Talk to someone living with chronic pain, and they’ll tell you the truth about chores. It's not the kind of truth that fits into a prescription bottle or a wellness brochure. The real truth.

Most of us can clean the kitchen. Once. We can mow the lawn, fold laundry, or unload groceries. Once. But the next day? That’s when walking feels like punishment. Lifting your arms is a gamble. Standing upright becomes a math problem your joints refuse to solve. Even brushing your teeth can trigger a wave of pain so sharp you need to sit down.

Pain doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it simmers. And that quiet, constant ache is what breaks people, not just their bodies, but their dignity as well.

The stories below aren’t dramatizations. They’re the lived reality of men and women who’ve done everything right. They served, they worked, and they fought to stay upright. However, the system built to help them, including insurance companies, the VA, and federal watchdogs, continues to fail. Not because they can’t help. But because somewhere along the way, someone decided pain patients were easier to ignore than to understand.

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I was severely injured in a near-fatal MVA through no fault of my own in my early 50s. My SSDI kicked in immediately, and that was nearly 12 years ago.

The driver who hit me wasn’t insured and barely spoke English. I was only 10 credits short of my degree. My kids were already grown and independent, with their own degrees. I’d waited to pursue mine.

The surgeon had a long list of procedures I needed, but I couldn’t afford them. So I was handed off to pain management, where they poked and prodded me with torturous procedures, charging me $600 for urinalysis tests that should’ve cost $94. I tried everything they suggested. I ran out of money before they ran out of ideas.

I finally went back to my family doctor. I told him I was tired of the Lortab fog. He’d treated me for years and knew my history. Together, we created a treatment plan that worked, medications with minimal side effects that also helped my high blood pressure and mental health. Things weren’t perfect, but they were livable.

Then came a small break. I qualified for VA healthcare. My doctor there picked up my plan and did everything he could to help. For over seven years, I managed. I even picked up some part-time work from companies I’d worked with in the past.

Then he retired. And everything fell apart.

Suddenly, I was told I had to choose between pain care and mental health care. They would no longer treat both. I asked about my blood pressure meds, but those, of course, were allowed. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

They tried pushing me to take a medication intended for opioid use disorder, which didn’t apply to me at all. It was contraindicated, and I told them that. Didn’t matter. They refused to treat me any further.

Meanwhile, I finally completed a VA review and was recognized as a Disabled Veteran. That was supposed to unlock guaranteed VA healthcare. I was even paid. But care? Still denied.

I reached out to everyone, VA facilities, and congressional reps. I was told over and over, “It’s VA policy. We can’t help.”

The hardest part? Finding out how many other veterans, some worse off than me, are dumped and discarded like last week’s trash. There is zero accountability in the VA system. Even when someone dies, all the Office of Inspector General does is make “recommendations.”

They don’t care. And we know it.

I live in pain, too. I’m a 64-year-old former paratrooper with damage to my head and back.

I was doing okay until they took away my oxytocin. After that, my life collapsed into these four walls. Now, I sit in this house every day, depending on my wife for everything.

They treated me like I was chasing a high. Like I was a dopehead. Not a veteran. Not a husband. Not a man trying to manage his pain.

I just want to live in a world where we’re treated with respect again.

I’ve been made allergic to every NSAID, including aspirin. I can’t take them at all because of GI issues. I’m also allergic to synthetic opioids, including Tramadol and Fentanyl. For migraines, I used to take Fioricet with pseudoephedrine as needed, but now they cap it at 8 pills a month due to the barbiturate. It was the only thing that worked after Excedrin failed me.

Let’s talk about hydrocodone. I started on 10mg/325mg acetaminophen tabs. Then, one day, with no notice, they were cut in half, down to 5mg. The prescription said “daily,” but I took them as needed, usually less.

After moving to Tennessee, it took a year to reestablish my care. For hydrocodone, I had to go to a pain specialist 45 minutes away during COVID and then wait for the meds to be mailed. In Illinois, I used to get them directly from the VA hospital. Now, it was a 90-minute round trip plus a doctor's appointment every month for a 30-day supply.

