The Vampire Shrink (2 page)

Bipolar?

“The vampires I know are unearthly beautiful.” She stopped walking and took a deep breath before returning to her seat. She met my eyes, her chin raised in defiance. “Vampires don't feel bad about drinking blood, either. They don't have to kill to eat—they can just take a little. Obviously they're simply higher on the food chain than we are. It's really quite natural.”

“Sucking blood is natural?” I wrote another note.

Sure. They'll sell blood at holistic food stores any day now. Buy a pint of A-positive and get a pair of Birkenstocks or Crocs for free.

“Well, yeah.” She looked at me as if I were the village idiot. “Every creature has the right to exist. Just because we don't understand them doesn't make them bad.”

Poor, misunderstood bloodsuckers. Midnight is definitely wearing rose-colored—I mean blood-colored—glasses.

“So what is it, then? Do you want to be unearthly beautiful? Is that what appeals to you?”

“Of course. Who wouldn't want that?” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “But I'm more interested in immortality, and being with someone forever.”

“Anyone in particular?”

She stared at me, silent.

Okay. That struck a nerve. Try something different.

“I can't even imagine what it would be like to live forever,” I said, twisting the pen through my fingers. “Can you? What would I do with myself for all those centuries? I already get bored sometimes over the weekend.”

Midnight giggled, despite her attempt not to. “I guess it is hard to imagine. At least I'd have a lot of time to practice my art. My vampire friends talk about some of the things they've done with their lives.”

I wonder if these vampires are imaginary friends. Is she having auditory hallucinations? Is she psychotic?

“What do they say?”

She looked around the room, probably giving herself time to decide how much to share. “Some of them spent a lot of years just trying to learn how to be vampires. Nobody taught them, so they traveled around the world, figuring things out, trying not to get staked. Others spent the time doing things they loved—that's what I would do. Nobody could force me to do anything.”

“Who is forcing you to do something?”

Silence.

Definitely more going on here than meets the eye. Is she in a dangerous situation or delusional? What happened to derail her? How did she go from straight-A student to vampire wannabe? Time to regroup.

“Do you have a good relationship with your parents?” I played with a button on my suit jacket—a nervous habit I've never extinguished.

“I guess. They don't understand me.”

The teenage lament. I remember the feeling.

“Tell me about your mother. What's she like?”

“There's nothing to tell. She has all these ideas about who she wants me to be. Did she ever ask me what I want? No. She thinks because she's a lawyer, I should be one too. Being an artist isn't a good enough career. Money is the only thing that matters to her. All she does is work. She says it's hard for a woman to make partner in a big law firm, so she's a workaholic.”

Poor Midnight. Looking for someone who won't abandon her.

“How do you feel about that?”

“I get where she's coming from, but I don't want that life. She's not happy. I don't see the point.”

“Do you miss her when she works all the time?”

She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. Sadness clouded her face before she shoved the feeling into the deep freeze. “Nope. I hang with my friends.”

Lots of bottled-up pain here.

“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“No. I'm an only.”

“What about your father?” I circled a comment I'd written earlier in my notes.

She paused and studied the carpet. “He's a drunk. A boozer. That's what he calls himself.”

“An alcoholic?”

“Out of control.” She nodded and brought her gaze to mine. “A nut job, an addict. He sees someone like you. That's why I ended up here. They're worried I inherited whatever glitch he has.”

“You mean a substance-abuse problem?”

Crap. As if things weren't challenging enough for her …

“Yeah, among other things. He's an alkie. Drinks so much he has hallucinations sometimes. He can't work anymore. He's totally paranoid—thinks everyone's out to get him. I'm surprised he doesn't wear an aluminum foil hat to keep the aliens away. Growing up with that has been a real freak show.”

No wonder she has no boundaries between what's real and what isn't. Mental illness runs in her family.

“Do you think you have a problem? Drugs? Alcohol?”

“No.” She frowned. “I've smoked my share of pot and I like wine, but I'd rather die than be like my father. I keep myself under control.”

She'd rather die … Is all this vampire talk just another form of suicidal ideation? Does she have a plan? A quick way to escape from the pain? She's sending out such mixed signals.

“Are there times when you don't have yourself under control?”

She chewed on her lip again, then glared at me. “Why are you making me talk about this stuff?” Her eyes glistened with the beginnings of tears. “I'm already sad all the time, except for when I'm with my friends. What's the use of talking about it? Do you want me to feel worse? There's nothing I can do about my family. I want to think about something good. Something positive.” She sniffled.

Yes. This is good.

I met her gaze, grateful that the dam had finally broken and she might share what was really going on. “I know it doesn't make sense, because all we want to do is avoid the bad feelings, but sometimes talking about them helps. We're afraid to put our emotions into words because they're overwhelming. Frightening. But if we can find a safe place to let our guard down, to vent some of that intensity and purge a little of the negativity, we usually start to feel better. Therapy can help. I hope you'll begin to think of this office as a safe place.”

I don't know if I would have used a safe place when I was in the midst of my own childhood horrors, but it would've been nice to know such a place existed. Maybe she'll open the door.

She stared at me for several seconds. She looked very young. Mascaratinged tears ran down her cheeks. The corners of her lips trembled as she said, “I feel so alone.” Then she covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

I put aside my pad and pen and moved to sit next to her on the couch, hoping I wasn't jumping the gun. We hadn't had much time to develop trust, but maybe enough of a bridge had been created for her to be able to tolerate my encroaching on her personal space. I wouldn't want to push her away.

She cried for a couple of minutes, then raised her face, her eyes scanning for the tissue box, which I'd kept at the ready. She grabbed a handful, dabbed her eyes, then blew her nose and slumped back against the couch cushions.

