I have never played football. I never attended Penn State, nor am I a fan. I do not have children or young siblings. Yet from the moment I found out about former Penn State defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky’s alleged sexual abuse of multiple young boys, it has affected me more than I ever thought possible.

Did head coach Joe Paterno cover the scandal up? How far does the corruption extend? Where does the blame lie?

I just can’t look away. I turn on ESPN to watch former players emotionally backing not only their coach, but their father of sorts, their mentor. I read articles from sports bloggers screaming for an indictment of Paterno and company. I see footage of students marching next to the increasingly frail Paterno, yelling into reporters’ cameras, trying to defend their school, their program and their identity.

Despite having to pause and gather myself a couple times, I have peeled through every page of the grand jury indictment like an onion, eyes watering the deeper I went.

And regardless of the many different outlets I have access to that are trying to persuade me how I should feel about the scandal – who to indict, who to hate, who to grieve for, who to rally behind –  the only thing I know is that I do not know. For me, there is a complete lack of knowing coupled with an indescribable amount of feeling.

It is the story of a man, who under a guise of charity and goodwill, allegedly perpetrated unspeakable acts against vulnerable, innocent children. It is the story of a coach who has devoted more than a lifetime to the positive development of young men only to have a legacy tarnished forever. It is the story of a man, who nearing the end of his life, will probably die knowing he was seen by many to be a villain, and possibly worse, a fraud. It is the story of status and social capital blurring where power really lies. It is the story of how the walls of institution so often trump the individual moral compass.

This scandal is built of hundreds of former players forced to rethink, if only for a quick moment, that concept of “father figure” they once held close. It is built of too many children who had the most basic of human needs – safety, dignity, trust – viciously and permanently stolen. It is built of generations within families devastated by manipulation and perversion. It is built of hordes of young students whose once proud identity is now clouded by questions. It is built of the harsh fact that not all wounds can heal.

Watching the scandal unfold has evolved into a situation impossible for me to interpret. There is no way to take sides, as I see no sides that exist. Even with criminal charges and resignations, there is no solution, no undoing, no cure.

Perhaps the only thing I know at the end of the day, despite my wanting to ignore it, is that this blanket of sadness that encompasses students, Penn State, sports fans, and human beings alike cannot and will never be stripped away clean.