember, discrimination isn't always direct and bold, it can be quiet and subtle too. People, largely well-intentioned, can unknowingly tread over the lines of decency simply due to their limited perspectives. We exist in a world where media has a profound influence over our thoughts and opinions, setting individual mindsets. This power of the media can sometimes have a more detrimental impact on our society than even criminal acts.

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Our society, often unknowingly, perpetuates discrimination against the disadvantaged, including those who live with mental illnesses. These biases seep into all facets, whether that be about race, or societal roles, unintentionally shaping our societal fabric. It's an unfortunate reality that makes those facing struggles feel even more alienated, and in many cases, unaware of their biases. 

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Take me for instance; as someone grappling with mental health issues, I experience prejudice at every turn. It's a bitter irony when society holds me liable for utterances sprinkled with racial bias, yet conveniently turns a blind eye towards stigma directed against individuals like me, struggling with forms of mental illness. 

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The incessant barrage of subtle, and sometimes, overt discrimination can make you feel utterly devalued and irrelevant to this world. This ongoing, dehumanizing experience can really take a toll on your sense of worth, your ethical compass, and your overall capacity to contribute to society.

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It often bewilders me reflecting upon a time when my journey took a wrong turn and led me into an abyss of recurring mistakes, negatively impacting my life and health. I recall one particular day, during my innocent childhood years, when I was out for a stroll with my elder brother and some pals. As our journey back home led us past an apartment garden, a cleverly-disguised trap awaited me. Let me paint you a picture of my younger self - a youthful, trusting soul who entertained the whimsical belief that God designed our knees for softer landings rather than our feet - an amusingly misguided notion. 

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In this garden, a familiar boy, Stephen, set a bait consisting of a toy car, a box of matches, and potentially other enticements, strategically placed on one side of a fence. On the opposite side, he cunningly arrayed shards of glass. Stephen then drew attention to the scattered items and initiated a foot race to the garden gate, encouraging us to take the longer route. I, being the eager, competitive youngster that I was, decided to take a shortcut and vault the fence, employing my unique knee-first method. This choice resulted in a deep cut on my right knee, which, surprisingly, I didn't feel at the time.

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Never did my being a step ahead matter. I remember making my way home, not even registering the warmth of my blood trickling down my leg until it was highlighted by the culprit. Overwhelmed by fear, my immediate instinct was to flee - a naive reaction, perhaps, yet an understandable one. Thankfully, home wasn't far off in the distance, for if it had been, this tale might have ended prematurely. Following emergency care and six stitches, my mind was a puzzle attempting to piece together how such a horrific event could've transpired. Had I snagged my leg on a broken piece of the metal fence I climbed? I revisited the site the next day only to find the fence undamaged. My thoughts then drifted to broken glass potentially hiding at my landing spot, but only a bare ground greeted my gaze - any remnants of the incident erased. This event didn't shatter me, but it did serve as the ominous prologue to the tragic narrative of crimes committed against me. I was merely 5 years old when it all started.

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Generally, Stephen approached me with a subtle and progressively manipulative manner, a strategy akin to grooming that spanned over a significant period. He coaxed me into performing various actions, often rewarding me for compliance, but ominously, he displayed an intense desire to make my existence on Tyas Road torturous, even influencing others to mirror his disdain. Stephen consistently behaved this way, and for a long period, I was left baffled and seeking answers. His consistent manipulation felt like an all-pervading control that seeped into my life. I distinctly recall instances when I was manipulated into taking on peculiar tasks, such as sweeping the gravel square with the Polton broom, asserting that the loose gravel posed a hazard. The expectation was to sweep everything into the drain, with the usual promise of a reward upon completion.

 

In instances when I was manipulated into performing particular actions, these deeds were often carried out in the public eye, leaving anyone around to perceive as though the actions were of my own volition. One of the crucial elements that stand out distinctly in my memory was Stephen's eerily frequent absence each time I commenced these activities. 

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On another occasion, I remember being influenced into dismantling a brick wall in the central square. This act, like many others, came with the promise of a reward upon completion.

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Once, Stephen approached me with a racially charged mission, suggesting that people of color were asserting too much power. He instructed me to use my bike to harm a young girl. Despite my initial refusal, he proceeded to coax me with promises of rewards. I resisted, but his relentless persuasion wore me down. Yielding to his control, I committed the act, riding my bike into the girl. After the event, Stephen capriciously showered me with praise, setting a pretense of camaraderie and false respect. In truth, his reward extended beyond the tangible; it was the simulated bond, the counterfeit friendship and the illusion of admiration. Following this event, the children of color in our neighborhood vanished. In Stephen's manipulation, he dealt not only in material incentives but also in theatrics of affection and value.

