I tend to fantasize about my dream therapist like most people do about their dream boyfriend or girlfriend. Her name would be Brenda, as that is an appropriate name for a therapist. She would wear pant suits most days--a textured navy one tailored perfectly so that the cuffs of her jacket hit just above her wrist and the hem of her pants gently skimmed her pointed-toe red pumps. Occasionally she would opt to wear a cream scalloped tank top that contrasted nicely with her black dress pants. She would write in a very narrow script so that it gave her an extra air of professionalism while still being illegible enough to deter me from reading the things she thinks of me. Also, Brenda would have a jar of chocolate chip cookies available on her desk for me to take as I please because cookies make me happy and why the fuck not. During my therapy sessions, I like to filter Kelly's advice through Brenda and twist it in a way that I actually find useful and helpful. I've found this practice to be the best way to deal with Kelly's inability to provide effective advice: it's good enough to keep me from slipping off the deep end, and I don't have to pay an exorbitant amount of money for a real life Brenda because she would be quite expensive.

As Kelly moves to close her office door to signal the start of our session, I mentally prepare Brenda . When she returns to her chair, she doesn't slouch back in it in the unprofessional and disengaged way she normally does. She sits at the edge, Payless flats firmly on the floor and asks me, "Why are you here?"

This question throws me off guard. Brenda is silent. She can't help me with this one. Kelly takes my stupefied expression as an invitation to repeat the question.

"Because I'm not happy." This might be the longest and most genuine reply I have given to Kelly thus far. And I'm not sure what compelled me to give it in the first place.

"Why aren't you happy?"

I scoff. "Gee, Kelly. If I knew, I wouldn't be here would I." I feel my frustration getting the best of me.

Her soft smile remains unphased. "So how would you like me to help you?"

Silence. I'm so confused as to why Kelly is all of a sudden doing her job. I look into my mind for Brenda, but she is nowhere to be found. That bitch. How do I want Kelly to help me? I honestly have no idea. I can't think of anything she can do that will make me feel better. And maybe I'm afraid that she won't be able to think of anything she can do to make me feel better. Or maybe I'm afraid that she'll actually find a way to help me and I won't be able to function in society as a normal person without the crutch of a diagnosis to fall back on when life gets too hard. Am I afraid of getting better? Do I not want to get better? No, of course I do. I think. No, I do. My rationality is escaping me. How can I expect anyone, even Brenda, to understand how I feel when I don't even know how I feel and why I feel it. Kelly tilts her head to meet my eyes that had shifted their gaze to the floor.

"I just...I just need a hug..."

It comes out no louder than a whisper--as if it was exhaled like a breath that had been held between trembling cheeks for an eternity. Of course, no therapist would agree to this. It's an obvious crossing of boundaries. But that's what I need. I need that hug. I need it to know that someone is there. I need it to know that someone else is thinking hey, I feel what you are feeling and I understand. I get it. Brenda would never do this--she's too professional for that, too reputable for that. But perhaps someone like Kelly would.

She hesitates for a moment before placing the manilla folder she had resting on her lap onto her chair and pulls me into a gentle embrace while sinking into a spot next to me on the sofa. My breathing becomes long and shaky, and she takes it upon herself to pat my back rhythmically with her small, loving hands like a mother to a child. We sit like this for a while, me staining the back of her TJ MAXX jacket with my silent tears and her continuing to send vibrations of compassion, warmth, and kindness down my spine that echo into every crevice of my hollow body with every tap. I feel peaceful. I feel okay, maybe even good. It's a different sort of feeling, one that leaves me tingling with new kind of energy that can only be appeased by doing something good for her in return. I make a mental note to write a review on Kelly's Yelp page when I get home: tragic taste in clothes, has suspiciously loopy handwriting, doesn't provide free cookies. But not bad. Not bad at all.