Chronic Pain Patients: I Want to Hear Your Stories

I wrote a column recently called "The Forgotten Casualties of the Opioid War." The reaction floored me. I received dozens of comments, most of which were gut-wrenching. One person told me it was the first time they’d ever seen someone say out loud what they’ve been forced to keep bottled up: that they’re in constant, humiliating pain, and they’re terrified of being cut off from the one thing that lets them work, sleep, or just get through the day without screaming.

I need you to know something: I’m not writing about this as an observer. I’m writing as one of you.

My Story Isn’t Special: It’s Common. And That’s the Problem.

I take oxycodone. I count the days between refills, not like a routine, but like someone counting down a prison sentence. I used to take morphine, too. It helped, schmaybe. It allowed me to live instead of just endure.

But then I lost my job. My new insurance wouldn’t cover the morphine. Just flat-out denied it. No room for negotiation. No acknowledgment that it was working. No empathy.

I had a choice: fight an unwinnable battle with my insurer while continuing to pay out of pocket, or drop the morphine cold.

I dropped it.

And according to my nurse practitioner, it’ll take my body three to six months to recover. That’s not addiction. That’s the physical toll of having your medication ripped away, even when you’re using it responsibly, even when you need it.

I was lucky enough to get a small mercy: my oxycodone dosage was increased slightly, from three pills a day to four. That’s it. That’s the “solution.” A 25% increase, measured out like government cheese.

And even with that, I’m left to manage my pain, my body’s reaction to withdrawal, and the emotional exhaustion of being treated like an addict every time I go near a pharmacy counter.

The Game We’re Forced to Play

If you’re reading this and you know the rules, I don’t have to explain them. But for everyone else, maybe a lawmaker, a journalist, or a medical board member. Let me spell it out:

• Some must visit their doctor monthly, not for care, but to be recertified as "still worthy."
• You're flagged if you ask for a refill too early, even by a few days.
• If you’re going on vacation, you’re expected to choose between going without your meds or being treated as someone gaming the system.
• If you explain that your pain has gotten worse, they may accuse you of chasing a high instead of relief.
• Although marijuana isn't legal in every state, many end up purchasing some with the hopes of pain relief. A good thing, right? Well, not if you live in a state where a positive urine test for marijuana kicks you off the list for any narcotics.
• The pharmacist may ask, “Did you finish it early?” knowing that answering honestly might end your treatment.

This isn’t oversight. This is punishment in slow motion.

Schedule II: The System’s Iron Cage

Here’s what’s behind all that suspicion: oxycodone is a Schedule II controlled substance, part of a category under federal law meant to flag drugs with high abuse potential and severe dependence risk, even if they have legitimate medical uses.

That category also includes morphine, fentanyl, methadone, hydromorphone, and even stimulants like Adderall and Ritalin. Once a drug is classified as Schedule II, it’s locked in an iron cage of restriction:

• No refills allowed. Each prescription requires scheduled visits, monthly or annually, and new approval.
• Electronic prescriptions must meet strict federal compliance.
• Early refills are forbidden without setting off red flags at pharmacies or insurers.
• Pharmacists can deny, delay, or “verify” scripts at will.

This legal framework was designed to stop pill mills and doctor-shopping. But it doesn’t make room for the rest of us, those who just want to get out of bed without crying.

Instead, the laws have hardened into a blunt instrument, battering the people they were never meant to target.

We’re not criminals. We’re patients.

But the system treats us like suspects on parole.

I Want to Hear from You

This next part is for anyone who's had to live this quiet battle.

• If you’ve been forced to plead for your medication...
• If you’ve been treated like an addict for asking to not suffer...
• If you’ve wept in your car outside a pharmacy, unsure if they'd fill your script...
• If you’ve lied to a doctor, not to manipulate them, but to protect yourself...
• If you’ve thought, “I can’t keep doing this,” but had no choice...

I want to hear your story.

You can remain anonymous. You can write as much or as little as you want. I’m not a researcher. I’m not collecting these for a study or a stat sheet.

I’m collecting them because they need to be heard.

I'm working on a follow-up column, or maybe a series, where I’ll share your stories with the world. Not to shame anyone. But to shame the system that’s breaking good people in the name of a policy war that’s punishing the wrong side.

Submit your story here. Please ctick the "TIPS" button and be sure to include your email address.

And please let me know if you’d prefer to stay anonymous. Otherwise, we'll use your first name and location, if provided.*

You’re Not Alone

The truth is, the people making these rules don’t hear from us. Not really. They hear from lobbyists, press secretaries, and addiction task forces, but not from the man with a crushed spine who just wants to keep working. 

Not from the mother with degenerative arthritis who has to choose between dignity and pain. Not from you. Not from me.

That’s what I want to change.

This column isn’t just a call to action. It’s a call for connection. If we don’t start telling these stories together, we’ll be erased, one refill at a time.

We speak now, or we stay silent forever.

So speak.

We'll be here.

*By submitting your story, you grant permission for it to be published, edited, and shared in any format without compensation.