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Once, I was directed to place a shard of glass behind a car's wheel, so upon movement, a flat tire would result. I was spotted and reprimanded, yet I was misled into believing this was a form of entertainment, leading me to repeat the deed, this time with Ashwin's car. The day he discovered his punctured tire, I was present, witnessing the disappointment etched on Ashwin's face, it was then I realized the repercussions of such actions, and decided against proceeding with such misdoings on my personal accord.

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Looking back, I vividly recall an incident when I was about 6 years old. I found myself in a dimly-lit shed with two other kids, Stephen and Johnny Hall. Frankly, I don't remember how I got there or the conversation that ensued, but the inexplicable feeling of wanting nothing more than to be at home still lingers. 

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As the evening grew late, I realized that I was supposed to be home by now. The gravity of the situation began to dawn on me when I noticed a latch on the door – a latch that I had no clue about. Stephen and Johnny refused to let me out unless I agreed to do something quite horrifying. 

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They demanded that I slowly pour burning wax over my arms before they would release me. Frozen in fear, I complied. This chilling memory among others has haunted me for a long time. I even devised a nursery rhyme to cope with the trauma. While the verse is a play on nursery rhymes that echo nightmares, it went something like this - '1, 2, Something thing happened to me, 3, 4, They locked that door, 5, 6, It will be real quick, 7, 8, Don't be late, 9, 10, Want it to end.' 

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Truth be told, this incident, though petrifying, wasn't the worst one. My verse, while it offered me some distraction, never managed to encapsulate the gruesome reality of what had unfolded.

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Stepping back into another November memory, I recall being just 5 years old, caught up in the innocent activities of assembling the town's annual bonfire. Stephen and his father rolled up to our quaint road in a nondescript van, their company comprised of an assortment of local children, all bursting with the excitement of the upcoming bonfire. As a communal gesture, they'd collected pallets to feed the eagerly-anticipated event. 

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Amid the anticipation and festivities, a suggestion lingered in the air – an idea that there might be more pallets to round up, hinting at a potential undertaking. As the events of the day unfold in my memory, the finer points become murky, fuzzy around the edges. All I can distinctly recall is an uncanny turn of events that led to the eventual situation where I found myself, Stephen, and his father Stephen, the sole wanderers in a quest for more pallets, journeying in this unfamiliar van which was new to my young eyes.

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An inconspicuous obstacle in the cabin space forced me into the back of the van, surrounded by nearly half a dozen stacked pallets. Embarking on our mission, we ventured to the local industrial estate, stopping intermittently at various stations to collect pallets carelessly strewn along the paths, away from the watchful eyes of established businesses.

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It was one of those days when we'd managed to gather around six additional pallets for the van. Stephen, quite considerately, had forewarned me about risking the chosen place to sit, owing to the unstable stack that could potentially topple over. He suggested perching myself on the tail end of the vehicle, assuring me of a slow and cautious drive. how ironic! 

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As we navigated through the industrial estate, it seemed evident that the drive wasn't even remotely slow, and quite contrary to his assurance, every possible pothole made its manifest presence. There I was, with my back pressed against the van wall, one foot braced on the vehicle's flooring. I attempted to secure myself onto the van trailer, with no supportive handle or grip in my reach. 

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Fortunately, no mishap occurred that day, but I couldn't shrug off the Poltons' intentions- they wanted me to be flung out off the speeding van onto the public road. I became convinced that it was not accidental but rather a deliberate maneuver by Stephen's Dad, exploiting every pothole to provoke another unfortunate incident.

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Looking back, I was around 7 years old when I, along with my younger brother Adam, who was barely half my age, found ourselves entrapped by Stephen. I was supposed to be his protector, yet I failed. Stephen, even at the tender age of approximately 9, had already mastered the art of manipulation, adept at bending me to his will, even though he was technically too young to be held accountable. He used innocent bait, simple crutches, to lure us into his shed, located in his backyard. That's where a boundary was violated. In the seclusion of that shed, he coerced me into shedding all my clothes, leaving me exposed, while my younger brother stood helplessly in the corner.

