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 a several seconds. She looked very young. Mascara-tinged 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 box of tissues, 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 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 any time. 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 jewellery 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 jewellery 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 defences – 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 course 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 self-proclaimed 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-storey office building. Luckily I had parked conspicuously beneath one of the streetlights in the parking lot across the street. My champagne-coloured BMW was the only car left, so I figured I would be safe.