When it stays quiet, a fire alarm works best; it waits for heat, not movement, with no demands of proof every morning that the building still deserves to stand.
However, when alarms begin to blare without smoke, people stop trusting them; they just cover their ears and stop responding.
The learn to live with noise instead of safety.
Pain care didn't always sound like an alarm; it once stayed in the background, ready when needed. But fear rewired it.
Those of us living with chronic pain don't wander into treatment as casual visitors; we arrive after years of scans, surgeries, and careful adjustments to bodies that no longer cooperate. Relief never meant elimination; it meant being able to function.
“It did not eliminate my pain,” wrote Barbara, a 75-year-old with severe spinal disease. “It reduced it enough that I could function.”
For a while, that was enough; then the rituals took over.
“Every month, without fail, I was required to give a urine sample,” Barbara wrote. “I had to pick up my prescription in person. It could not be sent to the pharmacy.”
The questions have remained the same.
“Had I borrowed drugs from anyone else? Did I share my prescription with anyone else?”
The answers never changed either.
“At 75, it’s unlikely I am shooting up in the alley between appointments,” she added.
Still, suspicion came standard, with many describing the moment when care stopped feeling medical and started feeling procedural.
“I think of the doctor appointments as something akin to checking in with my probation officer,” Barbara wrote.
Waiting rooms became places of quiet rehearsal: Cups appeared on counters and forms slid across desks. No accusation was ever spoken, but you can smell it in the air.
“It’s humiliating,” wrote Michael, a 68-year-old with bone-on-bone spinal damage. “They treat you like a junkie when you’re not.”
For veterans, the betrayal cuts deeper.
“I’ve been prescribed the same small dose since 2005,” wrote Bill, a combat veteran injured multiple times. “No addiction problems. No tolerance. Still, every new doctor inflicted grief.”
Another veteran, Red, described how fear followed him into every appointment.
“I’ve been threatened with police,” he wrote. “Prescribed NARCAN with refills I don’t abuse.”
Even decades of restraint counted for nothing, and the fear doesn’t stop at the clinic door.
“If a patient is given pain medication in an ER after a car crash, that can violate the contract,” explained Dory, a healthcare social worker who helped patients navigate pain clinics. “They can be discharged from care.”
Even surgery becomes risky.
“If you accept a post-surgical prescription from your surgeon instead of the pain clinic, you can be discharged,” she added.
People learn quickly that stability exists only when nothing unexpected happens. Life rarely cooperates, so lives shrink.
“I don’t get out of the house much,” Barbara admitted. “I don’t get invited to events because I usually have to decline.”
“I hardly leave my house because of the pain,” wrote Red.
Some stop treatment altogether, not because pain improves, but because dignity costs too much.
“I got tired of the hamster wheel,” Barbara wrote. “I decided I’d rather live with the pain than be treated like a drug addict.”
Here is where I need to share an update to my story.
Barbara's hamster wheel strikes. Two weeks ago, I found out that the healthcare company where most of my care providers are found, evidently, decided, for legal reasons, to tighten the screws, again, on patients receiving opioid prescriptions.
Before, I needed to appear in the office with my primary for a face-to-face update. For me, it's not an easy trek: one hour each way. I was five months away from my next office visit, but when I requested a refill, I was informed that I needed to schedule an office visit straightaway to receive it. After I wrote back, complaining, the person on the other end expressed surprise that I had reacted the way I did, because "I knew this was the way it worked."
I admit I became angry and replied, "No, it hasn't been," and shared that I knew why the change became part of my life. I have yet to receive a reply from either the person on the other end of the portal messaging or my primary.
That was it for me, I decided to wean myself off the oxy. For a week, I started the first phase of cutting down and felt pretty good until yesterday, when a strong winter storm began moving into the Midwest. My nerve endings were flaming, and I felt like a crushed can.
But I refuse to jump through a different set of hoops each time the legal department forces change because the wind is blowing and the sun keeps rising. I want my freedom back, where I don't need to depend on a pill to function.
Will it work? I hope so, but man, the strong storm put the fear of God in me!
Evidence offers no protection, imaging shows damage, surgical scars tell stories, and long histories of compliance mean nothing.
“At 74, I couldn't care less if I become addicted versus spending a day with absolutely no pain,” wrote Alan, a wheelchair user, after decades of misdiagnosis.
Fear drives everything now. Fear of audits, regulators, and headlines.
“Physicians are terrified of losing their licenses,” Dory explained. “Pain is routinely undermedicated.”
The emotional toll compounds quietly.
“People are being used to generate income,” Barbara wrote, “with no regard for how to best treat the pain.”
Others describe reaching darker ground.
“It’s probably one of the worst reasons for veteran suicide rates,” wrote Sed, another veteran. “I thank God every day for the strength to wait until He calls me home.”
The alarm keeps sounding, pain patients keep showing up, answering the questions, providing the samples, signing the forms, and complying.
They aren’t asking for euphoria or escape; they’re asking not to be humiliated for being hurt, and for care that listens.
So far, the noise hasn’t stopped.
I want to hear from you!
Chronic pain patients exist, as does medically guided dependence, responsible use, and the wisdom of good doctors. Every rule needs to make space for them.
If you live with chronic pain and feel ignored, doubted, or punished by the system that promised care, I hear you.
You don’t owe me a long story. A few honest lines will do. Share what you want, keep private what you want, use your name or none at all.
I’m not collecting data. I’m not running a study. I’m trying to tell the truth, your truth, and call out a system that broke faith with mothers, workers, veterans, and neighbors who never asked for pain yet carry it every day.
If you want your voice included, hit the TIPS button and add your email and my name so I can follow up if needed. Start your message with my name so I can find it.
PJ Media's YUGE Christmas and New Year's sale is on — now at our lowest rate of the year! This huge sale on our VIP Memberships ends on January 1, so make sure you join the club to get our special behind-the-scenes look at the news. Receive 74% off by following this link and using our promo code MERRY74.
Join the conversation as a VIP Member