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In a disturbing scene, I was manipulated into a degrading act, coerced into attempting self-arousal with the malicious intent of causing harm to my brother. As a kid unable to transpire an erection, I remember being asked what stirred my desires. Naively, I revealed that thoughts of women sunbathing bare-chested on a beach worked for me. So, I found myself in an oblivious state, eyes shut, touching myself, conjuring up beach-scene fantasies, hoping for stimulation. At that point, part of me genuinely believed that the end would justify the means and a reward was waiting for me. 

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Then, Stephen brought my brother into this horrific play. My brother resisted, didn't want to part with his trousers, but Stephen's ominous power was too much. He lead me down a path so hideously wrong, and I, ensnared in his control, pressurized my brother into complying. Stephen's morbid design was for me to assault my own brother - the gravity of which I failed to comprehend then, caught in the ominous web of his manipulation.

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Though I remained in a state of non-arousal, coercive circumstances led me to participate in a disconcerting endeavor that bore a striking resemblance to a sexual act, orchestrated by Stephen and directed towards my brother. As disturbing as it was, there wasn't any actual violation, yet there existed the appalling insinuation of a forced sexual interaction. To add further to the humiliation, Stephen commanded an absurd demand; he asked me to engage in a repetitive and suggestive action using the exhaust pipe of his motorbike, which was nothing short of mortifying.

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Stephen, chillingly, never laid a hand on me. Yet, he managed to corrupt me in a way that haunts me to this day. This climax built up to a point where he requested me to stand stark naked at the entrance of the shed, all while facing the residence's kitchen window. My inner voice screamed no, but the mere thought of the long-awaited reward kept me frozen in obedience. It was not child's play, there was an outside force behind this. Behind the veiled net curtains of that window, there was an adult presence, an essence of manipulation. The motive was unclear, were they taking photographs or deriving a sick pleasure, but it certainly reeked of a plot that was too complicated to be the machinations of a child. 

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The unnerving truth that echoes in my mind is that it was not Stephen's wrongdoing alone, but it was the collaborative conspiracy of his family. Their son was merely a puppet in their hands, shielded by the law owing to his age of non-accountability. The sinister charm that led me into this web of abuse was far too intricate for a child of nine, these were the calculated moves of adults.

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As the years ticked by, the severity of the situation crept into my awareness, layering wrong upon wrong, until the weight was nearly unbearable. I made a grave error in judgment, believing I needed to shoulder this burden alone. Over three decades have passed, and the thorny issue remains largely unaddressed, constantly lurking in the shadows of my mind, refusing to be entirely silenced. This was the catalyst for my longing to escape my street, the root of my dream to reside with my dad, to be there more often. I regret not confiding in my mom, but as a kid, shaped by harsh punishments and saddled with guilt and fear, I dreaded it would be perceived as my fault, leading to a thrashing. 

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Penning the rhyme was a tactical diversion, a desperate attempt to banish the memory of being manipulated to such abhorrent lengths, that I even contemplated hurting my brother.

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My journey at the Rathbone Church started with heartfelt prayers, pleading for a chance to rewrite the past. With time, however, I came to the brutal realization that the past is a fixed tapestry of events, impossible to alter and if you could someone else would suffer. The thought of my spared agony being transferred to someone else consistently haunted my conscience. Over time, my prayers morphed into fervent wishes for forgetfulness - a chance to wipe clean the horrific memories of abuses suffered and extreme violence faced. Alone and distraught, I often shed silent tears in the Church's front row to the right, yearning for someone to notice my pain. Yet, no one ever did. 

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One life-changing day, I walked out of the Church with a newfound resolve - to embrace my uniqueness and strive for transformation. This is when Ezare was born. I scribbled the name for the first time on the frigid blue door of a shack opposite the Church entrance, armed with a marker pen I carried just in case I bumped into famed boxer Frank Bruno and could secure his autograph. Life had other plans, though, and I only ever managed to snag Gary Stretch's signature. Ah, the peculiarities of life! 

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In life's journey, sometimes escape is truly just around the corner. This was precisely the case when I met Tariq Sami, who lived just beyond the apartment block in my road. There was a tantalizing promise of a fresh start just outside my doorstep - an allure I found myself irresistibly drawn to, often mistaking it for the ultimate panacea it was not. Amid the novelty and excitement, Tariq, along with others, breathed life into mundane moments, gifting me laughter and camaraderie. But beneath all that cheer, the haunt of my past was never too far behind. 

