He uses a red felt tip pen to circle what's wrong with me.  Circle, circle, circle, draw a bleeding line from pictogram to symptom.  Everything is stress related.  Sounds like a clever play on that Foer novel title.

He asks, "Why so stressed?" 

I say, "How long is this appointment?" 

Can I tell a stranger, doctor or no, exactly what it feels like to be rejected by your family?  What it's like to be ignored, to have people who share your blood pretend that you do not exist?

Instead, I say, "Work," though he's not listening anyway.  He's back to underlining with the fuzzy tip of the cardinal marker.