Diagnosing a Fetish Ch. 03

"So, would you say that your situation has changed since our last meeting? Either for the better or worse?" Dr. Morse flipped to the next page in her notebook. We were only ten minutes into our second session, and already I was considering going for the door. Her questions made me feel uncomfortable and vulnerable. While I knew this was her job and she had my best interests in mind, I couldn't change my body's reaction to the situation.

My mind was left in a strange no man's land of hyper-awareness and intermittent periods of zoning out.

"About the same," I was able to mumble.

"Still having self-deprecating thoughts?"

I nodded; that was an understatement. Ever since masturbating to that video, my thoughts had become almost entirely negative reflections on myself. I likely should have told her this, but I feared that it might lead to me being locked up in a mental institution.

"And what about the nightmares?" Dr. Morse looked up, her gaze causing me to turn away out of embarrassment.

"Uh, yeah... they, um... maybe have gotten worse."

She wrote something down in her book before addressing me, "How so?"

Her question was too vague to answer easily. The way in which my dreams had changed was not something that could easily be explained in just a few sentences. On top of that, there was the problem of her appearing in the dreams, something that had become commonplace after our first session. The sensitive nature in which she appeared concerned me, and it was not something I wanted to admit to anyone -- especially her.

Unfortunately, I knew that she was my best chance at getting better. If I continued to hide the way I felt and what I had been experiencing, it seemed impossible that I would ever get out of my depressive slump. Considering this, coming out and saying the full truth appeared to be my only option. "They've become more real, I guess," I shrugged, "More... sexual?"

"Can you be more specific?"

"I don't know; It's hard to explain."

"Hmm," Dr. Morse leaned back in her chair, "What about describing one specifically? Of all the dreams you had last week, which would you say affected you the most?"

I tried to swallow the lump that formed in my throat, "I, um... I don't know if it would be appropriate."

"Oh, trust me, dear; I've heard just about everything."

"No, it's just," I struggled with how best to word my admission, "You were a part of it, and I don't know if me telling you what happened would be the best for our... relationship in the future." It was the best I could explain myself while still maintaining some dignity. Based on her facial expression, however, I could tell that Dr. Morse wasn't buying it.

"I don't want to force you to share anything you don't feel comfortable with," she explained, trying to put me at ease, "But I think that you telling me what you have been experiencing will be worth it for any slight... awkwardness that might come as a result."

"Are you sure?" My question was a desperate attempt to stall for just a little longer, but a nod from Dr. Morse left me with little to fall back on. With no choice but to continue, I took a breath and began my explanation. "It all took place here in the doctor's office. Wait, no. You met me in the lobby, and then we came back here, but... I don't know; I think you didn't want to start here for some reason. Sorry, I'm having trouble remembering."

"That's OK, just try your best."

"Um... So, we went to... you know... that room," I indicated to the closed door to her bathroom with my head, "And you asked me to go to the bathroom."

"Hmm..." Dr. Morse tapped her pen against her notebook, "And did you?"

"Yeah, I mean I tried," I could feel my face blushing, "It wouldn't come out at first, so then...." I didn't want to continue. Dr. Morse stroking and kissing my thighs in my dream was still ingrained in my mind; I could almost feel it. However, I considered pretending like I couldn't remember what happened -- or at least leaving out some of the details. I could feel her eyes on me as I struggled with my internal turmoil; she wanted the truth and would probably get it out of me one way or another. "Then you helped me," I finished my sentence, airing on the side of vagueness.

"And what happened after that?"

If I had to guess, Dr. Morse's apparent disinterest in the details was likely to save whatever dignity I had left. It was also possible that she put the pieces together herself and didn't require any further information to understand what I meant. Either way, I wasn't complaining. "After that, I was able to um... go. You watched me for a bit but then," I struggled to remember the rest, "I think you had to leave; I forget why."

"Then the dream ended?"

"No... you came back and said something to me, something about not freaking out. Then Dave came in. I woke up after that."

Dr. Morse was now rapidly jotting down notes, occasionally pausing to think before continuing. Finally, after a minute or two, she closed her notebook and set it on her desk before returning her attention to me. "I'm sorry, but I think this dream is largely the result of my carelessness," she chewed on the end of her pen, "I knew it was too early to expose you to the in-person bathroom play. What about the memory stick? Did you bring it?"