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I recall this distinct incident where Tariq and I climbed some scaffolding, swapping jests with another kid, Russell Gulliver. In the throes of the banter, Tariq threatened to vent on the kid. With the kid's casual dismissal, Tariq took him on his word. I remember the wind changing course and the kid getting the brunt of Tariq's jest. In my young mind, it was hilariously salutary. 

 

Reflecting back, I find myself eternally grateful to have found such friends in Tariq Sami, Terri Ann Girling, and Karl Ward. I wonder if they ever realized how much their friendship meant to me, lending strength and a sense of belonging I desperately needed.

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Years slipped by before an understanding dawned upon me, about the Polton family's animosity towards me. To be candid, it was evident enough that I should have grasped it sooner. Prior to the onslaught of abuse, a certain episode from my young life stands out. Young Carly, sister to Stephen, and I were immersed in a game within the confines of my garden, albeit coated in mud. Engrossed in our playful exploration, we maneuvered trucks through the muck, merrily smearing our hands with grime.

This is a memory from my early childhood, perhaps when I was just about four years old, when Carly, a playmate, came over. It was a casual playdate, we were young, innocent. We had been playing when Carly needed to use the restroom. Given the playtime fun had come to an end, and the universal hygiene rule, we both headed to the restroom to wash our hands. 

 

Being the first in, I stepped into the downstairs toilet and went straight to the sink to clean my hands. In the midst of this, Carly began to use the toilet in the normal way any female would do. It was completely unexpected to me. You see, in my young mind, it appeared as if Carly was defecating with me still in there. I was frozen in surprise and, in my confusion, I eventually left the bathroom visibly disturbed. 

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That day's memory abruptly ends for me right at that point. However, it's clear that Carly must have left my house that day feeling distressed too. It's worth noting that Carly might not have understood the situation correctly, given she was quite young, perhaps younger than me. Whether unintended on my part, I inadvertently scared her with my reaction. But that was the past, through the eyes of age-innocent children.

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If I hadn't been there, she would have been spared from the ordeal. My subsequent recollection of the Polton family is somewhat perplexing. I was led into their house and asked to sit comfortably in their living room. Soon, I was left alone with Stephen Polton. This man lit a cigar, and I now firmly opine that he was assessing how to tackle the situation, under the incorrect assumption that I had purposely watched his daughter in the lavatory, invading her innocence.

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The complete narrative resides solely with the Poltons, a burden which they alone must bear, not me. If the events transpired solely from a child below the age of criminality, it would merely underline a tragic story. Yet, my convictions lead me to think that the parents were puppeteering this child, which elevates this scenario to child abuse. Regrettably, tangible proof eludes me and acknowledging this reality stings a bit. However, I am determined to rise above the bitterness and pain.

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There's a ripple effect in play when it comes to actions and their consequences. In my case, my abilities for bonding and forming relationships as an adult were severely affected due to a single life-altering event. Now, it becomes a question of blame. Who's at fault? The one who carries out the act, or the initiator who caused the transformation in the first place? Maybe it's both. One thing is certain though - in a realm of absolute truth, where lies cease to exist; we are provided answers and confronted with the reasons behind the wrongs done to us, should we choose to ask.

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Perhaps my gravest blunder was the silence I maintained during those life-altering moments. The failure to reach out sooner and take those individuals responsible to task racked up a hefty emotional toll on me. It shaped me into a criminal, a path I never envisioned for myself. I constantly wrestle with the fact that I wasn't subjected to rape, yet I was undeniably a victim of child abuse. In many respects, I wonder, would my emotional suffering be any more profound had I suffered a different form of abuse?

 

The scars from my childhood led me to a desperate attempt to end my life at just 14. With innocence lost to the harsh reality of abuse, I tragically ingested four ecstasy pills in my first ever encounter with such substances. This reckless act resulted in irreversible brain damage and set the tone for my existence henceforth. I am left to wonder, how many children have suffered in silence, and tragically ended their own lives without ever revealing their torment?

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When my younger brother, Adam, began attending my alma mater, Roding Valley High School, I found myself in the role of his staunch protector. Adam was promptly targeted by a pair of second-year twins who tormented him for his lunch money. As soon as I became aware of the situation, my protectiveness flared hot and bright. On the school playground, I confronted the twins. 

 

One twin remained quiet, but the second was snide and arrogant, goading me with his attitude. The pent up rage within me bubbled over and with a swift motion, I punched him squarely in the mouth. The taste of my wrath was enough to draw blood. In that fiery moment, I felt fierce enough to fight them both, should they choose to retaliate. 

