A Controlled Descent

This was a hard chapter for me to write, and I'm told it is a difficult read. In truth, it is my third attempt to tell the next part of Mackenzie's story. After the encounter at the Kennedy Center, I wanted to reward her bravery and my first draft was all sunshine and puppy dogs. It was kind and filled with joy, which felt so good to write for her. It just wasn't true. Progress isn't a straight line. It's jagged and filled with steps back and sideways and often any way but forward. False breakthroughs that only lead to the real obstacle. The work is often exhausting, which is why so many of us become stuck in place. I realized that Mackenzie has been stuck for so long that letting her out of her own cage that easily was just lazy on my part. So, I set that draft aside and began again and then again until I saw what needed to happen next. Where Mackenzie needed to get to finally become unstuck. Sometimes the only way out is through.

- A.

_______________________________________________________

The host guides us back through the restaurant to a plush booth with a wide leather banquette that I have to scooch around to sit near Jack. And scooch I do because his physical presence is the only thing keeping my shit together. I was doing alright in the car, but now I feel jittery and wildly overstimulated as if I've mainlined caffeine all day. Dinner did sound good back at the Kennedy Center, but if I'm being honest what I really need is to curl up in a dark room and watch about twelve straight hours of the Great British Bakeoff. How much heartache would it have saved if I'd said something right there and then?

The staff clears the two empty place settings while a waiter hands a menu and wine list to Jack. Everyone seems to recognize who is calling the shots here, and it's definitely not yours truly. When the waiter takes our drink order, I order a dirty martini, which I drink much too fast hoping it will settle my jumbled nerves. It doesn't, and I pout when Jack won't let me have another until I eat something. I try arguing that olives count as food, and he fixes me with a look that makes my mouth snap shut.

My weekend bag in Jack's trunk has makeup and a hairbrush, so I was able to fix some of Linda's damage on the drive over from the opera, but there are limits to how much a girl can do at night in a car visor mirror. A woman at a nearby table stares at me a little too long, and I become paranoid that I didn't do a good enough job. She can tell. Everyone knows what I did. What I am. I excuse myself to the restroom to check out my patch job in the mirror. Thankfully, it's not nearly as bad as I imagined. I just look, well, mediocre, which fills me with a paralyzing embarrassment and sadness that I know rationally is a massive overreaction but feel powerless to prevent.

Before Jack sent me up to Robert's box at the opera, he said that I represented him. That struck a chord in me and caused me to care about pleasing Robert in a way that I wouldn't have otherwise. Focusing on Jack's approval is what got me through the experience and even gave me a sense of pride. Pride that is fast waning and leaving a terrible vacuum in its wake. If I represent Jack then not looking my absolute best is letting him down. Walking into an upscale restaurant with a woman on his arm, he should be the envy of every man in the place. They should see her and question what they're even doing with their lives. Instead, his date looks like a street urchin from Les Miz. I regard myself in the mirror with loathing.

I might have stood there forever except three women enter the ladies room talking and laughing. That's my cue to scurry back to the safety of the table and Jack. The menus are gone and in my absence, he has ordered for both of us. I ought to be offended, but honestly it's a relief. That kind of decision-making feels entirely beyond me just at the moment. Everything is too loud, and even the subdued sound of knives and forks on plates makes me want to scream. I'm a raw, exposed nerve and my emotions keep swinging from one extreme to the other. Why can't I just sit still and be the kind of good girl Jack wants? I try to focus on doing that, but he can tell that something is off with me.

"How are you?" he asks, taking my hand under the table.

"I don't know how to describe it," I say, searching for the words. "Vacant? Bleached out."

He nods at that. "Not a great feeling."

"I don't love it," I say not wanting to be dramatic.

"That might be drop."

"Sub drop?" I've been reading about it in the books Jack assigned me, but it sounded like made-up bullshit.

"That's right."

"But I didn't even had sex," I say, trying to decide if what Linda did to my face counts. I know

she

had sex, but did I? Can a pillow claim it had sex if someone humps the stuffing out of it?

"Sex has nothing to do with it," Jack says. "Drop is an emotional and chemical reaction. During anything intense, BDSM or otherwise, your body floods with endorphins and adrenaline. When that all leaves your system, its absence is felt. Sometimes mildly, sometimes acutely. High highs can lead to very low lows."

