let's try this therapy thing again.

sweating bullets in my beat-down chevy, flying down lamar, hoping that this knot in my stomach will fade by the time i get to her office. one more cigarette.

i told her i feel unproductive.

"good," and then she laughed, "what did you think you were going to get done when all of your dreams were stolen from you? darlin, it takes time."

i nodded, afraid that my voice would crack, glad that she made me feel silly for feeling bad about not creating anything.

it felt good to have someone tell me that i am wrong. it felt damn good.