"Hey, how ya doing, Santos?"
"I'm doing okay, thanks."
Shaking my therapist's hand, a genuine smile crosses my face. I've been seeing Justin for a couple of weeks now, and therapy hasn't been at all like I thought it would be.
I envisioned a stuffy old man making me lay on a couch while he holds a clipboard and asks me about my mother. Justin, however, is anything but a stuffy old man. Just a couple years older than me, he comes to work wearing jeans and sneakers. He's got scruff on his face and doesn't even have a desk to sit behind. His office looks more like a living room with a couch and a couple recliners. The only indication it's a therapy office at all is the bookshelf full of reference material.
We talk for a few minutes about my latest game and what the chances are we'll win t
