Debate about how to effectively treat sex offenders is reaching a fever pitch in Minnesota. This is good, because a vigorous, fact-based discussion offers the best chance for safe outcomes. While the emphasis has been on "doing the math" -- it costs about $120,000 annually for each sex offender we lock up -- I hope we'll do math of a different sort, too.

Consider this: Eugene Glaraton was arrested in March, a month after fleeing a halfway house in St. Paul. It's hard to imagine anything scarier than a Level 3 sex offender, charged with rape, on the loose. But the 42-year-old Glaraton committed his offense in 1987 -- when he was 18.

State services focusing on the unique needs of young sex offenders were rare then, and still are. This is a pity, because most first-time sex offenders are young, usually under age 25. They also have the best chance for stopping their dysfunction, if guided by trained professionals.

"The state chose not to provide [Glaraton] with the treatment he needed, even though it was available," said Dr. William Seabloom, a certified sex therapist and researcher for more than 30 years. "Had they, it would likely have been successful, based on our research. This population is by far the most treatable, when it's done properly."

Seabloom founded a pioneering program in 1977, administered through Lutheran Social Service of Minnesota, called Personal/Social Awareness (PSA). The state funded a recent follow-up of 122 teens, most of them offenders, ages 12-18; some committed sex offenses as far back as 24 years ago. The repeat rate for those who successfully completed the PSA program? Zero. These adolescents, according to the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, also were less likely to be arrested or convicted for other crimes.

What worked? A combination of efforts, Seabloom said, including group, individual and, where possible, family therapy, as well as a thorough assessment of the young offender. Most essential was a focus on health and an avoidance of the sex-offender label.

"These are young people who have problem behavior. They've broken the law," Seabloom said. "But they need to know they can trust you. They need an expert in sexuality who can deal with them in a respectful way." One boy in the PSA program contributed to a book of writings and drawings, titled, "The Firefly Jar I Live In."

"If you keep the tears inside," he wrote, "the pain will never end/and you go down an everlasting slide."

Another young sex offender, now an adult, didn't benefit from the PSA program, but he expressed how important it is to feel trusted and safe in order to face up to one's offense and do the hard work of change. "You don't want anyone to know that you're seeing a shrink, especially when you're doing something deviant," he said. "You're very scared that the 'authorities' will find out and off to prison you'll go. So you stay where you're at in your head and try to figure out how to not get caught and still do what you think you need to do to get your needs met."

Michael Miner, a professor in the University of Minnesota's Program in Human Sexuality, has worked with sex offenders for 25 years. He said he is shifting toward a social services focus that's "less on sex offender-specific programs and more on the commonalities these offenders share with other troubled kids."

In his research on adolescent boys who commit sex acts, "we're finding it is more about social isolation and inadequacy, boys who don't feel connected to their friends," as well as heightened anxiety in interacting with women and girls. While "the jury is still out," he said programs focused on social, behavioral and familial factors show the most promise.

"The part I find so appalling as I read the [Minnesota] law," Miner said, "is that the intent is to civilly commit those individuals who are at the high end of the high end, you know? The proverbial worst of the worst. If that's the case, I don't get the civil commitment of the 18-to-25 year-old. One horrific act is enough to scare us, but is one horrific act enough to get you civilly committed for life?"

Ronald Jackson of Blaine is asking the same question. His grandson was convicted of rape at age 12, then went "bouncing around" the corrections system until landing at Moose Lake where he is now. He's 31 and holds out little hope of ever being released.

"What he did was terrible," said Jackson, who talks with his grandson two or three times a day. "But, for heaven's sake, they shouldn't sentence people to life at age 12."

Gail Rosenblum • 612-673-7350 gail.rosenblum@startribune.com