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However, neither one of them dared to escalate the situation. A single punch was all it took. From that day on, Adam never had to endure their bullying again.

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In another episode, years later on a bus journey back home, my brother Adam found himself tangled in a scuffle. I was right there, a fervent spectator, rallying for him by vociferously cheering him on to infuse him with courage. That day, the battle didn't tilt in his favor. He grew weary in the fight and it became evident he was struggling. Recognizing that he didn't have any fight left in him, I found myself stepping in, detaching his contender and acknowledging his victory. Sometimes, acknowledging defeat fuels our sense of pride. To me, when one exhausts all their strength and can no longer fight back - the fight is over.

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Let's take a trip back to 2003, where accusations of paranoid schizophrenic symptoms were thrown at me. But, the truth was quite different - I was dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder, a direct result of my time as a registered informant to the Metropolitan Police, ending in 2001. You cannot separate the two experiences; they're distinctly tied in a significant manner. Yet, despite this, I was admitted to Runwell Hospital and manipulated into participating in a trial for Clozaril as a schizophrenia medication, even though my symptoms were related to trauma, not schizophrenia. The trauma initially planted by childhood abuse only got exacerbated by the Metropolitan Police's conduct. The foundational abuse and its ensuing years of torment laid the groundwork for this exacerbated impact. It's a glaring example of the compounding effect and its destructive potential. It simply cannot be ignored.

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Furthermore, I experienced a serious brain injury at the age of 14 due to an overdose of ecstasy. For a substantial period, I was under the impression it was repercussions of the MR vaccine. It's bewildering to me how the National Health Service, with all its expertise and resources, could wrongly identify the blend of post-traumatic stress and brain damage as paranoid schizophrenia. Now, I find myself diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, a condition I firmly believe is a direct result of their prescribed medications. In my personal experience, these drugs have triggered hallucinatory sounds, often resembling machinery, unless there's law enforcement nearby possibly manipulating what I'm hearing into voices to assault me.

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Consider the possible implications of misinterpreting these situations, unquestionably the Metropolitan Police does. It's relatively straightforward for them to shirk all ensuing responsibilities, but weren't they aware I was in that Forensic Unit? They had a duty to lay bare all the facts. My claim is they disregarded this duty, yet it's impossible to gather solid evidence either way as all the medical documents from that era have mysteriously disappeared. Essentially, my life becomes shrouded in a fallacy, only for me to suffer the consequences when I react to the events set in motion by you. There's no ducking the reality of your actions when the effects come knocking at my door. It's ludicrous to hurl accusations when standing in a position of vulnerability. Setting aside my initial offense, all subsequent transgressions were aimed at those in society whose pleas for victimhood nauseate me when, in my perspective, they mirror the oppressors. I've never initiated an attack, but the moment you believe you can take advantage of me, rest assured I will escalate the situation to an unprecedented level.

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Our society sees a discord between the rights everyone should inherently possess and those actually bestowed upon individuals labeled with mental illnesses or marred by criminal records. When you bear these burdens, you'll find yourself constantly under scrutiny, gradually becoming indifferent to the pervasive lack of warmth that surrounds you. Instead of understanding and support, you're thrown money, a hasty measure to quiet you, unaware that it fuels your addictions. Interestingly, you, the most marginalized people in society, are suddenly expected to be the solution. Have you found yourself in this predicament? You're now required to work for the same individuals who never ceased to belittle you, who've been your tormentors throughout your adult existence. But don't worry, they 'need' you to be their savior.

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Looking back, I understand that my notions about the MR vaccine before my official diagnosis were, at best, misguided. Regardless, they held their grounds but, at that moment, I lacked the necessary insight. All the problems I initially blamed on the MR vaccine were essentially self-inflicted injuries. At the tender age of 14, I made my first earnest attempt to end my life. Without any prior experience, I consumed four ecstasy tablets, hoping it would be fatal. However, it wasn't. I was rushed to the hospital and discharged the following morning after a sleepless night. That night was marred with severe delusions, both visual and auditory. I engaged in conversations with people who weren't present, watched two young boys, making their rounds with a wheelbarrow, taking down posters from the hospital wall, and even hosted a party with my school friends at my home, who seemed to fade away one after another by leaping over the couch.

