I’m sitting nervously in the waiting room, watching the seconds tick by on the clock up above the receptionist’s desk as she types away on her computer. Her attention is erratic amongst fielding constant phone calls, and for a few seconds, my eyes linger beneath her desk, lost in thought as I consider what shoes she’s wearing. They’re probably boring, considering the location, but still, there’s a chance she’s opted for something sexier and revealing. The water cooler in the corner occasionally let’s slip a triumphant bubble to the surface, causing me to flinch each time, fearing the moment has arrived.
“Is this a mistake?” I mutter while looking over the pamphlet a final time. I should feel right at home on a college campus, but it’s been so long that everything feels unfamiliar. I’ve never really been what was considered studious. I mean, I went to college and graduated with modest grades, but that was mostly a result of grifting and fluking my way to success. My energy hasAlways been enough to make up for my lack of smarts, along with my ability to get in the favour of those who could nurse and aid my development. I’m successful in my career as a lawyer, but that has absolutely nothing to do with my brains, but rather, my drive and motivation; the needy, overwhelming desires inside forever firing me up to do my best and impression others. I was fortunate to find myself working for a successful firm, thanks to the intervention of my professor, and considering the area we live in and the kind of clients we serve, well, the bonus alone from a single case is enough to last a long while; if I could resist the urge to spend it all whenever it hits my bank account. Things are a bit more measured these days, with the current, start-up firm I’m working for, but still, I’ve done well for myself.
As my eyes search out for the receptionist’s shoes, hopeful for a glimpse of her feet, I accept my attendance isn’t a mistake at all. I’m in desperate need of help,and perhaps this is my last chance. It’s just not normal to drop my eyes and scope out the feet of a every woman I meet, is it? I need a cure for my ailment, and as I clutch the pamphlet outlining the details of the study, I’m praying I’ve finally come across a solution.
That’s why I’m not at all lured in by the offer of payment that was attached to the advertisement on the noticeboard at my private clinic. I’d been stopping in for my annual check-up, and I was drawn in by a college pamphlet appealing for volunteer subjects for a pioneering neurological study. I didn’t need the paltry couple of hundreds dollars that was being offered for participation, but rather, I felt like I was a prime candidate considering the research subject. They were looking for applicants that could be considered to have added personalities, particularly if this had led to instances of irregular or anti-social behavior. It was like I was staring at a freaking mirror while reading that description.
ANeurological study seems highly appropriate, as I honestly just feel like there is something wrong with my brain. I’m convinced the way I’m wired really isn’t my fault. That’s why I’ve always been too shy to bring up my concerns to my doctor, fearful that he will push me in the direction of therapy and I’ll have to talk through my issues as if it’s a result of something in my childhood. There was nothing like that though, and the idea that I was simply born this way and my brain had malfunctioned or something, well, that is certainly a comfortable thought. I don’t want someone telling me that I need to find inner peace or whatever. I want an actual scientific resolution! Especially if the solution is medicine rather than laying on a couch and sharing my feelings. If I can take a magic pill to disappear my unsavoury and, frankly, self-destructive urges, well, I’m definitely on board.
“Jacqueline Saunders,” the receptionist calls out, and I jump slightly in my seat; my anxiety only alleviated by her warm smile. “You’re up. Please step through the white door and Ingrid will see you now.”
I smile in return while gripping the strap of my handbag with such intensity that the leather creams. “Sure,” I say, trying to seem aloof about everything, though the tremble in my voice is obvious. I give the waiting room a final glance, noting that all other attendees are fine Representatives of the delinquents of society. There’s a guy clutching a can of lager, a woman puffing clouds of smoke out of the window, and someone I can’t quite make out in the corner, snoozing away with tramlines down the inside of their elbows. I adjust my tailored jacket by the wait strap, just pulling it a bit tighter in hope it’ll keep out whatever fleas or the like those around me may be harbouring. “Is this a mistake?” I whisper again. I’m not as bad as these losses, am I?
“Miss Saunders, please,” the receptionist says again, and she stretches an arm our towards the whitedoor.
