Vampire

People always ask me, “Why did you become a therapist?”

“Well, people become therapists for all kinds of reasons,” I say.

“Many become therapists because they benefited from the insights of psychology, and want to pay it forward.”

“Some become therapists because they’re good listeners, and have been since a young age.”

“A few become therapists because they’re natural empaths, and reducing the pain of others is deeply gratifying.”

Most people are satisfied by these answers.

Occasionally, someone will realize I’ve dodged the question and ask, “Well, which one are you?”

To these clever sods, I just smile wide and say, “Now, now, aren’t we here to talk about you?”

Randall loves to ask me why I became a therapist. He’s been a patient of mine for about three years. In fact, he’ll be arriving any minute.

Dear Randall is quite familiar with the routine by now.

He comes in and lies down on the couch.

He rests his head on a throw pillow that reads “Heal a little every day” in a soft, cursive font.

He closes his eyes and rests his hands on his chest, fingers laced tight. Like a man laying in a casket, he waits to enter hell.

I position myself at the head of the couch, and place the tips of my fingers on the temples of his skull.

I say, “What has been bothering you this week, Randall?”

And precious Randall tells me of an incident:

• A night terror in the twilight hours.
• A disruptive flashback at work.
• A moment when he flinched at a loved one’s touch.

“And why do you think that happened?” I ask with anticipation.

And he tells me. Oh, how he tells me.

I’ve heard most of them by now, but every once in a while, he surprises me with a new one—a defining moment in his life. A memory of great trauma.

“Focus on it,” I tell him. “Make it real in your mind. Just like I taught you.”

At this, he begins to conjure the scene from his past:

• A betrayal of childhood trust.
• A violation of the heart.
• A treat to my ever-eager tongue.

Randall is an ACE 10 with PTSD, ADHD, and persistent suicidal ideation. He also suffers from a multitude of autoimmune conditions, which are common comorbidities.

His traumas include parental abandonment, emotional abuse, sexual trauma, and physical violence. And all of it was carried out, at one time or another, by family members.

What some people can do to children, not just once but repeatedly, with the same punctuality they take out the garbage, is the greatest wonder of this world.

Machu Picchu, be damned.

I tell Randall that facing his trauma head on is the only way to beat it. And sweetly, he believes me.

He leaps head first into emotional disintegration.

He does this, even though his mind shrieks in opposition, even though his body howls like an animal, because I’m his therapist.

Because he trusts me.

As he slips deeper into the memory, as he begins to twist and twitch, a searing pain courses up through his flesh—the surfacing of the flame that burns in his battered, misshapen heart.

The fire that threatens daily to consume his life.

The same flame that burns in all my patients.

I tighten my grip on his temples and draw the fire up into my hands.

I feel the warmth course up my arms.

It rises then further, caressing my cheeks

I savor its sweetness on my tongue.

It tastes like men leaping from a burning building, not wanting to fall but knowing they will die if they stay.

Tears stream down Randall’s face as he begins to disassociate.

I dig my fingers into his skin, to keep him present.

“You have to stay in it, Randall. Don’t run away.”

His wailing grows incoherent.

I know I shouldn’t but I push him to his limit. I push beyond it.

I feast on the fire, until his inner ember runs low, until he let’s out a scream that threatens to tear through the world.

The building manager always complains, but I don’t care. It’s easy enough to shame him into silence for trying to interfere with that most holy of work—therapy.

Once more, I am intoxicated.

How can a girl ever say no to such a meal?

How can I be expected to do anything but savor it to the last?

At this point, Dear Randall has long passed into unconsciousness.

He lies on the couch like a corpse.

When next he wakes, he’s elated.

He shakes my hand, and says, “You always make me feel better. It was like something was burning me up inside and now it’s gone.”

“It’s my pleasure,” I tell him. “Same time next week?”

“Of course,” he says, pulling out the check for $200. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I suspect he’d be richer, for one. How he swings the bill on his salary is a mystery.

What I do know is that I’m blessed.

Randall has enough trauma to last me for years. All my patients do.

No matter how many times I feast, their little embers will be back up and burning before they know it. And If I lose a patient here and there, it’s no concern.

New patients are being made all the time.

People are dependable that way. Wonder of the world.

No, I am not in the business of cures. That may be other therapist’s business, but it’s certainly not mine. I do treatments and- Ah, I think I hear Randall knocking now.

You’ll have to excuse me.

The session is about to begin. Ω