Pathological dependence

The nightmare came again at 3 AM. Leonard jerked awake, his heart pounding like it wanted to escape his chest. The sheets were damp with cold sweat, sticking to his skin. He could still smell the old, dusty carpet from the dream, feel the rough hands. Ten years, and the memory felt as sharp as yesterday.

He sat up, rubbing his face. The dorm room was silent except for the soft hum of his roommate's computer. Darkness pressed against the window. He was alone with the ghosts in his head.

His hand moved under the covers almost on its own. It was the only thing that worked, the only way to quiet the noise, to push the images back into the shadows. Shame followed immediately, hot and sharp. I'm disgusting. But the need was stronger, a desperate craving for a few moments of peace. Afterward, he lay there, empty and hating himself, watching the digital clock numbers change until the sky lightened.

Morning classes were a blur. He moved through the campus like a ghost, unseen. Students laughed and talked in groups, but Leonard kept his head down, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up. He felt their happiness like a physical barrier he couldn't cross. They're normal. I'm broken.

His psychology class was the hardest. Professor Paul Weston stood at the front of the lecture hall. He was young for a full professor, maybe mid-thirties, with sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to see everything. His voice was calm and steady. Today's topic was human sexuality and psychological health.

Leonard sat in the back, trying to be invisible. But every word Paul said felt like it was aimed directly at him. "Maladaptive coping mechanisms often arise from unresolved trauma," Paul explained, his gaze sweeping over the students. It lingered on Leonard for a second too long. Or did Leonard imagine it?

A case study was discussed. A man who used compulsive behaviors to escape anxiety. Leonard's stomach tightened. It sounded too familiar. His heart started to race again. The walls felt like they were closing in. He needed to get out.

But then Paul said something else. "The behavior itself is not the disease. The disease is the pain it's trying to mask."

Something cracked inside Leonard. For ten years, he had carried this secret, believing he was a monster, a pervert. What if... what if he was just hurt?

A reckless, desperate courage seized him. His hand, trembling, went up.

The chatter in the room died down. A few students turned to look at him. Paul paused, his expression neutral but attentive. "Yes, Leonard? You have a question?"

His throat was dry. The words felt like shards of glass. "Professor..." he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "Is... is chronic masturbation... a mental illness?"

Dead silence. You could hear a pin drop. Then, a few muffled snickers. Heat rushed to Leonard's face. He wanted to sink through the floor. What have I done? I've exposed myself. They all know.

But Paul didn't laugh. His gaze was steady, gentle even. "That's a very brave question, Leonard," he said, his voice softening. "As I said, the act itself isn't the illness. It becomes a problem when it controls your life, instead of you controlling it. It's a symptom, not the cause." He held Leonard's gaze, and for a fleeting moment, Leonard didn't feel judged. He felt seen. "Why don't you come to my office after class?" Paul added. "We can discuss this in more detail, in private."

The bell rang. Students filed out, throwing curious glances at Leonard. He gathered his books with shaking hands, his mind racing. He wants to see me. In private. Fear and a tiny, forbidden flicker of hope warred within him. Was this a lifeline? Or was he just stepping into a deeper trap?

He fled the classroom, ignoring the whispers, and locked himself in a bathroom stall. He slid down to the floor, hugging his knees. He could still hear the silence after his question, see the intensity in Professor Weston's eyes.

His phone buzzed. A text from his roommate, Emily: Hey, you okay? You ran out of class pretty fast. Meet at the café?

He typed a reply, his fingers clumsy. I'm fine. Just didn't sleep well. See you later. Another lie. How many lies had he told to cover up the shame?

He thought about Paul's offer. Come to my office. The rational part of his brain screamed danger. He's your professor. This is inappropriate. What will people think? But the wounded, lonely part of him cried out for help. He didn't laugh. He called me brave. Maybe... maybe he can help.

He remembered the nightmare, the relentless anxiety, the crushing isolation. He was so tired of fighting alone.

Leaning his head back against the cold stall door, he made a decision. A dangerous, possibly stupid decision. He would go.