"And that's what's happening to me?"

"I don't have enough of a baseline with you to say for sure. Every girl is different."

"So how do I make it stop?" I don't give a fuck about the theory behind it right now, I just don't want to feel this way anymore.

"Often it's just a matter of time, but we can also just leave. Get out of here and go home."

I should agree to that, but I don't want to ruin his evening. He just ordered. "No, I'm fine."

"Well then we start with your Dom taking good care of you."

"Will you tell me I'm okay?"

God, I'm so needy.

He squeezes my hand. "Mackenzie, you're more than okay. You're a goddamn revelation."

That helps a lot, and I dig for more praise. "So you're proud of me?"

"Look at me," he says, turning in his seat to face me. "I am immensely proud of you. You understand me?"

I nod and lean my head against his shoulder. "Thank you."

"We should get some food in you. That'll help, too. Are you hungry?"

"Ravenous."

He winks at me. "Good. I think I've got that covered."

When the food arrives, I see what he means. The waiter sets a massive axe-handle ribeye on the table that would tip over Fred Flintstone's car. An array of sides follow: sauteed spinach, grilled asparagus, lobster mac 'n cheese, mashed potatoes, onion rings. I try not to eat too much around men, but that rule is out the window tonight. Don't get me wrong, I've had steak before, but the ribeye is next level. It melts like butter on my tongue, and after that there's not much talking just frenzied eating. Jack orders a bottle of red wine and for a while everything is okay.

"So tell me about the opera," Jack says when we both come up for air.

"I only saw half of it," I answer through a mouthful of spinach...because I'm a lady.

That makes Jack laugh. "Well, tell me about the half you missed."

I take another bite to buy myself time. This feels a little surreal to talk about, especially in such a nice restaurant surrounded by all these respectable people. I've always been intensely secretive and rarely share details of my sex life, especially not someone I'm currently fucking. In my experience, men don't react well to anyone having sex but themselves. But more than that, it's always been

my

secret and that gave me a sense of control. Now I'm supposed to look Jack in the eye and tell him how I was used up in Robert's box.

"I'm waiting," Jack says patiently.

I take a deep breath and tell him the whole story while we polish off the steak. Jack has a lot of questions about Robert - what he said, how he treated me, how that made me feel. My memory is surprisingly hazy, but I tell him as much as I can. When I get to Robert's wager with Linda, Jack stops eating and listens attentively. He doesn't pick up his knife and fork until I finish the story.

"Wow. You must have done very well for him to let you off the hook," he says. "That's not usually Robert's style."

His evident pride gives me a warm feeling. There's no judgment in his eyes, only acceptance. It feels like a miracle. As I said, I've always found power in keeping my degradation a secret, but maybe there's even more power in it being

our

secret.

"How did it feel to tell me all that?" he asks as if he reading my mind.

"Scary."

"Tell me why."

To my surprise, I tell him all of it and that starts to make me uneasy. Why can't I stop talking, I wonder. Why am I so desperate for his approval? As I talk, I feel a prickle of resentment and suddenly sharing my secrets with Jack doesn't feel powerful at all. It dawns on me that submission is a lot more than simply doing what I'm told. It's surrender. It's dependency. Making Jack proud feels amazing, but what if he gets bored or finds another girl who is less of a pain in the ass? Why isn't he still with Linda if she's so incredible? Is his interest that fickle? I might be a broken whore, but I've always been broken on my terms. Now Jack wants me to be broken on his and believe me I see the appeal in that. He is strong and confident in all the ways I am not. But what if I come to rely on that strength, and he throws me away? What am I then?

"So is there?" he ask when I'm finished. "Power in telling me your secrets."

"I don't know," I say and silently beg him to stop interrogating me. My head is starting to hurt again, and I really need him to drop it.

"Fair enough. A question for another time."

I don't say anything, relieved to sit in silence. The reprieve is short lived though. Jack tells me again how proud he is of me. It doesn't feel good to hear this time. My emotional pendulum swings wildly toward anger. Why is it so fucking loud in this restaurant? I try returning to my dinner, but my appetite is gone. I reach for my wine glass instead.

"Thanks," I say with little enthusiasm although Jack is too caught up to notice.

"I can't get over what you did tonight," he gushes.

