Hello. My name’s Patrick. I want to ask you not to blame me and not to make hasty conclusions about me. My story is about the desire for theft and what’s behind it.
I’m 16. You might think I’m a usual teenager with the hormones who entered the period of the youth maximalism. But it only seems so. Deep down in my loins, I have a personal drama. I decided to share it with you.
I come from a good family. I always grew up in love and care. My parents tried to give me all the best. They pampered me as much as they could.
They taught me to love to the nature, people and animals. I was also taught to be honest and decent and to help the people if I could.
I have always been a blue-eyed boy among teachers and my parents’ friends. Yeah, I was a role-model with a frank and kind heart, who shows dignity and nobility in any affair.
My friends have always been exemplary guys too. Like me, they are fond of art and music.
It all started almost 3 years ago. I was hit by a car when I crossed the road with the green light. I got a serious head injury. Fortunately, I survived. It took me about six months to recover.
My parents were happy that I stayed alive without any serious consequences for my health. Though the doctors said it would be much worse.
Soon, I got back to usual life. Everyone was sure that the worst things were over. But no.
I remember very well the day I did my first theft. It was Wednesday. I was going to the music classes when I decided to buy a bottle of water at the supermarket on my way.
At the checkout, I saw a chocolate bar. And I wanted to steal it very much. To steal it. Not to buy. Though my pocket money would be enough for a hundred bars like that.
I was afraid. But excitement moved me. So, I pushed it in my jacket sleeve, paid for the water and went to the classes.
By the way, I was always indifferent to sweet things. So, I couldn’t explain my action in a reasonable way.
Later, guilt started torturing me. Theft was against my moral principles. I didn’t sleep for the whole night. I thought that the shop workers would pay for the bar I had stolen. And I felt very sorry for them.
A few days later, I had dinner at a restaurant with my parents. And I had the desire to steal something again. That evening, I stole two forks. Of course, it was funny, strange and stupid, I understand. But again, I couldn’t control myself.
After what I had done, I felt guilty again. I didn’t understand what was happening to me and why I did it. Forks? Really? I hoped it was the last time. I tried my best to convince myself about this.
But it started to repeat. I stole things I didn’t need at all. And sometimes, I stole something ridiculous like toilet paper, sugar and yeast.
Of course, my parents soon noticed what was happening. I started to bring all this rubbish to our house. And sometimes, their belongings and money disappeared. For them, it was a shock. But, having studied my symptoms, they decided it was harmless teenage pranks I would outgrow sooner or later.
Once, when I once was at the shopping center with my parents, I stole a packet of cookies. The security guards caught me. My parents didn’t suspect anything. They were just buying things. But then, they saw the security guards and the police around me. Like me, they were terribly ashamed. We were ready to curl up and die.
At the police station, we got a fine. After talking with a specialist, we were advised to address a psychotherapist. We did it the next day.
The doctor said at once that my case was most likely a clinical one. He prescribed me a lot of tests and examinations. I was diagnosed with kleptomania. It turned out this mental disorder appeared after my head injury. It happens sometimes. But no one could have thought the consequences after the accident would be just like that.
It was important for me that my parents understood I wasn’t a thief and I myself suffered from my actions. I was lucky enough. They agreed that kleptomania is a disease and I needed help.
When my friends found out that I started to steal, they began to avoid me. It happened after my visit to my friend Steve. We have been friends since childhood. And he always knew I was a good guy. I don’t know what made me steal that day - I stole a painting from the wall.
I really regretted what had happened. I realized that soon, everyone would find out about it. I felt ashamed and scared.
But I cherished my friends very much. So, I asked my dad to talk to them and explain what kleptomania is. Dad returned the painting to Steve and talked to him and the other guys. After that, my friends started to support me and tried to control me in the shops. They even stopped my stealing a couple of times.
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