There’s a date I never want to miss. And if I do, the guilt hits harder than the pain.

Every day, I throw balls in the backyard for our golden doodle, Watson. He doesn’t just chase them. He charges like he’s hunting invisible rabbits, thrilled just to move. Back in my playing days, I had a good arm. I can still zing a laser past his head to make him run faster.

But I pay for it.

My shoulders are a wreck. Torn rotator cuffs, labrum damage, surgeries, I’ve stopped counting. And now, nerve pain, bright, burning, unrelenting, runs down both arms. Ice doesn’t help. Heat doesn’t help. Movement hurts, but not moving hurts worse.

Still, I throw the ball.

Because he deserves the chase, and seeing him smile through that panting grin of his is the only thing that makes the pain feel less cruel.

That’s what people don’t get about chronic pain. The pain itself isn’t always the most challenging part. It’s living in a world that only notices you when you fall apart and ignores you when you power through.

The people you’re about to hear from know that truth too well. They’ve fought wars overseas and battles in their own bodies. They’ve endured bureaucracy, condescension, and medical systems that treat compassion like contraband.

Their stories matter. So we’re telling them.

I appreciate you bringing the daily fight pain sufferers endure to light. Here in Tennessee, I’ve noticed a trend: whenever the federal government issues a law, rule, or even a suggested guideline, the state doesn’t just comply—it doubles down. It stacks on new requirements just to be sure it “meets the minimum.”

My battle with chronic pain began in my twenties. That was over fifty years ago. For the last ten years I worked, I took 215 mg of morphine sulfate extended-release daily, plus 10 mg of oxycodone for breakthrough pain. It didn’t make me high. It made me functional.

In Tennessee, pain patients are required to use pain management clinics for their prescriptions. You can’t switch pharmacies, can’t change clinics. Every month, you have to show up for an in-person review, a physical exam, and sometimes a random urine test—then hope they’ll give you your meds.

And the clinic I was assigned to followed a brutal policy: prescriptions would be reduced to the bare minimum needed for “function,” not relief. That’s their word—function. Pain relief was no longer the goal.

The clinics are overcrowded, understaffed, and overwhelmed. Appointments can last anywhere from 15 minutes to a full day. I’ve waited four hours just to be seen. I’ve been told to leave and come back five hours later, right before closing, just to get a refill.

Then came the worst day of all.

I showed up at my clinic and found a note taped to the door: the clinic had permanently closed—two weeks prior. No calls. No warning. No newspaper notice. Just gone.

That was how I lost access to morphine. Cold. No transition plan. No bridge script. Nothing.

I was livid. But thankfully, I had prepared. Every month, I saved one or two pills from my prescription. I built a small reserve for emergencies. That day became my emergency.

Still furious, I emailed my state representative and explained everything—politely, but directly. He responded quickly, but I clearly struck a nerve. He insisted the state had “worked very hard” to make life easier for pain patients. He also offered to help retrieve my records and x-rays. That was it.

In the end, my anger outweighed my dependence. I weaned off morphine entirely. Like you, I adjusted. I changed my lifestyle. I got by with lower-dose oxycodone, and eventually hydrocodone. It isn’t perfect. It’s a struggle. But for now, I’m managing.

I was lucky.

If I could make one wish about pain, it would be this: that every person responsible for these policies—the ones who make life harder for people in agony—be required to live in our pain for just one day.

Then they’d understand.

— Jim in Tennessee

Former MP, Desert Storm Veteran

In 1991, I was a compound sergeant in the 401st MP Company at Camp Desert Storm. During a prisoner riot, I fractured my L5 vertebra. A MASH unit patched me up. I returned to duty, but light duty didn’t exist in that chaos. My back took more hits.

I left the service with a 10% disability rating. Tried to get it reevaluated, but every attempt risked losing everything.

In 2006, I had a laminectomy and fusion at L5/S1. It helped, but the pain never left. I’ve been on narcotics ever since.

Now, I also have gastroparesis and a partially paralyzed stomach. And in 2018, the titanium screw holding my spine together broke. It presses against a nerve bundle daily. I could have surgery, but the recovery would cost me my job, my insurance, and maybe my home. So I live with it.

