I’ve been watching quite a bit of TV lately. Well, not really TV, but movies. I don’t have cable TV, so I mostly watch whatever I can find on Netflix or Amazon.com. I don’t usually sit and watch things on the television much. I don’t really have time. But the past couple of weeks at work (one of my jobs, anyway) were particularly arduous, so a few nights this past week, I allowed myself the luxury of watching some movies.
You’d assume that being a registered sex offender and watching movies in the privacy of your home are two totally unrelated topics. I mean, what does being on the registry have to do with what I watch, by myself, in my own home? And I suppose, it all reality, the two are only related in my mind. But since so much of my existence takes place in the mind, the relationship is, nonetheless, palpable.
Sometimes, I forget that I’m a sex offender. No, I don’t forget that I committed a sex offense. That reality is indelibly burned into the shame of my brain. But as I go about my daily life, going to work, going to school, shopping, getting my hair cut, checking my mail, I sometimes feel almost normal, just the average Joe citizen living an existence like any of the mass of people I pass every day.
But then I remember. Something reminds me, or some thought process takes me there, and I remember. It might be a police car in front of my house, reminding me that they’re supposed to check on me at least once a year. Check to make sure I’m living where I say I live. Check to make sure I don’t have any children stashed away behind my couch. Check to make sure I’m not sex offending.
Or it might be an encounter with someone I know who DOESN’T know I’m a sex offender. That is, they don’t know that I am on the sex offender registration, listed as a predator because some law passed that changed