I nod, and after a steadying, deep breath, I turn the handle and step inside. “Oh,” I say as I pause at the door. “I…I didn’t realize you’d be so young.” My teeth chatter, and the idea that this is a mistake comes thrusting back. “I…umm…well…”
There’s a giggle, and then the pretty blonde sitting at the desk gears towards the seat across from her. “Come in,” she says. “Professor Robertson is actually leading this study, though I’m acting as his assistant as a part of my PhD research. I’ll be vetteing your eligibility as a candidate for this study.”
There’s a strong accent present, and in combination with her age and appearance, my unsureness is ramped up a few more notches. I hover and fidget by the door, fingering my handbag strap as the tightness of my jacket becomes Uncomfortable. I step to the side slightly, as if on instinct, attempting to peer around her desk and make out what’s hidden beneath. What’s she wearing down there? With the white, laboratory-style overcoat, she’s likely wearing something modest, right? Like a drop pair of slip-ons or lace-up leather shoes. Some professional and totally appropriate for the clinical environment. But, what if she’s not? She’s young, and kind of spunky, especially with her eye-shadow and the way her blonde hair is tucked behind her ears. There’s even a twinkling little stud in her nose, the likes of which seems entirely inappropriate for a scientist, doctor or whatever she is. What if she’s wearing sandals, or flip-flops? Are her toes painted? Could she possibly be wearing jewellery down there? I mean, it would make sense, wouldn’t it? Since she’s so comfortable with a nose piercing. Maybe she’s the type to wear an anklet or a toe ring? What if I disclose my addition and she pounces on it? What If she uses it against me? I shiver at the possibility, and I have to clinch my thighs together. Do I actually want that to happen? If there’s a chance, I should be running away, shouldn’t I?So, why am I still trying to sneak a peek under her desk.
“Jacqueline Saunders?” she asks curiously while glancing at her clipboard. “That’s you, right?”
My eyes dart up from the side of her desk, and then I blush while noting her squint at me. She too then looks down near the base of her chair, and she slightly shuffles forwards. Has she noticed? Did she know what I was looking for? Am I totally transparent in my addiction from the outset? I lick my lips, and I’m still dwelling on the idea of her using it against me. What do I even want as the outcome from this? Maybe it’s better I leave before something happens. The same sort of thing that always happens when a woman discovers my dirty, little secret. “I’m…I’m not sure about this anymore,” I say while averting my eyes. Her presence has shaken my composition, and I’m suddenly leaning towards the idea of this all being a terrible error. I thought I was going to be meeting some boring old man, not a girl who looks like she’s straight out of a swimwear magazine.
She’s unmoved by my attempt to escape, as if she’s heard such a plea many times before. She smiles, and then gears to the chair opposite once more. “Do you have any fears I can possibly quell? We’re hoping for as many participants as possible in this study.”
I chew the corner of my lip, tugging at the straw of my handbag another time as I continue to clutch it at my side. My instincts are causing my stomach to cramp, and from the way my skin is tingling I just know this is a bad idea. Still, deep inside me, there’s a strong desire for some semblance of normalcy to emerge in my life. Things have slide completely out of my control, and I can barely keep up with the many directions I’m constantly being pulled in. My addition has basically taken over every part of my day. There’s no escape anymore. Whether at home, or at my job, it’s there, ever-present and controlling me. So, if I have to endure a little embarrassment on my journey tosalvation, well, it can’t be any worse than the things I’ve already struggled through, can it? I need to put a stop to the depravity that’s been blighting my life, and for this to happen, I have to show a little bravery. I have to trust the girl before me.
“I’m just…” I look around at the door behind me, before wrenching my eyes back towards her, fighting my instincts with all of my energy. I lower my voice. “Is it certain this is all confidential?” I ask hesitantly, shivering from the thought that all of this could get out. I’m exposed enough as it by my recent behavior. My deviancy has completely polluted both my personal and professional life, but at least word hasn’t totally spread to my family. “Anything I tell you will not be shared with anyone else?”
She smiles at me pleasantly. “I can assure you this is a confidential research study,” she says while gesturing to the seat again. “All of the relevant ethical requirements have been met and we’ve received approval from the board. I have a number of participation sheets for you to read through and then I’ll invite any questions and if you’re comfortable with everything, you can sign the informed consent and we can proceed.”
