You are reading this, my story, because you are either curious, receiving academic instruction or because I have employed you in some capacity. I hope you identify yourself with the first of these options, as my darkest moments lie in the shadow of your rejection, your aggressive ridicule of me. You punished me for everything, for my appearance, my relationships, my contributions; and you fabricated my history with any bits of information that could be, when combined, fantastically distorted.
You built me, destroyed me, and now I ask that you reconstruct me, witness my life and understand my mind enough to skin the mask that you fashioned. In the pages to follow you will find the good and bad parts of me, and at times each of these inseparable titans declares victory.
I will not apologize. I will not defer blame.
That I should seek your attention, maybe even affection, seems foolish at my age, but any bitterness I have for you is betrayed by this delusional need to be forgiven, and, I suppose, to forgive you. This is not a plea for amnesia, for I have little left aside from my memories. This is an abstract for a study I have conducted, and the research to follow is my life’s data, transcribed as I recall it.
If you will, I ask you save your judgments for my concluding statement, set to occur in the final chapter. It is not easily accomplished, I realize, but few truly important requests are. At the end of this memoir you will find a vision of my death. Given my strange fame, perhaps this one detail will be enough to propel you.
Charles W. Fleischman, PhD