Under Control: A BDSM Love Story

Domination’s the name of the game
In bed or in life
They’re both just the same
Except in one you’re fulfilled
At the end of the day

-- Depeche Mode, “Master and Servant”



Ever snap out of a daze, uncertain of how long you were in it, and completely confused as to how you got to where you were? And I’m not talking about narcolepsy or amnesia, either. I’m talking about just being a flakey person.

This is what I have gone through every day since the age of eight. I’m not exactly sure what you would call it. Dr. Martin says it’s a defense mechanism, something I developed as a means to shut out the pain that reality causes me. Of course, Dr. Martin isn’t a real doctor, at least not in the literal sense. His job is to “help us heal our souls”, and anyone who uses the word “soul” in a conversation if they’re not discussing James Brown, should not be considered a real doctor. Professionally he is a counselor, but apparently over the years his ego has been stroked hard enough to make him think it’s alright to put the title of Doctor in front of his name. Most people in their right mind would consider this fraud. Then again, most people who seek out his services are not in their right minds.

And here I was, snapping out of my daze to find myself sitting next to perhaps the skinniest woman in the universe as she cried the fattest tears I had ever seen. Everyone in the room was staring at her with looks of sympathy. All except for me, of course. But I’m a good actress, so I mustered all the sympathy I could and gave her a look of tender pity. She took this cue to lean over and sob on my shoulder, leaving tears and streaks of snot on my shirt. It was all I could do not to run out of the room screaming.

In case you have never been to group therapy before, it is like prison. No, worse than prison. You’re stuck in a stuffy room for two or more hours (usually more because everyone’s sobbing takes it into overtime), with people that you would not otherwise be anywhere near, let alone have them cry on your shoulder. They tell you all this shit that you don’t want to know about their lives, things that later on make you wish they would legalize lobotomies for the purpose of erasing memories that rape your brain at night. I will be the first to admit that I am nowhere near normal, but these basket-cases make me look like vanilla ice cream. And I was assigned to six months of this by my employer because of a little car accident I got into, for the “shock” I’ve suffered. Albeit, I was the one who purposely got into the car accident in order to cause my own death, but what does that matter? In my opinion this is a fate worse than death, and usually I’m not a melodramatic person.

This particular group therapy program was for general needs, rather than focusing on a single demographic (like alcoholics or overeaters). If you think those people are bad, wait until you see one of these groups. When you don’t narrow down the criteria for who can or can’t come, you get all kinds of crazies you didn’t even know existed. People with schizophrenia, bulimia, OCD, ADD, alcoholics, workaholics, overeaters, cheaters, pyromaniacs, kleptomaniacs, hypochondriacs, and my personal favorite, women with post-partum depression. I kept thinking Jack Nicholson would come into the room any second.

This skinny girl named Jenny continued sobbing on me as Dr. Martin gave her some comforting words. I couldn’t hear most of it over her wailing, but it was something like, “You’re a beautiful girl from the inside out, and gaining a few pounds would not change that at all. I’ll refer you to a dietician by the end of the week.” Sometimes you just gotta know when you’re beat.

When Jenny finally calmed down, every eye in the room was on me. I shifted nervously in my seat.

“Well?” said Dr. Martin, an expectant look on his obnoxious and smug face.

I shrugged. “‘Well’ what?” I retorted.

“It’s your turn to confide.”

I looked around at everyone, panic welling in my chest. I did my best to keep composed, but I’m not sure I fooled anyone. “But everyone already knows who I am and why I’m here.”

Dr. Martin smiled and shook his head condescendingly. “Of course, Delilah. But the point of therapy is for us to share with one another.”

“Please call me Dee,” I said. I hate when people call me by my full name. It’s so… old.

“You do want to get better, don’t you, Dee?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Frankly, I don’t think I can get better. At least not with your help.” The resulting silence was profound. The horrified looks on everyone’s faces would almost be comical if I wasn’t the one on the hot seat. I decided to shift gears into docile mode. “I mean… it’s just so hard to confide in others, I’m not sure if I can do it.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Dr. Martin said, his face softening to a less murderous expression. “No one here will judge you. Right everyone?”

The circle of people nodded emphatically, but of course I wasn’t dumb enough to believe the empty lies of crazy people. I decided to compromise by telling them the most horribly dull story in the world: my daily routine.

“Alright,” I said, shifting in my seat as if preparing to tell them some deep, dark secret. “I wake up every morning at around six or six-thirty. Sometimes I press the snooze button a few times if I’ve been up too long the previous night, which is what I did today. I take a shower with cold water because the stupid landlord for my apartment building won't get the water heater fixed. My hair dryer is broken so I have to settle for frizzy hair, but luckily I have hair ties so I was able to wear it up today. I eat a piece of toast for breakfast, which isn’t really filling but it's all I really have. I brush my teeth, get dressed for work, and then leave. I get there late because I don’t have a new car yet and my insurance doesn’t cover rental cars for more than a week, and I’ve already used that up. I get to my cubicle, sit down, and do a bit of work. My supervisor lectures me on the value of hard work. People treat me weird because I have to go to therapy. The woman who works in the cubicle next to me invites me out for drinks with her friends every day after work, but I know she does it just to be polite so I decline. I go home to my empty apartment, and there are no messages on my answering machine, not even from telemarketers. I watch late afternoon television, eat takeout Chinese food, and go to bed alone as I usually do. My life sucks. The end.”

The circle of people went silent for a moment as I let the dullness of my life really sink in. Some of them just stared at me in wide-eyed amazement, while others looked down at their hands in the awkward silence. Finally, the middle-aged kleptomaniac with a receding hairline and a Jersey accent finally said, “Jeez, lady. Maybe you really shoulda gone through wit’ it. Your life stinks.”