My ex-girlfriend is crazy. I know, everyone says that, but I mean it. I ended up breaking up with her after she tried to get me to agree to some majorly weird kinky sex slave thing. I mean, I like to spice things up in the bedroom as much as the next girl, but there's such a thing as going too far. She had a fucking locking collar ready for me, for the love of god! And she just stood there, telling me to put it on, do it for her, do it and everything would make sense and I'd be hers forever. I stared at her for a few minutes while she continued to spout that crazy shit, before realizing she was dead serious and I was gone. I looked right at her and said, "I'm breaking up with you, now, bye." And then I got the fuck out of there. See what I mean? Absolutely crazy. So why the fuck can't I stop thinking about her? Why is it that the crazy ones are always hot as hell? And she had some great toys... that one strap on with the beaded edges... and the double pen strap on I swore she'd never use on me that I ended up loving. Her soft skin and her scent. The way her eyes seemed to just know everything. But fuck! Crazy as all get out. I'm so glad I got away before it was too late.
Okay you know how she was crazy before, well, it's actually gotten worse. Yeah, hard to believe I know, but I got this note under my door a couple days ago. It read, 'collars come in many forms my dear.' And I just get this chill every time I read it. I know it's from her. It smells like her. I don't know what to do about the note. It doesn't seem right to throw it away. Do you think I should burn it? That might be satisfying. I need to stop thinking about her. She's crazy and I ended it. Just another kinky bitch who wanted me to play along in her fantasy of being some sort of dominatrix. To continue would be to enable her fantasy, and that wouldn't be healthy for her or me. So it is really in the best interests of both of us that I never see her again. Never smell her again. Never feel her hands on me, or inside me. Never hear her voice whispering all the naughty things she is going to do to me. Never again. I'm going to burn the note.
I know, I know, I said I'd burn the note. I couldn't bring myself to do it. It smells so deliciously like her. And, well, I've kinda put it in a pillowcase with my pillow to sleep with at night. I know she's crazy, but I do miss her. I know! What I need is to get out and meet someone new. Or at least to party hard enough that I can stop thinking about her for one lousy minute.
Fuck! I have never turned down so many women as I did just now. So many hot chicks, all approaching me, touching me, nearly drooling and I didn't want one of them. None of them was her. None of them had her scent, her tits, her waist and hips and feet, her fucking cunt and eyes, those fucking eyes! Maybe I was wrong to turn down her offer, maybe I need to go to her and beg her for forgiveness, beg her to take me back, beg her and lick her feet anddddddddd
I totally don't remember writing that last night. Wow I was messed up. Not doing so hot right now. Head hurts. Light from the damn screen making daggers in my eyes. Owie. Maybe typing with my eyes closed will help. It will keep my mind off of her. Her... no, focus on headache. Tummy-ache. Rotten taste in my mouth. Ew.
Yeah, that wasn't something I wanted to focus on. So I brushed my teeth, and as I was doing so I realized she had left some of her toothpaste at my place from the last time she spent the night. I cried looking at that fucking tube. I miss her. Why the fuck do I miss her? Why the fuck did I leave her in the first place? Maybe I should. Maybe. Just. Once? Thank god it's Thursday.
***
I looked up from the printed sheets to my patient curled up on the leather couch before me. She was twirling her hair with one hand and the other hand had drifted to her crotch, lightly stroking herself absently, as if unaware of what she was doing. Her eyes were partially concealed behind a curtain of dark brown hair and seemed to be locked on a point somewhere on the floor in front of me.
"I'm glad that you've done your assignment and kept a journal of these thoughts. I think it is healthy to write down those kinds of feelings before they overwhelm you. How do you feel about the writing that you've done?"
"Am I crazy?" she asked, with her voice cracking on that last word, nearly sobbing it out. "I mean, I know that I don't want what she wanted, and I think she seriously needs help, but I can't help but think of her, all the fucking time doc, and even the writing hasn't really helped it's just the tip of the iceberg, you know? It even seems worse the more I write, like a loop of thinking about her, writing about my thinking about her leading to more thinking about her. How do you know if you're crazy? I mean, isn't it crazy to be writing about, thinking about going back to her and doing what she wants? Isn't that crazy?"
Her voice was frantic and fast, pitch rising every time she said, 'crazy.' I gave her my best doctor look, considering her words, compassionate, sane, but taking her seriously. She was practically begging me to validate her concerns and agree that she wasn't crazy. Unfortunately, based on her writings I was not sure that outpatient therapy was going to be enough for Stephanie. As is my practice when faced with a patient that did not seem in imminent danger, I was going to wait before deciding to commit her, unless she gave me good reason not to wait. We did, after all, have twenty more minutes.
"Do you feel crazy Stephanie? Do you feel trapped?"
"I don't know what crazy feels like doc," she said, despondence oozing out of her words. No violence in evidence though, which was a hopeful sign in my book. She might get herself another hangover, but I didn't think she'd harm herself, and certainly not others. "Trapped? Yeah, like I'm trapping myself almost, with these thoughts of her that won't stop. Maybe I'm trapping myself in my own head? Or maybe it's her, using me to trap myself. Like that fucking collar, only all in my head. Does that sound crazy?"
Her voice, which had almost returned to her conversational norm, once again was clogged by tearfulness and squeaks at that last sentence. "Sometimes our own minds can be our worst enemies Steph. We lock ourselves into these thought patterns, even though they're not what we want. It isn't crazy, necessarily, just part of human existence," I glanced at the clock. Time to wrap this one up. "I know that you liked Chloe, but consider that her actions that night may have just brought out the fact that you wanted out of the relationship, that you weren't comfortable, and this gave you an excuse to leave a bad situation. Now you might be feeling guilt that you dumped her, and you're considering going back into what may even be an abusive relationship, simply because you feel guilt and a desire to please. That's not the way to live a good life Steph. You need to figure out you first, and then add someone else into the mix. Is there anything else you want to tell me before we finish?"
