The only box I fit in was a coffin. I wanted out so badly.
“Stop making yourself small and acceptable, Tiffany.”
But that’s what I wanted. I wanted to be smaller. I wanted to be acceptable. I wanted to be Tiffany Amanda Blair, small-town girl with a handsome farmer boyfriend.
“I just want something to calm me down so I can handle some of these uncomfortable feelings.”
She shook her head. “Tiffany, I don’t want you to try to hide these feelings. Historically, women have been medicated to deaden the discomfort of their desires. Every decade has a ‘mother’s little helper.’ In the 1950s itwas Valium. Today it’s rosé.”
I knew Rosé was a good nickname for her.
“We can talk about a prescription later, but first I want you to try being honest. Be honest with yourself and the people around you. You are you, and you can’t change that. Be messy, imperfect, and filled with desires.”
I nodded and smiled at Dr. Rosetti. That advice might work for a person who was struggling with being a metaphorical vampire, but not me.
“Are you sure you can’t prescribe something?”
“No. Not until you’re honest. Will you try it my way first?”
“Yes,” I said just so I could leave. Honesty was not possible for me.
I am a vampirewasn’t something you could say to people. Most of the time, they thought you were joking. Everyone had a very strong idea of what a vampire looked like. Sexy, powerful, mysterious, dark, a man. I wasn’t any of those things. I was Bridget Jones with bloodlust. No one knew what to do with that. The movies were always about a sexy, brooding vampire hero and a virtuous human woman defending our beloved values. Bella, Sookie, Buffy. How annoying that the most popular women from vampire movies weren’t even vampires. People sucked. Well, I did. And that was the problem.
“You keep talking about Tyrone, but what about the guy at the bar? What’s his name…Vladdy?”
“We’re done. I’ve been watching this TikTok therapist and I’m pretty sure Vlad’s toxic.”
That woke her up. “Tiffany,” she said adamantly, “TikTok is not a good source for any life advice.”
Ouch. Don’t tell Heaven that one.
“Promise me—no more TikTok therapy.”
“Sure,” I lied. “Can I have the pills?”
“Tiffany,” she cautioned, “I want you to get comfortable sitting in discomfort. It’s impossible to grow and change if you avoid what makes you uncomfortable.”
“I think three hundred years of discomfort is long enough.”
Unfazed by the duration of my suffering, she asked, “Have you tried journaling?”
Sure, I’d bought some notebooks.
Dr. R glanced at the clock and I sensed that she was about to end the session. “Find a time that works for you. When you start to scroll, put down your phone and pick up a notebook. Write down what you’re feeling. You might surprise yourself with what you discover.”
“How long do I have to journal before I get the pills?”
She laughed like I’d just told a funny joke.
After the session, I checked my phone and noticed I’d missed three calls from Vlad. I’d been ignoring his calls all day. It was almost like someone had died, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t even know anyone who could die.
Instead of hitting play on his voicemails, I opened Instagram. The algorithm must have been eavesdropping on my therapy session, because my first ad was for Hims and Hers. From what I could tell Hims could deliver a pill for a full head of hair and a rock-hard dick right to your door. Hers mostly helped with the anxiety and depression attendant with living with Him. Perfect. I hitOrder. Well, it wasn’t quite that simple. I clicked theHelp me with my anxiety! button and started a quiz.
In my mind, therapy should be a spa day for your brain. You should feel refreshed. People on the street should be like, “Girl, what happened? You got some kind of glow-up.” Instead, I felt confused and muddier than ever. I finished filling out the questionnaire to get the pills.Feeling unusually drawn?Yes.Not feeling social?Yes.Experiencing panic attacks?Yes.
All I wanted to do was collapse on the couch.Buffy the Vampire Slayerwas all I had the energy for: my favorite comfort watch. Sure, I had some problems with the show. The basic premise, for one. But I didn’t want to be a vampire, so that worked. I wanted to beBuffy, not a demon inhabiting a human corpse. At least I didn’t have those stupid bumps on my head that all the vampires on the show had. The makeup people onBuffywere jerks for that.
Tyrone interrupted my TV watching with a text.
