For eight years, I operated as the primary interface between broken bodies and recovery. My PhD, my accolades, my Stanford lecture hall — they were all shields. I specialized in the pathology of sex trafficking, listening to women recount their violations while I remained poised, clinical, and utterly deceived about my own reactions.

The betrayal became physical long before it became conceptual. Sitting across from them, I felt the ache between my thighs. Not empathy. Arousal. My body recognized the rhythm of surrender and the eroticism of force, and it responded with a hunger that my ethics deemed impossible.

Now, my certificates are paper ghosts. I’ve traded the physician's chair for the bed, and the authority of the doctor for the obedience of the property. There is a terrifying precision to my unraveling; I know exactly why each part of me breaks.

Being your property isn't just an act of submission — it's an application of everything I once taught. I am documenting my own Stockholm Syndrome. I am engineering my own erasure. Every touch, every silence, every deliberate act of objectification becomes a data point in the only research that ever truly mattered to me.