After a suicide attempt, the VA dropped me from Pain Management. They feared I'd use the pills to try again. Maybe they were right. I don’t know. I tried again. Failed again. Still here.

Now, I go to a private pain clinic. They don’t care. The pharmacy makes it worse, loudly accusing me of trying to fill early and warning me they’ll flag my name in the state database.

Going to the doctor isn’t about healing. It’s a tightrope act: admit just enough pain to get help, but not so much that they think you're abusing the system.

Hospitals won’t even treat my infections properly. Four stays in the past few years, and the only doctors allowed to give narcotics are Pain Management specialists. If they don’t sign off, I wait hours for relief. Morphine comes late, if at all.

I’m not suicidal now. But I’m not okay. I focus on my daughter’s graduation. That helps.

The worst part? I know that telling any doctor the full truth puts me at risk. The last time I did, four county sheriffs came to my home and arrested me. I was paraded in front of my neighbors. Then taken to a psych ward.

I’ve cut off VA psych since then. They’re not there to help.

— Desert Storm MP

Ordinarily, this series is behind the paywall. But stories like these, raw, unfiltered, and too often ignored, deserve to be seen by everyone, not just subscribers.

If you believe in telling the truth, others won’t; if you want to help shine a spotlight where most media won’t even look, consider supporting this work.

Please consider supporting PJ Media, home to some of the internet’s finest writers and fiercest defenders of truth.

Reading Jean’s story felt like reading my own.

Two bouts of shingles left me with permanent nerve damage. I’m allergic to all NSAIDs. And even when pain guidelines change, insurance companies don’t let go. The old hoops stay in place.

I take pregabalin. It helps a little. But the dizziness it causes is brutal. I’ve broken two bones from falling, once my ankle, once my foot. Every day, the low-grade nerve pain makes it harder to function.

I work. Then I come home. And I’m too tired to do anything but sit in the pain.

Thank you for publishing these stories. For listening. Please keep going.

— Salome 

Chronic Pain Stories

Mine isn’t a horror story. It’s a warning.

In 2014, I was 52. A heavy-duty power drill kicked back and snapped the ring-finger metacarpal on my left hand. I barely noticed. Got through the day. That night, I went to the ER.

The doc gave me Tramadol. Said to take it till it was gone. I told him I didn’t feel much pain. He told me to take it anyway. So I did.

Ten days in, I started getting “dark thoughts.” I also got OIC, opioid-induced constipation. Both crept up slowly. They didn’t leave easily. Eventually, I stopped taking the pills and went to my primary doctor. He explained Tramadol’s risks. I didn’t know it was one rung down from Oxy.

I managed to quit cold turkey, no cravings. But the side effects lasted for months.

I was lucky. My hand healed to about 90%. I can golf again. I live a normal life.

But I saw how quickly a minor injury became something else. I see now how dangerous it is to treat pills like candy.

I feel sorry for those trapped in this mess. They didn’t ask for it.

 —Jim in Virginia

There are days I can’t lift my arm to throw the ball. The nerve pain wins. The shoulder locks up. But I do it anyway.

Because Watson doesn’t understand policy, he doesn’t ask why the doctor stopped a medication or what the DEA thinks about milligrams. He just wants to run.

And sometimes, that’s all any of us want, to keep moving, even when it hurts. To feel human. To matter.

The people in this column didn’t ask for pity. They asked to be seen. They asked to be heard. And so we listened.

Now it’s your turn.

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 the “right” words. Just speak plainly. Say what happened. Say what’s still happening.

You can share as much or as little as you’re comfortable with. If you prefer to stay anonymous, that’s absolutely fine. I’m not a researcher. I’m not an agency. I’m a writer trying to raise the volume on what too many try to silence.

Every story adds weight to the truth. And truth is what turns whispers into a roar.

To share your experience, click the “TIPS” button and include your email so I can follow up if needed. Please mention my name at the top of your message so it reaches me directly. 

You’re not alone.

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

Mainstream Media’s So Full of It, We Should Charge Rent.

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