And acetaminophen? It’ll destroy your liver. The safe max is 4 grams a day. That’s eight 500mg tablets. The Vicodin from TV shows had 500mg each (fictional Dr.) House would’ve been dead in real life.

I’m not addicted. Never have been. Opioids work for me, and I don’t abuse them. But because someone, somewhere, might, I get treated like a risk.

It’s not the chronic pain patients who are abusing the system. The meds don’t make us “high.” They make us functional. We don’t want euphoria. We want to go to the store without collapsing.

But that part doesn’t fit the narrative.

I’m a lifelong martial artist. Full contact sparring, heavy bag work, years of impact, and many of my joints are arthritic. In the fight world, we called ibuprofen “Vitamin I.” I took it by the handful, not realizing it would slowly destroy my kidneys.

Now, I can’t take NSAIDs at all. My nephrologist made that clear: my kidneys are failing. That took away one of the few options that helped.

Add to that pancreatic cancer. I went through a Whipple procedure and removed my pancreas, spleen, gallbladder, and part of my stomach and intestine. Chemo followed, and with it, neuropathy. The right Thai kicks I loved? They shattered tissue in my foot. It was repaired with a titanium plate. Now it’s broken again, and I walk on it daily.

I also suffered a fall while caving. Slammed into a limestone wall. Vertebrae damaged. Pain shoots down my leg and through my groin.

I’ve seen many pain specialists. One large practice had staff who treated people like cattle. You want meds? Shut up and wait. I moved to another facility tied to my oncology center. Better care, but now I drive 60 miles round-trip every six months for a basic prescription. Belbuca helps. Tramadol helped more.

During chemo, they prescribed THC. It didn’t erase the pain, but it helped. Then, I learned that purchasing a firearm while prescribed THC could result in felony charges. Under Biden, it felt like I had to choose pain relief or my Second Amendment rights.

So, I let the THC go. I’m a firearms instructor. I won’t risk it.

CBD helps a little. But testing positive for THC, even in trace amounts, could cost me the limited pain relief I do have.

Now, I sleep in 90-minute increments. I get cranky when the pain breaks through. I’d love something like Tramadol for the day and something stronger at night. But doctors today are more afraid of government audits than patient suffering.

And that’s where people like me get stuck. Waiting. Hurting. Forgotten.

Pain doesn’t just hurt. It erodes. Slowly. Quietly. It takes pieces of you that you didn’t know could be taken.

Sometimes, the worst part isn’t the pain itself but watching someone you love try to fix it and fail. My wife sets down a plate she made with love. I nod. I try. But I can’t eat. And we both know why.

That silence between us says everything.

So to the families, those who sit beside the bed, refill the pill organizers, wait outside appointments, and carry a kind of grief no one sees, you’re part of this fight. What you give matters. Even when it feels like it doesn’t.

And to the officials, administrators, and gatekeepers: your red tape doesn’t heal. Your policies don’t feel. If the numbers on your forms are the only thing you understand, you’ve already failed the people you were supposed to protect.

Pain patients aren’t criminals. Their treatment shouldn’t feel like a sentence.

If you’re living with chronic pain, and you’ve been dismissed, denied, or punished by the system that was supposed to help, I want to hear from you.

You don’t need to craft a masterpiece. You don’t need the “right” words. Just speak plainly. Say what happened. Say what’s still happening. Your story could be a few lines or a few paragraphs. What matters is that it’s yours.

You can share as much or as little as you’re comfortable with. And if you prefer to stay anonymous, that’s no problem. I’m not a researcher. I’m not a bureaucrat. I’m a writer trying to raise the volume on what too many try to keep quiet.

This isn’t about pity. It’s about accountability. Every story adds weight to the truth, and truth is what turns whispers into a roar. Veterans, parents, workers, caregivers: real people are being crushed by silence and red tape. That needs to change.

You can send your story by clicking the “TIPS” button and including your email address so I can follow up if needed. Please include my name at the beginning of your message so I can be sure to receive it.  Please mention my name at the top of your message so it reaches me directly. Please let me know if you'd prefer to remain anonymous. Otherwise, I’ll only use your first name and, if you include it, where you’re from.

You are not invisible. You are not alone.

And together, we’re going to make sure they finally hear us.

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