"Um, yeah," I reached into my bag, digging around until I found it, "Here." I was happy to be rid of the drive. I still hadn't recovered from the deep sense of shame I felt after watching it. Worse, despite this, it had been a constant struggle not to watch more of the videos. My arousal continuously tried to overtake my better judgment, and no longer having to control myself was a huge weight lifted off my shoulder.

Taking the memory stick from my hand, Dr. Morse returned it to the drawer from which she originally retrieved it in our last session. "And did you watch it?" she asked upon returning to her chair.

"Some of it, yeah."

My response seemed to worry her, "How much exactly?"

"The first two videos. Although I don't really remember the first one," I added, "I think I fell asleep near the beginning of it."

"Hmm... what would you say your reaction was to the videos? Did you enjoy them?"

"I mean, I guess," I sighed.

"Would you say they aroused you?" Dr. Morse doubled down.

I shifted nervously in my seat, "Do we have to talk about this? I- I still feel weird about it all, and... I don't know; it's not something I want to talk about." It was a stupid question, and I felt dumb for asking it aloud. I knew the answer; it was obvious.

"Unfortunately, we do; I fear that I may have jumped the gun a little and exposed you to too much at once," Dr. Morse explained, "I'm trying to figure just how much damage has been done and how we can move forward from here to continue the healing process."

"Fine. Yes, I... they aroused me." It felt unnatural to describe it like that, but it helped to alleviate some embarrassment, "But afterward I got the same feeling of... disgust, I guess."

"With the videos?"

"No, with myself for liking them. And I know we talked about how I shouldn't feel bad or whatever in our last session, but it's hard. I tried to remind myself that I wasn't a bad person after I did it, except it didn't really work."

"OK, I think we can recover," she said under her breath, "Once again, I apologize for throwing too much at you too fast. Sometimes it's difficult to judge how open someone is to new treatment," she let out a sigh, "And it seems this time my judgment was incorrect. However, before we move on, I would just like to let you know that I would never bring Dave in here."

"Yeah, I- I know. I think it was just my... brain being weird." After the words left my mouth, I realized how stupid they sounded; I was trying to explain dreams to a doctor.

"I'm glad. Now," Dr. Morse grabbed her notebook and opened it to a new page, "How about we change the subject and talk more about your life? Have you gone back to work?"

Put on the spot; I didn't know what to say. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and it made me feel as if she were waiting to bring this up. "Um, no..." I swallowed the lump in my throat, "Should I have? If it's about the money, I can find a way to pay you back sooner."

"No, I already told you that I have no problem covering this session," Dr. Morse replied, "And as for when you should return, it is not my decision to make."

"I wish someone would," I grumbled, "I don't know what I'm doing anymore."

"It takes time."

"I don't have time! I'm so... sick of all of this!" I finally let my anger get the better of me as I snapped at Dr. Morse. But, of course, it wasn't her that I was mad at. Like always, it came back to myself; she was just a target to shift the blame to. "It sucks, OK? It is all a mess; my entire fucking life is a mess. I constantly feel this dreadful combination of depression and nothingness."

My hands were shaking as I stood up from the examination table. It was stupid, really; there was nowhere to go leaving me to pass aimlessly around the small room. I didn't want to look at Dr. Morse, but I could tell she was studying me, probably writing more notes in her stupid book. She was the same as Dr. Litvak -- the same as all of them. She could talk a big game, but she just cares about the paycheck in the end. She's probably trying to ditch me as fast as possible now that I can't pay her.

"You," I pointed an accusing finger at Dr. Morse before clenching my hand into a fist and continuing my frantic pacing. Don't blame her, Mallory. Don't do this; she is the one person open to helping, and you are going to ruin that. Stop being so fucking stupid all the time. You fucking idiot.

"Mallory," I was snapped out of it when Dr. Morse put a hand on my shoulder, "How about we sit back down and talk some more about this."

I was flustered but followed her lead, returning to my usual seat. Letting out a long breath, I ran a hand through my messy hair, "I'm sorry... I didn't mean any of that; I just get in my head sometimes."

