The Vampire Shrink Read Online Free Page A

I’d taken the required class in Jungian psychology in graduate school and I knew all about his theory of synchronicities—the interconnection between inner and outer realities based on the idea of a collective unconscious. Jung said that there are no coincidences and the universe functions through an unknowable intelligence. I could even agree with that on an abstract level. Yes, it did seem odd I was experiencing things that appeared to be related on the surface. But contemplating the cosmic possibilities of metaphysics was a helluva lot different from believing in vampires.
    Still. This had been one strange day.

CHAPTER 2
    I spent most of Saturday immersed in my vampire research. It turned out there were millions of vampire pretenders in the world, and reading through some of the websites gave me a better understanding of the scope of the illusion. Most of the wannabes were very sad—young people searching for meaning, connection, and love in a world where they hadn’t found any. Some were simply drawn to the excitement, danger, and forbidden fruit. Then there were the walking wounded who had crossed the line between acting out and psychosis.
    By the time I woke up at dawn on Sunday morning, I had formulated a plan of action and I was excited. It had been a long time since I’d felt passionate about my work. I was going to become the Vampire Psychologist. Well, Vampire-Wannabe Psychologist, anyway. Starting Monday, I would run ads in all the local newspapers and online classifieds, offering both individual and group psychotherapy for vampires.
    Yes, I thought, mentally rubbing my hands together, this had best seller written all over it. I had found a brand-new dysfunction of the week that mixed genuine mental illness with just enough scary occult sensationalism to make it a bona fide hit. Maybe I’d even get to go on Dr. Phil !
    While I daydreamed about my impending stardom, my stomach growled in angry protest. When had I last eaten? I tended to forget mundane details such as food and strolled into the kitchen to forage for something edible. As usual, the refrigerator was cluttered with old takeout boxes, the contents of which were no longer recognizable, along with bottled water and a substance that had probably once been cheese. My kitchen was a potent reminder that while I was exceptionally organized and efficient in my professional life, I was completely oblivious to its other aspects.
    Shopping falls into the category of torture for me. Not only do I have all the impatience of my type A personality to deal with, but being around all those people—their energy, I guess, for lack of a better word—wipes me out. According to my parents, I’d always been “too sensitive,” too receptive to the moods of those around me. I suppose that’s why I became a psychologist, but my sensitivity certainly complicated the rest of my life.
    I spent most of my childhood thinking I was crazy—or cursed. Normal kids didn’t spend time hiding in closets, talking to invisible friends, and picking up bits of people’s thoughts. I learned very early to keep my weirdness to myself, to isolate so nobody would notice. It took years for me to integrate my extra senses, to acclimate to the strange hand I’d been dealt.
    And if my psychic “gifts” weren’t stressful enough, I always got teased in school for being a nerd. The brainy girl with no fashion sense. The shy loner with her nose in a book, cowering in the corner. Thanks to my reclusive parents, I was the poster child for social anxiety. I just couldn’t see the point of worrying about trivial things like parties, friends, or clothes when there were so many mind puzzles to solve. So many mental illnesses to cure. At least, that’s what I told myself. I had a moment of feeling sad for the terrified child I’d been, always observing instead of living.
    Another stomach growl prompted me to call my local