“I didn't mean to tell you that. I'm mad at myself that I did,” she said, her tone hostile, still sniffling, not making eye contact.

I pressed my hand lightly on hers for a few seconds. “It took a lot of courage for you to tell me how you feel. I know that wasn't easy for you. Thank you.” No matter how many times I've heard similar stories, they're always heartbreaking.

She looked down at my hand, then shifted her gaze to my face, her eyes puffy, voice soft. “Courage?”

It's nice to meet the real Midnight. I don't think anybody's reached out to her for a while.

“Definitely. But I still need to ask you something,” I said. “Can you be courageous a little longer?”

“I don't know.” She tensed, her expression radiating anxiety. “What is it?”

“Are you planning to hurt yourself?”

The question must not have come as a surprise to her. To her credit, she took a few seconds before answering. “No. I would never hurt myself, or anyone else.”

“Okay.” I let out the tense breath I'd been holding. “I'm very glad to hear that. But if you ever start to feel like you might hurt yourself, or you just need to talk, I'm going to give you one of my cards with a number you can call anytime. My service will put you through to me. So let's make a contract between the two of us that you'll call me if you start to feel bad between sessions. Do we have a deal?”

She took a deep breath and nodded, studying me as if she wasn't sure she could believe me. “All right. I guess I can do that.”

Little girl lost. But strong, nonetheless.

The light caught the ruby eyes of the snake winding its way up her arm, and I took a closer look. The detail in the jewelry was stunning. I pointed in the snake's direction. “What gorgeous artwork. Did you make it?”

She grinned wide, her trusting younger self peeking out from the shadows, and extended her arm, shifting it from side to side. “No. I haven't tried to make jewelry yet, but I'm thinking about learning. There's a class I can take on working with silver …” The grin disappeared. “I mean I
used
to think about it.”

Good. Both sides of her psyche are still wrestling for control. There's hope.

“You certainly have an artistic eye—your entire outfit is amazing.”

Even through the white makeup I could see her blush. “Thank you.”

I glanced over at the clock. “It looks like our time is up for today. I'd like to meet with you regularly for a while so we can get to know each other. Would you be willing to do that?”

“Yeah.” She grinned again, flashing the designer fangs. “It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.”

Well, there's something to put on the back of my business card: Therapy that isn't as bad as you thought it would be.

“That's great.” I smiled. “I look forward to our time together.” I moved over to my desk to fetch my appointment book.

We scheduled our next session and I walked her out into the waiting area, wondering how she'd look without all the makeup. I shook my head and thought about what a miracle it was that any of us survived our teenage years.

Since Midnight was my last client of the day, I sat at my desk, kicked off my shoes, and created a case file for her. I hadn't been able to decide on one specific diagnosis yet, but I jotted down some possible options and then added a sheet of informal notes:

Female, nineteen years old. Referred by family. Dressed in a goth costume, complete with theatrical makeup and detachable fangs, in accordance with her reported desire to become a vampire. Client's verbal family history indicates perceived emotional abandonment by both parents: mother to her career and father to alcoholism and co-occurring mental illness. Prior to the last year, she was a straight-A student in high school, studying art. Little support in her family for her artistic skills and dreams. Will explore client's peer system and her current activities in more detail. Although she hasn't disclosed much information yet about this person, it is likely she has been influenced by a young male who is participating in the goth/vampire-wannabe lifestyle, someone who has given her the affection and attention she craves. She presents herself as a rebellious rule breaker, but that appears to be a mask. Her defenses—the costume, her refusal to give details about the alleged vampires she spends time with, and her hostile attitude—keep her protected from more emotional pain. But her body language frequently gives her away: beneath the tough-cookie persona is a sensitive, creative, caring young woman, afraid to share her fears. She is articulate and intelligent, but naïve. She often forgets which role she is playing at any given moment. Explore how seriously she takes this fantasy world she has created. How much is teenage drama and how much psychosis? Continue to build rapport and elicit more information about her vampire-wannabe activities. Test her ideas of reality.

Geez. Life isn't weird enough, so we need to suck blood. Why didn't I think of that?

But I had to admit, the topic had already captured my interest. I was, after all, subject to the same rules as any other psychologist: publish or perish. I was due to write another book, and the pressure was on. And, if truth be told, my life had become boring. I had accomplished all the goals I'd set for myself and settled into a listless rhythm. After the excitement of always graduating earlier than expected from every academic program I'd ever attended, adapting to the monotony of private practice was less than thrilling. It would be good to have a challenge after my dismal track record in the realm of relationships.

I turned on my office computer and searched for everything I could think of about the subject: vampires, vampirism, blood, blood drinking, cults, mind control, immortal beings, etc. I was inundated with fictional stories about vampires, historical research on blood drinkers, case studies involving the selfproclaimed undead, and websites for wannabes. Talk about an education.

I printed out examples of the most informative sources and spent a good three hours at my desk, reading through psychological reference books, seeking a trail of crumbs. By the time I came up for air and checked the clock, it had become full dark. I usually tried to avoid walking out of my office by myself at night. Too many lost souls wandering the streets.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I said aloud as I gathered the papers and tucked them into my briefcase. I put my shoes back on, found my purse and my car keys, locked up my office, and headed out to the elevator.

At that time of night, the building was deserted and the elevator came right away. I rode down holding my keys with the car alarm clicker in my hand and strode purposefully out the front door of my six-story office building. Luckily I had parked conspicuously beneath one of the streetlights in the parking lot across the street. My champagne-colored BMW was the only car left, so I figured I would be safe.