"Trust me; you are not the first to get hostile in a session, and I'm sure not the last," Dr. Morse reassured me.

"Still, I shouldn't... you know, shouldn't have done it."

"Well, how about we talk through your feelings then?"

"It feels like we sit here and talk and... I don't know, like it just gets worse or doesn't change," I aired my grievances. It felt shitty -- I was basically telling her that she was useless to me -- but it was how I felt regardless.

"Today is only our second session," Dr. Morse replied, her attitude remaining calm, "I realize that it can feel as if progress isn't being made, but we need to develop a foundation before we can move forward."

"I'm sorry, but I just don't have the time or patience to develop a foundation. I mean, I can't even sleep. So when are we going to actually solve something?"

Dr. Morse rested her head on her fist as she thought about something -- what, I wasn't sure. "I..." she went to say something before stopping herself. It was one of the first times since we met that she genuinely appeared conflicted. Finally, after more thought, she seemed to have come to a decision, "I have something, but... I've already made the mistake of moving too fast with your treatment. I fear that this may lead us down a similar road."

Her secrecy put me on edge, "Well, what is it?"

"It's..." Dr. Morse paused, tapping on the cover of her notebook with her pen. After a few seconds of silence, she opened it to a blank page and wrote something down. Following this came another pause as she contemplated her decision, eyes shifting nervously between me and what she had written. "Here," the paged was ripped from her book and handed to me.

"4177 Geraldine Lane?" I read it aloud.

"Yes..." Dr. Morse let out a slow breath, "It's an address for a lesbian fetish bar. A place called RAE. If you are seriously interested in first-hand experience as a method of treating your hang-ups, I would recommend you go here and just try it out, see how you feel."

"But I'm not attracted to women," I mumbled, fidgeting with the paper.

"Look, it's not my place to say your sexuality, but -- from what I've seen anyways -- I am inclined to disagree. There was an obvious reaction in our previous session and, from the sounds of it, again when you watched the videos I provided."

It was something I had been trying not to think about for the past few months, but part of me agreed with Dr. Morse. It's not like I was homophobic or something, but the thought that I was interested in women was what I was afraid of. Initially, I thought it was just some effect of what was happening with Dave. After all, the feelings only started after our separation. Maybe I was just confused, left alone, and desperate for any form of connection with another person, regardless of gender.

That's what I wanted to believe, anyway. The reality that they had been there most of my life was just another in a long list of truths I wanted desperately to forget. My friend Sam in high school was the first, and then Aisha after her. Sure, there wasn't much with them -- just the odd thought or urge. Gym was often the worst of it, having to see Sam while she was changing. However, I was always able to push it down, attributing it to hormones or puberty.

The urges were back now stronger than ever, but with the recent development of my disgusting fetishes, my ability to push them away had fallen to the wayside. Without even realizing it, I had let all the thoughts that I had spent years pushing out all come flooding back in. I realized that now, as did Dr. Morse. It felt good to finally allow myself to experience what I'd been avoiding for a significant portion of my life, but my sick brain could never let me be happy. This led to more self-disgust and hatred -- I didn't want to think about it anymore.

Folding the paper, I tucked it into the front pocket of my jeans. "Will it help? Going there?" I asked.

Dr. Morse shifted nervously in her seat, "It could help, or it could make things worse; it's why I was hesitant to recommend it in the first place. While there may not be other women there with the same fetishes as you, I still think it will be very beneficial for you to see that you're not alone in terms of having what many may consider... different sexual interests. Then again, it could lead to another spiral. It is up to you whether or not you go."

"I don't know. I'll... I'll see."

"Mallory, there is one thing that I would request regardless of you going there."

"What?" Her shift in tone put me on edge.

"Again, I want to preface this by saying I do not have control over your decisions; this is just a strong suggestion from a medical professional. Please consider cutting out alcohol, at least until you get in a better mental state."

"What do you mean?" I asked, trying my best to fight my urge to go on the offensive.

"I can smell the alcohol on you today as I could a week ago," Dr. Morse explained, "You appear to be suffering from a hangover, too. Last week I thought it was perhaps just from a lack of sleep, but evidence seems to point away from that."

