The worst part is that the experiment seems to continue long after the session ends.
That is the thing I cannot accept.
During the session there is at least a logic to it.
There is a process.
There is a sequence.
There is something happening.
Afterward there should be nothing.
And yet something always remains.
There is always a residue.
I do not like being submissive.
I still think that.
I still think it with complete sincerity.
There is no part of me that looks at this situation and decides that it is desirable.
I do not want to admire him.
I do not want to depend on his approval.
I do not want his opinion occupying space inside my head.
But the problem is that my opinion about the matter seems to matter less and less.
Because something continues happening even when I try to ignore it.
A few weeks ago I was walking through the city.
I was not thinking about him.
Or at least I thought I was not.
I was looking at shop windows.
Listening to strangers talk.
Watching traffic.
And suddenly I found myself remembering the exact way he would rest a hand on a table while checking something.
It was not even an important action.
It was not even related to me.
It simply appeared.
With absurd clarity.
Far sharper than the people who had just walked past me.
That is what is beginning to worry me.
Because ordinary things seem increasingly distant.
Increasingly blurred.
Increasingly difficult to retain.
Days pass.
Conversations vanish.
Faces merge together.
But certain details remain.
The way he paused before correcting something.
The seconds he took before deciding.
The sound of a chair moving a few inches.
The silence before continuing.
And above all, the waiting.
Always the waiting.
Because if I am completely honest, I think that is where everything began.
Not during the corrections.
Not during the instructions.
Not during the intense moments.
But during the intervals.
Those strange stretches where nothing happened.
I remained there.
Looking at the floor.
Waiting.
And he continued with the process.
Sometimes reviewing something.
Sometimes writing something down.
Sometimes simply thinking.
And I never knew how much longer remained.
I never knew what he was evaluating.
I never knew what he was looking for.
I only knew that the process was not finished yet.
And that my task was to remain there until it was.
I hate remembering that.
Because I cannot find a reasonable explanation for how intensely it returns.
It should not matter.
And yet it does.
Far more than I want to admit.
There are days when a strange sadness appears.
Not dramatic sadness.
Not the kind I can explain.
Just a sense of loss.
As if something were slightly out of alignment.
And whenever I follow that feeling back to its source, I always end up in the same place.
Not in the session.
Not in pain.
Not in obedience.
In waiting.
In the image of remaining there while another person continued a process that seemed infinitely more important than any thought I could have.
And that makes me angry.
Because I still do not understand it.
I still think it should not work this way.
I still resist it.
But the harder I try to remove the image, the larger it becomes.
As if the real adjustment never happened during the session.
As if it began afterward.
Slowly.
Silently.
While the rest of my life gradually started losing definition around it.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