“I just wouldn’t want any of this getting out, you know?” I say while trying to look her in the eyes and confess her of my seriousness. “I’m embarrassed enough about this as it is.”
“Totally understandable,” she says. “We have strict ethical and privacy guidelines that we have to stick to. Let me communicate how serious we take our participant’s rights during this whole process.” She pulls a piece of paper from her clipboard and slides it across the desk. “There are major professional consequences should we not adhere to the ethical guidelines.” She then shrugs. “We handle all of our subjects with care and consideration. You’re in a safe space here to share your concerns and there’s no pressure to participate in the study. Perhaps let’s talk it through, and then youcan make your decision.”
“Okay,” I say, somewhat convinced by the geneuine warmth in her soft expression. I finally step forth and take a seat, pressing my knees together as I sit opposite. I’m a professional woman, after all, just like she is.
“Okay,” she says with another smile, and then she slides a copy of the original pamphlet. “So, to summarise, this study is being carried out by the neurological wing of the medical science department. The nature of this study is to identify neurological patterns amongst candidates displaying traits of addictive personalities. I know it all sounds rather complicated, so to keep it simple, your participation will involve you filling out a quick questionnaire, and if eligible, you will then later be brought in for an MRI scan where you will be visually stimulated with media that provokes your addition so that we can track the responses in your brain. We’ll be scanning your brain during this process to study any changes of interest.”
“Okay,” I say. “So, the point of this is to stop addictions?”
She sits back slightly in her chair, and rolls her eyes up towards the corner of the room. “That’s certainly one of the possible outcomes, and I would most definitely like to see us achieving something of that level. There are a number of endemics that could certainly use an intervention. I mean, if we could develop a treatment that lowers a neurological response to provocative stimuli, that would certainly be a positive.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “You mean, like, stop my brain responding to something that tempts me? So, fee”–I gulp as I catch myself, while she raises an eyebrow–“ummm, I mean, my addiction doesn’t control me anymore?”
She shrugs. “That’s the goal. Of course, without negatively impacting other areas of life.”
My heart beats in hope. “Okay then,” I say. “I guess I can give it a try.” I cross my fingers. “I don’t want to be a slave to my addiction anymore.”
“Perfect,” she sayswith an alluring infection. She shuffles her papers, and then passes me a number of documents. “If you could just read and sign these, please. These will confirm your consent as a participant in this study. Even if we don’t proceed any further, we still need your consent for the initial eligibility questionnaire process.”
“Sure,” I say, and I give the documents a quick read-through. It’s mostly lawyer-speak, the likes of which I’m familiar with. It’s basically a method of covering their asses and avoiding being sued, but there’s enough in there to calm my fears regarding confidence and privacy. I sign the bottom of each sheet and then slide them back.”
“Great,” she says, and then another document is handed to me. “If you can just fill this out. It’s just a short questionnaire to get an idea of Your situation. It’ll help me decide whether you’re an appropriate candidate for the study.” She raises a finger. “Just so you know, not everyone is eligible, so I wouldn’t worryy. If that’s the case today, we’ll still remunerate you for your time and transport for attending. We’ve allotted a budget–“
“I don’t care about the money,” I say while already ticking and crossing the first few boxes. “I just want to be fixed.”
She’s quiet and I can feel her eyes on me as I continue to scribble on the page. She then sits back, allowing me to work through the sheet in silence while she does something with her clipboard.
The first few questions are all rather mundane and straight forward, mostly to do with demographics. I’m calmed by the fact that there is no collecting of personal, identifying information other than my sex, age and ethnicity. There’s no demand of my name, other than on the separate consent papers. There’s nothing on the questionnaire tying my answers to me, and for that reason, I feel confident to answer proceed through and answer as truly as possible. I zip through the questions, until I hit one that causes me to glance up at her shyly. She’s not paying attention, yet, I still feel nervous while considering putting pen to paper. I’m only identifiedfiable by a coded number at the top of the sheet, but still, it’s like a final confirmation of my shame.
