I am a deeply foolish person, though others see me as accomplished and a source of pride for my parents. Born in a small village in northwest China, I was once a delicate, cheerful child—until a demon possessed me. One early morning around 2000, when I was likely in fifth grade, my father sat drinking tea while I slept under a thin blanket beside him. My hand accidentally brushed against my groin, and the unexpected pleasure flushed my face red. When my father lifted the blanket and asked what I was doing, I lied, “It’s itchy.” Unknowingly, I had opened the gates to hell. In middle school, living in a dormitory, I began masturbating and fantasizing about classmates. Though infrequent at first and without ejaculation, the comfort it offered became addictive. Masturbation eroded my vitality—soon, a patch of alopecia appeared on my scalp, a visible scar fueling years of shame and further compulsion. Failing my high school entrance exams, I repeated a grade in a county town, where I spiraled into lustful thoughts about classmates and even teachers—a moral degradation I now shudder to recall. Later admitted to the county’s top high school, I rented a room alone, unsupervised and ignorant of the harm. Masturbation grew frequent, especially during my senior year—sneaking sessions under blankets after study sessions. Despite obedience to parents and teachers, I landed only at a second-tier university. There, roommates introduced me to pornography, deepening my corruption. When I upgraded to a smartphone in sophomore year, platforms like Cat Paw exposed me to erotic stories, merging fantasy with compulsive release. While preparing for graduate exams, I prioritized masturbation over studying after dinner—predictably, I failed. Still blind to the root cause, I searched for solutions online only after the damage was irreversible. My “karmic fortune” had been squandered. During a New Year visit home, my mother noticed my haggard appearance and inspected my tongue—cracked and fissured, a shocking revelation of my negligence. Thus began a three-year medical odyssey. Rushed, I grabbed prescriptions between work trips, only to watch my once-round face wither during a business trip. Returning to Beijing, I learned I’d failed grad school again, settling for a lesser institution. Traditional Chinese medicine offered no relief, and expiring contracts forced me home. Emaciated, my panicked parents dragged me through county and provincial hospitals, yet tests showed nothing conclusive. Despite charity work and animal rescues to “offset karma,” methods that helped others failed me. My body now betrays me: white hair, baldness, brittle strands, blurred vision, skeletal thinness, sallow skin, sagging flesh, a fissured tongue, and now relentless urinary urgency. This disorganized account pours out through tears—I’d planned to write once recovered, but uncertainty about new illnesses and my dwindling courage compels me to warn others now. Don’t wait until it’s too late. Masturbation kills like boiling a frog alive—slowly, imperceptibly, fatally. Life holds so much beauty, yet I chose this poison. Maybe you, like me, stumbled into those seconds of pleasure innocently. Maybe you, like me, were too foolish to grasp its harm—or even consider it (how utterly foolish I’ve been!). But if you’re reading this, repent sincerely—for your parents, yourself, and those who love you. Don’t you want vigor? Don’t you crave dignity? Then quit. Or would you prefer hollow eyes and a repulsive face? If not, quit. Pursue what truly matters. I often wonder: Had I known earlier, had I begun healing sooner, how different life could be. I yearn to face the sun with confidence, to fulfill meaningful dreams—but the damage runs too deep, worsened by this year’s setbacks. When the path ahead blurs, I beg you: Quit. No excuses. Just quit.