Double Tap

Honestly, I don’t even mind my admittedly bummer of a destiny slaying vampires and other evil weirdos, but the OCD makes my life a living hell.

Today I staked a vamp and dissociated through the rest of my patrol because I thought I might have inhaled some of its dust. Then I had to make my face look normal for my check-in with my watcher, Renee, who regardless thought my face “looked wrong” and grilled me until I bluffed up an escape.

I don’t mention these fears to Renee, obviously. Her response would be punishment. My job is to constantly reassure her that everything’s fine, that I’m handling this whole vampire slayer thing really well. Pretending for her is sometimes the hardest part.

Right now, how I usually get myself through these episodes is by coming to terms with death. When the fear involves harm to someone else, like me maybe becoming a vampire, that doesn’t help so much.

Tonight I won’t sleep.

--

I snuck into Renee’s office at work. I found a number that I think reaches Watcher HQ. Fact is, I need to talk to somebody. I can’t sit with this feeling anymore. I would rather die.

Locking the door to my dad’s truck during lunch, I put up the sunshades. I don’t want to be seen. Who knows what I’ll do?

I pull out the crinkled paper with Watcher HQ’s number written hastily on it, slanting down the page, and dial on my cell. The green “Call” button taps almost unintentionally under my hovering thumb. Then it’s happening.

Frantically, I’m rehearsing in my head, discarding several drafts, listening with escalating panic to the ringing—I am near hanging up when a voice answers. I lose all ability for artifice.

“Hi,” I say, my voice breaking. I cringe and my throat constricts.

“Hello, you’ve reached Watcher HQ’s main line. How can I help you?”

He has a light British accent, his voice a little rough, as if from sleep. I wonder what time it is in London.

It’s horrible, but I say, “Uhh, yes, right. Um. I’m—I’m,” and my chest is so tight it’s all pain, no breath, and I have to take a moment to figure out how lungs work. “I’m a slayer in Riverton, CA. I, uh. Well. This is hard to say.”

“Riverton, CA, you said?”

“Y-yes. Yup.”

“... You are Ponder Elliot? Assigned to Renee Hiddleson?”

“Yes, but I can’t—don’t want to talk to—her—about this. I need—I need to speak with someone who specializes in—er, demonology. Or something...” My voice trails off pathetically.

“It says here Renee is an accomplished demonologist? Is there a reason you can’t speak with her?”

“I... listen.” Lungs. Breathing. “I have a stupid question, okay? If I ask, you won’t be... well, you’ll be nice?”

A long pause. “Okay.” His voice is surprisingly devoid of irritation or impatience. He sounds like he’s merely—ready.

Big, sketchy breath. Pretend it’s no big deal. Pretend it doesn’t matter you’re crazy. Pretend you’re just stupid or something. Not so afraid and ashamed you’re near suicide.

“So, yesterday, I was out on patrol, and I dusted a vampire, and I think I got some of its—you know, like the dust in my mouth? Or like I inhaled it maybe, I’m not sure, I don’t think I did, but if I did, which like I probably didn’t, but just if I did, I’m okay, right?”

Pregnant pause. Six months. Healthy and growing. It’s a girl. Finally, “You mean... what?” There’s a slight note of a laugh under the surface. He’s probably smiling.

Panic and shame flood me, burning my face from the inside out. My mind swims. This legitimately insane fea—that this could be An Actual Thin—mingles with a gargantuan resentment of self. Of being made to ask such an inane question. Of being a fool. I almost hang up.

Instead, I take a shuddering breath in, out.

“I mean, I’ll double check if you want, but I think that’s just not a problem.”

Relief floods me for a moment, and then—yet still more fear. I can’t stand an ounce of uncertainty. “Could you double check please?” I breathe, clutching my phone, my cheeks wet. I’m not sure when I started crying.

“Erm, yes. Can I get a call back number? I’ll do the research and call you with the results within the hour. Is that alright?”

“Yes. Yes. Thank you.”

--

I’ve called that poor man—a lot. When I think I am too proud to compulsively share my latest desperate obsession, my OCD seems to rise to the occasion, as if challenged, as if it has God on speed dial.

Just call me Job.

Hello, yes, God? We’re going to need another strange and embarrassing slaying scenario to trigger the slayer into calling an absolute stranger for reassurance again.

The worst part is it’s not God. It’s not even my OCD. It’s me. I am this thing that I hate and that hates me.

I know I need therapy. It’s just, they suck. Therapists. They say ridiculous things like, that’ll be three hundred dollars.

I’ll be real: the fact is I hate talking about it, and I want it to go away without drugs, without picking apart how I feel. I want to overcome it and never have this again. It was gone (ish) for a few years, and I’m devastated it’s back. As soon as I had my life under control, and peace throughout the day that I absurdly took for granted, I received my calling.

It’s one thing too many, hunting vampires. But I don’t want anyone to know. And I don’t want it to be true.

Sometimes I feel like a failure. Like, why can’t I just get over this? How many freak outs until it’s my last one?

The guy’s name is Harry Archibald. We exchanged cell numbers, and he told me he had gotten a permit to act as my “research guide.” It must have been taking up a lot of his time to require a permit.

I told him I didn’t want anyone to know about my anxiety—it had become obvious almost immediately that this was an anxiety thing—and he seemed to understand I was ashamed and embarrassed.

This time, he says, “I don’t, certainly don’t, want to upset you.” I’m calling to ask whether getting vampire saliva in a cut is a big deal or if I’m going to die or whatever like nbd (sos). “But at this point I wonder—don’t you think it would be best that you seek some sort of, erm, help for your condition?”

“Harry, please just tell me if I’m okay or not.” I urgently need reassurance. Like a junkie needs heroin, whether the needle is dirty or not. Ugh, stop thinking about dirty needles. For a second, at least, I’m thinking about dirty needles instead of vampire saliva in THE CUT ON MY ARM.

Everyone I show this side of me eventually comes down this road.

One time I did find a therapist I trusted. And she asked me to seek out care with a different provider. Try and shuffle me somewhere else, Harry, and I’ll never call you again, but answer my fucking insane question first.

“Oh. Yes, Ponder, you’re okay. Even a normal human, without the bolstered immune system of a slayer, can handle that minimal, if any, exposure to vampire saliva. But, from my brief study of OCD, I think you understand that already on some level yourself?”

Sigh. Relief, again. It washes over me like cool water. Like life, maybe how Harry lives it. Maybe how it feels in the moment after the hurried injection, when everything zeroes out and you just—are. Okay. I’m okay.

“Thank you, Harry. I really appreciate your help. I won’t call anymore. I’m fine.” I’m sorry.

I’m not fine. Harry knows. He’s going to tell Renee. She’s going to ream me for embarrassing her by going around her to a different watcher. She’ll write some shitty report about me and get me put in a remedial slayer program. Surrounded by superhuman anorexics and literal manic pixie dream girls.

“Don’t tell anyone, okay?” Pathetic.

He’s quiet. Then, “Why are you so afraid of getting help?”

“Just promise me, Harry.”

“I don’t think I can.”

I hang up and scream. Like I’m dying. Like it’s my job to scream. Like I’m the front man of a metal core band and we’re in the breakdown following the chorus.

No one is around. I can cry. I can afford this a moment. Then I’ll be fine.

I’ll be fine.