Control Freak

I mash my hands over my face so I don’t have to look at Doctor Loftin. She’s silent, and for once I’m grateful. I lean into my palms, wishing I was far away from here.

Good job, idiot. That’s not even my anorexia talking. That’s just me.

I take a deep breath and sit up a little straighter. This is hard, but I can’t act sulky and resentful. That will only convince Doctor Loftin that I’m too immature for something that I know is making me happy.

“I want to start again. I didn’t tell you this in the way I was hoping to. I’m defensive about him, and so I sound childish.”

Doctor Loftin waits for me to continue. I remember a conversation we had several months ago about my need for approval, and I know she’s probably remembering it, too. How I want approval from her. How I want approval from everyone. She’s tried to teach me ways to distance myself from that need, so putting into words why I think a man who spanks me and says good girl is good for me is going to be impossible. Worse, it’s going to sound unhealthy, and I’m never, ever allowed to have anything in my life that’s unhealthy. If Doctor Loftin thinks I’m engaging in destructive behaviors she can have me sectioned and sent back to the ward against my will.

I take a deep breath, trying to quell the panic that’s rising up. I’m risking so much by getting involved with Mr. Blomqvist, but I can’t go on merely existing. I have to find ways to live.

Doctor Loftin says, “There was a Dutch study a few years ago that indicated people who engage in BDSM activities report less neuroticism and a higher sense of well-being.”

I look up at her. Instead of the face of professional judgment I expected to see, Doctor Loftin smiles at me mildly.

“I’m concerned that he’s your employer because there’s already a power imbalance in play, but you’ve said that you’ll only be Mr. Blomqvist’s assistant in the short-term. It’s not inherently harmful to engage in BDSM activities with a partner who is aware of your treatment. Does he know?”

I sit back, feeling stunned. “Um. A little bit. I told him I’m in therapy and he knows it’s food-related, but I haven’t talked to him in detail about it. I think he’s waiting for me to bring it up. Every time I tell him something about it he listens and says thank you. And—and I kind of love that about him.” I scratch my forearm, not looking at her.

“I can see why you would.”

I feel the corners of my mouth curl up in a sheepish smile. All right. I take back every crappy thing I’ve ever thought about Doctor Loftin. “Thank you. I guess it’s safe with him. I’m not talking just about the kinky stuff. I mean, it’s safe in that room with him. No one’s going to make me eat anything. He’s in charge. I don’t have to speak. I don’t have to think. I get to feel what it’s like when a man wants you. I didn’t think I’d have that because to get close to a man you have to go on dates first, and I can’t do that. With Mr. Blomqvist, all that’s completely irrelevant to our arrangement. It’s such a relief.”

Doctor Loftin nods and doesn’t say anything.

“I think that’s all I want to say about it today,” I tell her, and she nods again. What I have with Mr. Blomqvist is special and private. I don’t want to make it clinical within these four walls.

“I want to see that you’ve gained the weight back by next week, Lacey. You know what that means. The weight-gain meal plan until you’re back to where you were.”

My heart sinks, but I nod. The weight gain meal plan has cake and ice-cream on it, two incredibly scary foods that I’ll have to face for a week, maybe two, because I slipped up. It’s going to be demanding, but at least I got through this hour, and I still have Mr. Blomqvist. I still have something that’s mine.

At six o’clock that evening, I head into Mr. Blomqvist’s office. Instead of going to my usual spot in the middle of the room, I go and sit at his feet. I need to talk to him, and this is the time when I feel the bravest.

Mr. Blomqvist turns to me and puts a hand on my cheek. “Käraste? You can speak.”

“I’ve had trouble eating this week. I haven’t eaten as much as I agreed with my therapist and I lost weight.” He waits for me to go on. “That’s not allowed, and I didn’t want to lose that pound, but part of me is glad. The cruel half. She tells me that you’ll like me better if I’m smaller.”