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In my personal experience, I've concluded that my mental health has been severely impacted by ecstasy use, a condition that, disappointingly, the National Health Service (NHS) initially failed to recognize. It isn't entirely surprising, given my previous experiences with the NHS. I believe I had a right, both personally and for the larger scientific community, for the NHS to confirm or refute my suspicions about the MR vaccine contributing to my lifelong struggles. Shockingly, they denied even a basic referral—a neglectful act that effectively disregarded my rights and further complicated my already fragile mental health condition.

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Regrettably, I was let down by the National Health Service (NHS) at Runwell Hospital, which incorrectly diagnosed me with paranoid schizophrenia F20.0 somewhere between May 2005 and October 2007. It's a harsh realization that paranoid schizophrenia, which is a severe mental illness, features distinctive symptoms that science can easily verify. I assert that prior to 2014, I did not display any symptomatology that could logically be linked to this illness. Additionally, the decision to put me on the Clozaril clinic program was unsubstantiated since I didn't present any corresponding indicators at that stage or at any subsequent point.

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It's undeniable that at Runwell Hospital, many of us felt like experimental subjects amidst the Clozaril clinic program. Astonishingly, a majority were put on this regime, designed mainly for individuals battling paranoid schizophrenia and demonstrating a lack of responsiveness to alternative medications. I wrestle to articulate the overwhelming sense of injustice I carried from my tenure at Runwell Hospital. It's my strong belief that a public inquiry is essential to examine how the NHS administers their mental health system. Moreover, there's an undeniable need to investigate their tendency to discredit scientific evidence during diagnosis, coupled with their lack of understanding about the profound impacts these labels can have on individuals' lives.

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In my perspective, the incident in Tenerife was no illusion; it was a reality where I genuinely felt threatened and poisoned. Even today, the event resonates vividly in my memory. The motives behind such actions remained a mystery to me - perhaps it was a divine intervention, guiding me to understand the true colors of the individuals I was associating with. Maybe my aid to the girl they were trying to drag into prostitution triggered this, or possibly it was the tribunal papers, taken to Tenerife for reasons I can't decipher even now, that became the reason. These papers contained my accusations against Simon Fitzgerald, of providing me with cocaine- allegations fabricated in a state of resentment. It could well be a myriad of factors, and the concrete 'why' may remain elusive until life's ultimate closure. Despite the uncertainty around reasons, one thing I'm sure of is the reality of the Tenerife occurrence. I was genuinely endangered, but alas! No one lent a credence to my words, and the culprits walked away unscathed.

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Is it conceivable that the experiences with Glover and Baxter were merely figments of my imagination? I find myself grappling with this, as it means reshaping my past memories. At Glover's remembrance, I couldn't help but share my last observations of his ghostly pallor with my flatmate, Finck, who appeared visibly upset for not having noticed this himself. Despite my firsthand experience, the world around me resolutely maintains that such foreknowledge of their tragic ends is an impossibility, an implausible phenomenon. However, I stand by my account, as bewildering as it may seem.

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One could ponder endlessly over the capacities of the human mind and while I remain unsure if it can alter my world perspective, it doesn't appear to explain the speckled apparitions that pervade my vision under the fierce glare of the sun, persisting through every medication, even Clozaril, hailed as the miracle drug. Perhaps my subconscious paints a brighter self-image in an attempt to shield me from the suicidal precipice I tottered on post-Tenerife. While I argue the authenticity of my memories, the labels assigned to me by the NHS in the United Kingdom, the staunch non-believers, suggest otherwise.

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From the perspective of the world, I am perceived as an individual with a diagnosis suggesting that my understanding of reality is distorted. A grave injustice was committed when I was sent to Runwell, under the pretense of falsehoods.

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Tears by Michael Ezare Barrett

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Innocence stolen beneath the night,
Shadows cast an eerie blight.
Trust misplaced in hands so cold,
Temples of childhood left to mold.

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Whispered sins in darkened halls,
Echoes of pain in silent calls.
Tiny hearts with burdens vast,
Souls imprisoned by the past.

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Lonely screams masked by fear,
Countries apart, yet so near,
The thread of pain they weave,
Leave scars children cannot leave.

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Authority that turns its eyes,
Legal bounds, convenient lies.
The victims remain unseen,
Calling for justice in a shattered dream.

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Innocence festers into rage,
While trust decays within its cage.
A cycle spins, abuse astride,
Society’s shame they cannot hide.

​​

Therapy absent at their plea,
Shadows loom in pedagogy.
A call to heal these broken wings,
Before another soul it stings.