What category would your addition best fall under? I star at the provided options, scanning between each as I realize that none of them fully fit my own problem. There is smoking, alcohol, narcotics, and even gambling. Shopping and eating are present, yet, there’s none that really suit me. My eyes linger over the final option, sex, and I wonder if I fall under this brake. I scratch my head while trying to decide which is most appropriate. I mean, I suppose my problem is sexual, in a way, but it’s never resulted in sex. It’s more akin to a personality disorder. Finally, I settle upon a separate category of other, but then my temperature rises as there’s an empty, blank line awaiting further explanation. I look at her again as my pen touchs against the paper, yet my hand remains unmoved. It’s so easy to elitely scrapl my truth, but it’s like I can’t will myself to do so. I can’t put it there for someone else to read. Someone outside of the small circle that knows the real me. My pen leaves the page with nothing but a dot left behind. I plough through the remaining questions with a similar vagueness; my honesty dwindling with each further scribble.
She takes the quiz sheet back, and she moves through it while circled a number of my answers. However, as she reaches the final section, I note a look of confusion blight her pretty face. She glances up at me, before squiting down at the paper and scratching her head. Her pen touches next to the question as if she’s about to circle my answer, but then she pauses and twists a few strands of her blonde hair. “You’ve selected other for your addition?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, my cheeks already blooming as I consider exactly what that means. “It didn’t rEally…well…I didn’t know how to…” I then just flick my hand towards the sheet, as if it’s an explanation in itself.
Her own pen taps against the blank space I’ve left. “Could you elaborate, please?” she asks. “For me to know if you’re a candidate for this study, it’s important that you disclose the full nature of your addition.”
I squirm. “Do I have to?” I almost feel Envious of the losses out in the waiting room. It would be so much easier to label myself as an alcoholic or junkie. At least those are socially acceptable examples of anti-social behavior, ironic as it may be.
She cocks her head. “I’m afraid so,” she says quietly, and then she reassures me with a small nod. “There’s nothing to be shy about. Everything here is confidential.” She slides the questionnaire back towards me. “Please, just fill it in and we can move to the next step.” She places her hand against her chest. “I assure you there will be no judgement. Full disclosure is mandatory in thisstudy if we are to compile reliable data.”
“Okay,” I say with reddening cheats, and I slide the paper back before me. I have to cup my hand while I write, hiding my answer from her simply so I’m able to finally get it down on paper. Even then, I feel ridiculous as I read it back. She presses her fingertips against the corner of the sheet, trying to take it back, and my hand remains firm, keeping it in place. I’m terrified that she’s going to burst into laughter, pointing at me and mocking me, not because that’ll make me feel awful, but, because it may lead somewhere else. Somewhere that I’m desperate to stop. I know my addiction well-enough by this point, and mockery and insults only seem to strengthen its hold on me.
“Trust me,” she says warmly, and my hand leaves the paper. I gulp as I watch her pick it up and begin to read through my answers again. Everything feels hot and stuffy, and I pull my collar from my boiling neck. The further she reads the page, the more I squirm; gripping the arms of the chair as I brace myself.
She pauses, and her eyes flick to me, then back to the paper. I know she’s read it, that word, and all of the blood rushes to my head to the point I feel as if I’m going to pass out. Her eyes flick back to me again and the blueness is icy and intense. They squint, and the message is obvious: she’s judging me. “I’m a little confused,” she finally says, and then she looks at me blankly. “Are you not interested in participating in this study?”
I clutch my handbag against my breast defensively. “What?” I ask while becoming further unsettled. “Why would you think that?” I glance down at the page, and it’s as if I’ve completely put my life on the line and spilled my guts there. Her reaction is to think I’m not being serious?
“Well,” she says while gesturing towards the page. “For your addition you’ve written…” She squints at the page again, and her finger taps, before her eyes look up at me. “Feet?” She cocksher head. “Your addition is…feet?”
My face contors between a number of expressions while I’m a mixture of emotions. The flight or fight defenseness kicks in, and I rise to my feet while becoming all hot and bothered. “I…I can’t do this.” I turn in a circle, so flustered that I can’t locate the door. “I need to get out of here.”
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