I could feel the anger bubbling up inside me, "Maybe it's not a choice."

"I bring this up only because I often see people using alcohol as a way to treat depression, and it always makes things worse. I hope to stop you before it progresses any further."

"You think I don't know that?" I glared at her. It was clear that she was just trying to help, but she treated me like an idiot. I didn't need someone to tell me that the alcohol didn't help; I've had months of depressive spiraling to tell me that.

"I'm sorry if I struck a nerve."

"You're acting as if I'm some sort of drunk, drowning myself in booze because I enjoy it. I drink because it is the only way for the stupid voices in my head to stop just long enough to fall asleep. And even then, it doesn't last. They all come back a few hours later. The awful fucking voices telling me how I'm a worthless piece of shit."

"I wish you had told me this sooner; there are better ways to solve such a problem."

"How? Because I've yet to find them," I slumped forward, my anger overtaken by a sense of defeat.

"I don't know, but I'll try everything in my power to help." Standing from her chair, Dr. Morse moved to her desk. She typed in her password and opened up a calendar, although I couldn't read what was on it from this angle. After some clicking and more typing, she turned to face me, "Would you be available next Thursday night?"

"For what?"

"We have a separate facility that focuses on the evaluation of patient sleeping habits. Usually, it is used for diagnosing sleep apnea and the like. Still, I think it could be useful in this scenario," she explained, "We have exports who usually run the tests, but I think for your case it would be better if I were the primary examiner."

It was a lot of information to take in at once. I could feel Dr. Morse waiting for an answer, but it was too soon to decide if this was something I wanted to do. Of course, I wanted my sleeping problems to be solved, but this sounded like a big step to take. "I don't know; how long will it take?"

"You'll come to the facility around nine o'clock pm to give us some time to set everything up, and then you will stay the night."

"And people will be watching me while I sleep?"

"Yes. Well, I will be. After the initial setup is complete, the rest of the team will go home and return once the test is over in the morning."

I wasn't comforted that it would be Dr. Morse running the examination. It was probably her intention, but a complete stranger I would never see again following the exam would help to lift an excessive amount of pressure that rested on my shoulders. For all I knew, she was going to get a front-row seat to me pissing my pants in my sleep again. That thought alone mortified me.

"Can't you just... I don't know... give me some drugs or something? Is all this testing really necessary?" I asked, hoping there was a way to avoid any further embarrassment. "I mean, I'm depressed and emotionally confused since the divorce; we don't need tests to figure that out. What is you watching me try to sleep going to buy us?"

"Honestly, I'm sure this will lead to me prescribing some sort of medication to help with what you're currently struggling with," Dr. Morse replied, "However, I do not want to prescribe some cure-all without having concrete evidence of your afflictions. If medicine is going to work -- and I'm not making any promises -- it will work better if I know the specific symptoms that need treatment.

It was precisely what I didn't want to hear -- a clear, concise response to why we needed to do this. With my -- while somewhat limited -- knowledge of Dr. Morse and how she worked, I don't know what I expected. But, I knew that the tests were inevitable and probably helpful, regardless of how uncomfortable they would make me. "OK, book me in for Thursday."

Dr. Morse nodded her head, talking to me as she typed, "I'll put you in the calendar, but if you need to cancel for any reason, just let me know."

"Yeah..." I sighed.

"Mallory," she turned to face me, "I do honestly think these things will help you; I want you to know that. As nervous as I am for you to go to RAE, it has the possibility to greatly improve your mental state. The sleeping therapy too."

"If you say so."

"And I know you don't like sitting in here talking, but I think that's also helping significantly," she continued, "Just between today and a week ago, I can already see some big changes that you made for the better, whether you realize it or not."

"It's not that I dislike talking through things; it's just...." I found it difficult to express myself, afraid that she might misconstrue my words and become personally offended as a result, "I did a lot of the whole 'talking through your problems' thing when my relationship first started getting rocky with Dave. As you can tell, it didn't help. Thousands of dollars and months of my time went down the drain, and I think a single one of those marriage counselors cared. All that mattered was their paycheck."