Johann Hari nailed it.
Except my scream is buried inside me.
I go through my day in auto mode. The little problems, the endless chitter-chatter.
Someone needs a bandaid or an Electrocardiogram.
A mom of one of my patients wants to talk about vitamins.
What about oxycodone? Or Heroin? Let’s talk about that evil bastard that ruined my life the last few years.
But I can’t. I have to pretend I care.
I have to BE NICE.
I can’t think of my son sitting in a jail cell with a bullet hole in his leg.