Deadbolt
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. "The first sentence is always the hardest," I groan after a frustrating hour and a half of writing. I slam my laptop shut and shove it aside. "You said writing would help me relax, Dr. Steve, but it isn't helping … at all! It's just stressing me out even more, if that's even possible," I exclaim, throwing my hands up as if pleading to the heavens. The vein to the left of center on my forehead pulses now with each beat of my heart. "Go! Take a vacation! Write a book! It'll be relaxing, he said. "Does it look like this is helping me relax, Dr. Steve," I shout to the empty cabin. What good does it do to pay a therapist for advice like this," I ask myself. My heart pounds as I exhale forcefully. "You've got to get a grip. Breathe, just breathe," I coach myself. Inhaling through my nose and slowly out through my mouth like I practiced with Dr. Steve helps ease my anxiety and my mind drifts back to Tuesday afternoon.
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