I make a whoops face. Maybe if we can just laugh about it together, I won't feel so anxious. Are people staring?

"No don't do that, Mackenzie. Don't do that. You were..." Jack says and pauses, searching for the word. "Transcendent. Okay, maybe that's a little pretentious, but holy hell you are a force of nature. I don't think I'll ever forget it."

There's a pressure building in my skull, but I force myself to smile.

Please stop, please stop, please stop.

He doesn't. He can't. He's too happy.

"It was the purest act of submission I've ever seen," he says, then adds, "And don't say it."

A weight settles on my chest. "Say what?"

"That you're not a submissive. I think we're past that now."

"Are we?" I say icily.

"You got down on your knees in the middle of the Kennedy Center. What would you call it?"

"I'm not," I mumble too quietly for Jack to hear.

"Sorry, what?"

"I'm not a fucking submissive." I slam my glass down on the table, splashing red wine across the white table cloth. Tears explode down my face like a burst water pipe.

Jack sees too late that things have taken a bad turn, and I hear the alarm in his voice. "Mackenzie, what's wrong?"

I would tell him except I can't seem to breathe. The air is on fire. Jack takes my hand, but I wrench free like an animal chewing off a limb to escape a trap. Desperate to get away from him, I claw my way around this stupidly large booth. I fall off the banquette and into the waiting arms of our poor waiter. He's only trying to help, but I shove him away. My vision narrows to pinpricks, and I can't see more than a few feet in front of me. The silver lining is that I'm spared the horrified reaction of the restaurant as I stagger toward the door. I push through the heavy glass door and into the fresh air, sobbing and gasping. Somehow Jack is already there, or maybe I'm remembering it wrong. Time feels choppy and out of order like a deck of playing cards thrown across the sidewalk. He puts his arms around me to support my weight.

"Breathe," he reminds me gently. "Just breathe."

"Home," I choke out.

"Mine or yours?"

"Mine," I snap.

"Okay, let me drive you."

"No!" I take a few steps with the firm intention of walking home.

"Please," he says, not letting go of my hand.

Then I'm screaming - a banshee wail, supernatural and cursed. Jack recoils, a look of horror on his face.

And that's the last thing I remember. I wake the next day in my bed disoriented with no idea how I got there. I have the worst headache of my life. A sandpaper throat. My ribcage aches from crying so hard, and I think I pulled a muscle in my back. To add insult to injury, I wet the bed sometime during the night, which I haven't done since I was five. That's just fucking charming.

Jack isn't here, but all the clothes piled on my armchair are neatly folded on top of my weekend bag. He must have sat with me until he was sure I was okay. That was nice of him, but I'm just glad he's gone. The thought of facing him now is too much for me. There's a note on top of the clothes. I don't want to read it, but at the same time I need to know. It says,

You were very clear that you don't want to see me again, but I am here if you change your mind or need anything at all.

I don't have any memory of saying that, but it sounds about right. Nor have I changed my mind. If anything I feel more certain it's the right decision and to prove the point, I crumple up his note and throw it away. Then I strip my bed, start laundry, and go take the first of several scalding showers.

◊

A doctor suggests that it was a panic attack. My mom has those although I always thought she was just being dramatic. Another apology I owe her that she won't ever get. It was by far the most terrifying experience of my life, not least because I'm not exactly sure what triggered it. Obviously it had something to do with Jack and maybe the Kennedy Center, but I don't know why. Which means it might happen again, and I wouldn't know until it was too late. The possibility of having another episode in public makes me afraid to leave my apartment. My memories are a jumble, but I cringe at the scene I must have made in the restaurant. I stop going out except for work.

Jack texts several times that first week. The mere sight of his name causes my chest to tighten, and I block his number without reading any of the messages. I'm weak and know what will happen if I do. I can't be what he wants me to be. I'm not that brave. My only hope is to barricade myself away and hope that he gives up on me. It's not very mature, but I don't know what to do except cut myself off from him. Anyway, he'll be fine. A man like Jack? He'll have girls lining up to take my place. Someone who can submit the way he expects. That's what I tell myself anyway.

