10/15/2026
Eight years old. Sweden. A dentist drilling my teeth with no numbing. When I flinched, he said suck it up.
So I gripped that chair until my knuckles went white. I was a kid. I didn’t get a vote.
Maybe he was miserable at home. Maybe he was depressed. Maybe he just liked watching people suffer. Who the hell knows. His problem was never mine. I carried it for fifty years anyway.
That’s PTSD. One whine of a drill and I’m eight years old again.
This time I took the bull by the horns. I read every review. Read about the dentist herself. Found an office where patients with real fear kept going back.
I walked in and said it. I have PTSD. Numb me up. Sunglasses on for the lights. Bose headphones on for the drill. And yes, I took a little something first.
Andrea Bocelli at full volume. They checked on me every few minutes because I told them how I felt.
You can do this…
I did.
Business owners, as a kid I didn’t choose who held the drill. You do.
Research who you hire. Check references. Then say what you need.
Your past doesn’t get the final say. YOU DO
Tell me your chair.