That evening when I’m cuddled against Mr. Blomqvist wearing nothing but my underwear, I start thinking about what I’m going to tell Doctor Loftin next week. How am I going to describe Mr. Blomqvist to her, and what we have together?
“Daddy,” I say hesitantly. “I know a little bit about doms and subs, and usually subs have rules, don’t they? You haven’t given me any rules.”
“You want some rules?”
I don’t know about want some rules, but shouldn’t I have rules? There are a few little things I know he wants from me that fall under being good. No talking during our sessions until he says so. Being respectful and polite when I do speak to him. Calling him daddy. “You never tell me what to eat and when to eat, for instance.”
“You know what’s best for you in that area and what you can cope with. If you want to talk about it, I’m here for you.”
That’s fair. Being an in-patient on an anorexia ward means I know more than most people about macro and micronutrients and how carbs and proteins are metabolized. In fact, it’s made me angry in the past when people try to take control of something I know more about. I had a friend at university who was always peppering me with advice and quotes from self-help books and nutrition articles. She thought she was helpful, but it just felt arrogant. I’m the one with the eating disorder. I’m the one that reads about specialized nutrition and goes to therapy for it. We had a huge fight because of it. I already feel powerless most of the time, so it doesn’t take much to send me spinning out of control.
I didn’t win the fight. I was never going to win because what she was—helpful, interested and supportive—meant she was the good guy and I—defensive, churlish and ungrateful—was the bad guy. But that’s not what it felt like to me, and I couldn’t make her understand how patronizing she was being. She wouldn’t entertain for a second that maybe I knew better, because if I knew better then why was I failing so much?
Okay, so rules about food are probably not for me, but sometimes I worry that I’m not “subby” enough for Mr. Blomqvist. “I still think you should give me rules. I don’t want you to feel like I’m too fragile to treat me the way a sub ought to be treated.”
“Your rules are to be in here at six o’clock, wait on your knees for further instructions and be a good girl for daddy. You do those things wonderfully, käraste. I couldn’t ask for more.”
I smile at him and kiss his cheek. Because it’s late in the day, it’s rough with stubble, and I love how it rasps against my lips. “When we’re together I feel so normal for the whole hour that I start to wonder if it might be permanent. That you might fix me. Can you fix me?”
His eyes are gentle as he smiles back at me. “I can’t fix you, because you’re not broken. But I’ll try to help you in any way you ask me to.”
He’s only saying that because I haven’t shown him everything. Eating in secret, freaking out at social gatherings, that’s nothing. I think of the hospital records detailing all my failures and denial. My mother crying when she saw me in just my underwear at my lowest weight. The things I screamed at my father. Because I work for Mr. Blomqvist, he gets to see the best of me. I’m a good worker, and he makes it easy for me to give the impression that I have it all together.
I’m dreading my conversation with Doctor Loftin so much that I struggle to eat all my meals that week. As I throw unfinished breakfasts and dinners into the toilet, I know I’m going to regret this when Doctor Loftin sees my weight on the scales. Inside her box, the other me laughs.
Wednesday morning rolls around, and I’m sitting in Doctor Loftin’s office. My weigh-in didn’t go well. I’ve lost nearly a pound since last week, and that’s definitely not allowed when I’m already skirting the lower end of the healthy weight band. The other me screams, You’re finally doing something right, you stupid, greedy bitch.
You’re not me, you’re in the box I made for you, and you’re never getting out again, I repeat to myself, taking deep breaths. Her voice fades a little, but she’s never really silenced. She sneers something about Mr. Blomqvist, and I feel my eyes prickle with tears.
Just shut up, I tell her. I hate you so much. Why can’t I have anything nice? Why can’t I have one thing that’s mine?
“I know I screwed up this week,” I say quickly. “Please don’t send me back to the ward.”