Weeks pass before I begin to feel like myself again. Although it's hard to say for certain, what with the overwhelming numbness. Maybe I should've taken the doctor up on his offer to write a prescription for Zoloft, but when he started in about mood stabilizers and SNRIs I balked. Maybe I'm just a silly, stubborn girl, but I don't want a personality by Pfizer. The doctor believes I'm depressed. I say I'm just sad. There's a difference. Or maybe that's just depression defending its turf. Either way, it's a no for me. I'll figure this out on my own, or I won't.

My days merge into a deadening routine: go to work; come home; fall sleep early, wake up late; go back to work. Rinse and repeat. And that is meant figuratively by the way, because I am definitely not showering every day. My eating also becomes more erratic than at any point since high school. Housework has always been a struggle, but now I descend into warzone levels of squalor. Everything I own is dirty, but even thinking about doing laundry or washing dishes is exhausting. Worst of all are the weekends. Going to work at least forces me to fake being a functioning adult for nine hours a day. But come Friday night, the wheels come off and, left to my own devices, I drift aimlessly around my apartment like a zombie with no one to bite.

I honestly don't know what would have happened if not for Tommy who keeps me from drowning entirely. He checks in constantly over my staunch objections, bringing groceries and watching me like a hawk while I eat. What he doesn't bring is judgment, or opinions, or advice. He just keeps me company and turns a blind eye to the refugee camp that is my apartment. Sometimes we watch Netflix until I start to cry. Then he pets my hair and holds me until I stop. What's weird is that I only cry when he's here, otherwise I'm just an empty vessel. I don't even know what I'm crying about, and that's part of the reason why I keep asking him not to visit. Feeling things is hard, but the bitch just keeps showing up anyway. And thank God he does. Paying back Tommy's kindness is really what keeps me going during those first few weeks. I just can't bring myself to let him down by giving up entirely.

After a month and a half, I feel myself start to turn the corner. The depression/sadness takes its foot off my neck, and I stop thinking about Jack every waking minute just every waking hour, and that in and of itself feels like progress. I go for a run. My body is weak, but it feels good to be out in the sun and moving again. That in turn gets me back in the gym, which means being around people. I clearly need the practice, and every day that I don't have another episode gives me hope that maybe it was a one off. I take Tommy and James out for dinner to thank them for keeping me alive. Not for steak, I'm too superstitious for that, but it is an actual restaurant with actual patrons. That feels like a big step for me. I'm nervous as hell, but Tommy gets me laughing and once I start I can't stop.

The one thing that doesn't return is my sex drive. I don't fuck or even masturbate for three solid months. This from a girl who couldn't go thirty-six hours without trying to get bent over by a stranger. The urge is just gone, and I start to wonder whether all those nerves and synapses were fried during my panic attack. Honestly, it's kind of a relief. I'm only twenty-three, and sex has been my single-minded obsession for over half my life. Just to be able to think about other things with a clear head feels like a gift. I read two books for pleasure and join a running club with thoughts of signing up for a marathon in the fall. I make plans with friends that I don't cancel at the last minute. I finally go to the African American History Museum, which has been on my list to do ever since I moved to DC. Is this what life is like for normal people?

I'd be lying if I said I still didn't think about Jack, but more and more it's in the abstract. There's still a void inside me where he used to be, but I get better and better at ignoring it. I don't feel anything at all when I think about him, which I assume means I'm over him. And after feeling everything all the time, it is easy to mistake numbness for personal growth.

Everything seems to be getting better until the wedding at the end of July.

◊

Aliyah and Nathan met sophomore year. The only surprise is that it took them this long to tie the knot. I always liked Nathan, but we've never been especially close for reasons that will become obvious. Aliyah was in my freshman quad, and let's just say we understood each other from the start - fucked up game recognizing fucked up game. We quickly became the other's enabler and no was not in our vocabulary. Two codependent sluts on a campus full of apocalyptically hormonal boys. What could possibly go wrong?

We were inseparable our first two years. Besties in crime, we cut a terrifying path through the male student body. Then I went abroad for the fall semester of my junior year and when I returned in January, Aliyah had gone and fallen in love with Nathan Crowder, a wrestler and engineering major. One of those guys who just seems to have his shit together to a degree that is almost irritating - a forty-year-old in a twenty-year-olds body. She was, as they say, a changed woman. That sounds bitter, and maybe I was a little at first. But I really was, and am, happy for her. It was just hard losing my coconspirator.