She took a deep breath, then nodded. A few more deep breaths and she still hadn't said a word.
"What is it Steph? You know you can tell me anything," I reassured her, noting that, knowing Stephanie fairly well by now, we weren't yet over her time.
"I dream about her. I was afraid to write about it, because the dreams feel so crazy, but I have dreams about her... about her doing what she wanted to do to me. Not that I'm even clear on what that exactly is, but the dreams... I always wake up all... excited," she spoke this time in a rush, hurrying to get the words out before her courage ran out. Despite having seen me for more than two years she still felt a little squicky about talking about sex. It was kinda cute in the deep non-doctorish recesses of my mind.
"It is only natural Steph, to have dreams about sexual things when you go from getting it all the time, to not getting it at all. Your dreams aren't under conscious control, and you should never feel guilty about their contents. Please, try and write about those dreams for me? I'll see you on Monday, right? Four o'clock," I said all this while standing and offering her a hand to help her off the couch, and out the office door. I'd still be considering whether to recommend her for confinement, it was in my notes, but I doubted that I would follow through at this point. Twice weekly appointments seemed to be perfectly adequate for Stephanie's needs at this point.
"And Steph?" I waited for eye contact before telling her one more thing. "Burn that note."
***
You told me to burn the note. I have to burn the note. I'm going to burn the note... tomorrow. Yes. It is too late tonight. I'm just going to go to sleep now.
Okay. I'm going to try and write about the dream I just had. You said it would be good for me. Okay. I'm. In the dream, I'm tied up. There's like, something, not ropes, but something, holding my wrists and ankles spread eagled on a bed. I can't tell what room, hers, mine, a hotel, it's all fuzzy background detail. She is there. I'm naked, but she is wearing this dark shiny stuff that clings to her every curve, I swear it fucking outlines the freckles on her arms that I think are so fucking cute. She is speaking to me, her voice is soft and I can't make out the words. I can't think very well, all my brain power is focused on looking at her, drinking in the sight, I want to go to her, to get on my knees before her and beg her to use me. I pull against the bonds and whimper because I still can't move. Then she picks up something huge and silver, like a bullet the size of a loaf of bread and she gets this smile on her face, such a wicked smile, I've never seen her smile like that, but it fits in the dream. Then she starts ... putting it inside me. And I'm so close to cumming, but I know that I can't, not unless I have permission. And I want to ask, I want to beg but when I think to do it my mouth is gagged shut somehow and I can't say anything, and I can't cum. I woke up slick with sweat and so fucking horny I would fuck anything right now. Even though I fucked myself a few times before writing this, I'm still hot and fucking panting to be fucked. Fuck!
Well that was easier than I thought it would be. But what the fuck kind of crazy person writes a note on flash paper? I. Well. I was going to just burn a little of it. I admit, I wanted to keep it, but I wanted to do as you said and burn it too. But the moment the flame hit the paper, the entire thing went up in a flare and puff of fucking smoke. All that remained were ashes that poofed all over the place. The ashes fucking smell like her, and now I can just smell her everywhere in my apartment. It's like she's there all the time, just around the corner out of sight. I keep thinking I hear a knock at the door, and her voice telling me to open it, but when I go to the door there's no one there. Don't crazy people hear voices?
Work was bad today. I couldn't focus on my paperwork. Good thing it was Friday and everyone was goofing off. No one noticed my long trips to the bathroom, where I, um, I masturbated when I was sure no one else was in there. And every fucking orgasm is more unsatisfying than the last. I'm going out tonight and getting drunk. Not dancing or going to meet people. I just want to get drunk and stop thinking about her. Maybe I should stay in to do that. So no one else hits on me like last time.
I have no idea what I did last night. All I remember is drinking a whole bottle of whiskey. After that, there's nothing. Just the image of the empty bottle and then I woke up on the floor, naked, and fucking aroused despite the worst hangover I've ever had. That can't be good for me. I'm taking ibuprofen and water. The pounding of my head seems to be in a cadence that matches her name. Chloe. Chloe. Every fucking beat. I'm going to take some sleep aids and go to sleep 'til work tomorrow.
***
I looked up from the journal entries that Stephanie had given me from over the weekend and stifled my urge to sigh. Sighing wouldn't be professional under the circumstances. Instead I gave her that careful patient look that sometimes elicits gushes of words from those patients of mine that have a great deal to say but hesitate to say it. Stephanie didn't notice my carefully controlled look. Her head was bowed down and her face covered by her hair. She was curled up on the biggest couch in my office, a tiny spot of suffering in a pool of beige leather.
"I'm worried about you Steph," I said gently. "Turning to drugs and alcohol in times of pain like this can be a natural reaction, but you seem to be unable to control yourself. Talk to me Steph. Tell me why you got fucked up drunk this weekend."
"I don't know. I just. I need you to tell me I'm not crazy. Please?" Her voice was rough, exhaustion and pain laced in every syllable. Fuck.
"Steph, I don't think you're crazy. I just think you're going through a rough patch. Sometimes when we go through rough patches in our lives we need help getting through them. I'd like you to consider joining an in-patient program for a week or two," I said, using my best persuasive voice. I didn't have justification to lock her up without her consent at this point. She wasn't self harming, just drinking, and that just wasn't enough. I didn't think she should be left alone, but that was my instincts and not the facts talking.
