I slowly walked into the small, beige-walled room. There was a dim lamp sitting on an old fashioned, chestnut table with white doilies in the left corner. Next to the table was a cherry colored, leather chair. The whole room smelled of pumpkin. I love that smell. I sat at the sandy couch parallel to the chair and table. I was almost too comfortable. My buttocks felt as if it were being hugged by a plush, stuffed animal. I sat there being awkwardly engulfed by the couch, twiddling my thumbs, and tapping my feet, for what felt like half an hour. Yet every time I looked at the clock, the minute hand seemed to be frozen in time.

A small, round, red-cheeked man walked in the room. If he were only a few inches shorter, he would definitely been considered a dwarf—or a midget, whatever is “politically correct.”

This was the man they expected me to spill my innermost secrets too? They, my parents, must have been developing dementia. After my last therapist, Miss Stanke, I would have assumed they’d pick someone a little less vulnerable—maybe go for a big wrestler resembling some type of cross between Rocky and The Hulk. Instead, they got a midget Santa Claus. I was just waiting for his little midget reindeer to walk in the door behind him. Then his secretary closed the door, and I was trapped with old Saint Nick.

He pulled out a little note pad and started vigorously writing. Usually this doesn’t start happening until I’ve been thoroughly poked and prodded. I wondered if he was new to this. Maybe I should take the notepad and he should be eaten by this weird couch, I thought.

I noticed I had been staring at him through squinty eyes. It’s not that I try to act like that; my emotions are just very clearly illustrated on my face. He looked up at me and I wiped the small pool of drool forming in the corner of my mouth. What can I say? I was bored. So many different therapists or “friends” as they would call themselves, and still nobody could help me. I was, as my peers would call, a head case: defiant, scared, and completely unwilling to cooperate with my feelings.

The little Santa man looked at me, with his beady little eyes. Was he going to say anything?? Then, as if reading my mind, he asked me, “So, are you going to say anything?” Then it hit me that this guy wasn’t going to be like the past 4 therapists. He didn’t give me that puppy-dog-eyed pout face. He didn’t start out with “How was your day?”—no; he started out with a snide, angry “So, are you going to say anything?” For the first time since I was diagnosed with seasonal affliction disorder, for the first time since my parents had gotten a divorce, and for the first time since I was raped by my boyfriend, I took a good look at somebody else’s life. I stepped out of my own little bubble of problems, and saw a man who seemed tired, lonely, annoyed, and I wasn’t helping. That was when the tears started to fall, and for the first time in my life, I talked about my problems: honestly, truthful, and heartfelt.

People say that the third time’s the charm. For me, it was the 5th. Mr. 5 is what I call him when I go to visit him every Sunday. He is the man who made me realize that, even though I have problems, I don’t have to deal with them alone. Therapists are meant to be friends, and I’m glad I finally took the time to figure that out.