I look around the waiting room, while my leg bounces up and down wildly.

What the hell am I doing here? Like some therapist, who learned everything he knows from books, could help me out of the hell I'm in. And a guy? Honestly? Why a guy? ...

I do know the answer to that, deep down. Because I don't get along with women that well. Especially authoritarian females. I don't listen to them by default. Never have, never will.

I look at the pictures on the wall and frown. There are pictures of small spaces, heights and a bloody knife. And there's jazz playing in the background.

Fucking hell? Is he trying to trigger people with pictures like that? What kind of therapist does that? And that fucking jazz music. You know, the kind that makes you nervous. Wild trumpet noises that get under your fucking skin.

My leg bounces up and down wilder and I bite my nails. I ended up in a white room after an old trauma came back to haunt me. Like really haunt me. I see, hear, smell him all the time in my dreams. Sudden noises make me cower, sudden movements make me scream. People I've loved forever can't even hug me.

This is the first time I visit him on his home turf. It makes me feel like I'm about to jump out pf my skin.

It's like the picture of the bloody knife on the wall is mocking me. Forcing me to go there in my mind. To the specific moment that landed me in the hospital about twenty-five years ago.

And that damn jazz music!

I am about to get up and walk out, when the door on the other side of the waiting room opens. A man walks out, looking nothing like a therapist. I don't remember him looking like this. Or do I? He feels familiar.

He has warm brown eyes, messy hair, and a bit of scruff on his face. He's a bit older than me, but not much. He smiles at me and I can't help but smile back.

He must be a patient too. No way he's a therapist. Therapists look mean. They are skinny with pointy noses. And they wear cardigans, those fluffy ones that no man should wear. And they definitely don't have kind eyes.

He walks up to me and sticks his hand out. "Hi, Jo. I'm Jake, I'm not sure you remember. Come on in." I stare at him and my brain can't catch up.

Why is this patient asking me to come in?

The shock makes me follow him inside. He points at a comfortable chair and I sit down in it. I look around the room and see more weird pictures on the walls. I frown and take everything in. He has a really messy desk, full of silly knickknacks and stacks of paper.

What kind of therapist is messy? If he really is one.

I rub my temples and feel a headache coming on. He speaks from the other end of the room. "Jo? Would you like a cup of tea?" I answer him automatically and look up when he hands me a mug with the Cheshire Cat and some text on it. 'We're all mad here'. I chuckle softly and see a grin appear on his lips.

He sits down in the chair across from me and sips his own tea. I try to see if his mug says something on it too. He notices and turns the mug around. 'Relax. I'm a therapist. I've seen worse.' I chuckle again and sip my tea carefully. I look up at him and he's observing me like I'm a rare species. But it doesn't make me feel uncomfortable and that confuses me.

We sit there in silence and I can feel his eyes go over me, but he doesn't say a word. Normally it would make me feel pressured into starting a conversation. Mostly because silence makes me anxious. That's why I am always playing music. In the car, in my house, when I walk around town... Always.

When it's silent I hear him. I hear him say every single thing he ever said to me. All at once, like someone put all those words in a shaker and shook the life out of it, before pouring it into my brain. And it breaks me.

I've finished my tea and put the mug down on the small table next to the chair. I shake my head when I notice the box of tissues.

I am so not going to cry the first time I'm here. Maybe never. I know nothing about this man. And the fact that I feel like I can trust him, must be something on his end. A technique he learned in therapist school or something. To make people feel comfortable.

He reaches for a pencil and a notebook. He opens the notebook and I wait for him to write down that I'm hopeless or something. But he doesn't seem to be writing. I stare at the calm expression on his face and realize he's drawing something.

What the hell? He is just drawing some kind of picture while he sits there? Getting paid to talk to me? He uses my time and money to do something he clearly enjoys? Fuck it! I'm going to say something.

"I hate the jazz music in the waiting room", I say as I drop my gaze to the floor.

What the-? Of all the things I could have said, why did my brain decide on that? Oh well, too late now. I've said it.

"Really? Why?" He sounds slightly amused.

"It makes me really nervous. It gets under my skin. I hate it." I don't dare to look up at him and fiddle with the hem of my shirt.

"So you hate the effect it has on you. Not the music itself." I look up at him and he has started sketching again.

What the hell? What's the difference? Of course I hate the effect it has on me, that's why I hate jazz music. I don't get what he is saying.

I sigh and feel even more lost than I did before. He looks up from the notebook and searches my eyes for answers. I look away and focus on a frame on the wall behind him. I see a cup of tea and a text above it. I squint my eyes and read it: 'Would you like an adventure now or shall we have tea first?'

What's with all the Alice in Wonderland stuff? Did someone tell him it's my favorite book in the whole world? And why is he not making me talk? And what the hell is he drawing?

I get up and look at the notebook in his hands. He drew himself as the mad hatter and wrote a few words next to it. 'You're mad, bonkers, completely off your head. But I'll tell you a secret. All the best people are.' I stare at the drawing and he rips the page out of the notebook and hands it to me with a smile. I accept it and carefully smile back at him.

I sit back down and ask: "Did someone tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

I look up at him. "About my favorite book?"

"No, what is it?"

I take a deep breath and quote one of my favorite lines: "I'm afraid I can't explain myself, sir. Because I am not myself, you see?"

He smiles. "I guess my instincts were right then, when I gave you that mug." I look at him a bit confused and he adds, "Go and look for yourself. I have quite the collection."

I get up and walk towards the tiny sink and counter with an electric kettle on it. Above it, on the wall, sits a big rack, full of colorful mugs. My eyes scan over them and I can't help but smile. All characters from children's books, from Winnie the Pooh to The Little Prince.

I walk back to my chair and notice him checking his watch. I sigh. "I stayed silent for too long didn't I? Our time must be almost up."

He smiles slightly. "You stayed silent for as long as you needed to. There's no set time for it. And you didn't know me when you walked in. You still don't. I just hope you might believe that I'm not here to force you into anything you're not ready for. And I hope the tea makes you come back."

I chuckle slightly and look at this strange, calm man. I am not sure what to make of him, but he is interesting. And that tea was amazing. "I will come back for the tea. That was some really good tea. I'm totally not sure what to make of you yet. But I have to admit that you don't seem threatening right now."

He nods and gets up. "So, same time next week?"

I get up too and nod. "Please make sure that annoying jazz music is not playing or I go straight home! Wonderful tea or not!"

I see amusement flash in his eyes as he walks up to the door to open it. "Graced with a little grain of your true self, right before you leave. I feel blessed. Bye Jo. See you next week."