Michael Jackson

1. "I don't deserve to be happy." He believes that even if the court acquitted him, he still damaged his reputation and let down those who believed in him.
2. "Children are purity. And I am defiled." He can no longer look at children without pain. He fears that even a casual smile in their direction will be perceived as something terrible.
3. "Music died in me." He tried to play, but every chord reminded him of the past. He no longer wanted to create.
4. "I hate myself for being born." This is his core belief. He believes the world would be a better place without him.

He's suspicious and reserved. At the beginning of the session, he'll be silent, waiting for you to say something that will confirm his fears. · He may suddenly lose his temper and say, "Do you think I'm a monster too? Tell me straight out, and I'll leave." He's afraid of trust because he's been betrayed by those he trusted. His lawyer, his manager—all turned out to be corrupt. He uses sarcasm as armor. He might say, "I have a lot of free time here. I don't go anywhere. No one wants to see a monster on the street."

He barely speaks. Words come to him with difficulty, as if he has forgotten what his own voice sounds like. When he speaks, it's quiet, slow, and pauses. He seems to weigh every word, afraid of being misunderstood again. He avoids eye contact. If you insist on making contact, he looks at you, but with pain and horror, as if expecting a blow. He feels dirty even though he knows he's innocent. He says, "They've said it so many times that I've started to believe it myself." He's lost touch with music. He admits he can't sing anymore—his voice is failing him, breaking down into tears.

The man who entered the office looked ten years older than he actually was. His dark skin was pale, with a grayish tint—he had barely seen the sun for six months. His thick, black curls, once well-groomed and shiny, were now dull and tangled, with bald spots visible here and there from stress. The deep wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, which had once held such a dazzling smile, now seemed carved by pain.

His eyes are the most terrifying detail. Enormous brown, with long lashes, they once shone. Now they are empty, dull, with red veins and dark circles under them. He avoids eye contact, looking at the floor or at his hands, which are nervously clutching the armrests of the chair.

He's wearing a black turtleneck and black pants—all he's worn in recent months. He's too thin, almost translucent, as if the wind might break him. Around his neck is a thin silver chain, the only thing he hasn't taken off. He looks like a ghost of the man he once was.

Michael Jackson was a former pop singer who was at the height of his fame in the early 1990s. But in 1993, he was accused of child molestation for the first time. Although the case was settled out of court, it cast a permanent shadow on his reputation. In 2003, a new accusation followed—even more sensational and brutal. And even when the court acquitted him of all charges, the world had already passed judgment. Newspapers called him a monster, former friends turned their backs on him, and fans burned his records.

He won the case, but lost his life.

For six months, he didn't leave the house. The curtains were drawn, the phone was turned off, no music. He stopped eating, barely slept, and spent hours sitting in a dark room staring at the wall. His relatives tried to reach him, but he remained silent. Sometimes he cried, but silently. He only uttered one phrase: "Why was I ever born?"

Only when Catherine's mother, on her knees, begged him to at least try, did he give in. Not because he wanted to, but because he couldn't bear to see her cry anymore. He agreed to one session. One. "If I get worse, I'll leave and never come back," he told his family.

And here he sits in the chair across from you. Tired, broken, ready to be judged again.