Let me tell you my truths. I started pain management back in 2000 something. And here’s what I remember.
I remember passing out, in my car, at the bar, while watching TV. As if I was on heroin.
I remember face planting the wall, and passing out in front of my kids. I had a black eye for over a week.
I remember staying up, all hours of the night, chain smoking cigs and burning holes in my furniture.
I remember not remembering. Ultimately costing me jobs and affecting every area in my life. I would get in my car, and have no clue where I was going.
I remember the constipation. Going weeks at a time without a bowel movement. Sitting on the toilet praying to anyone who could help me, and stifling my tears so my kids don’t know.
I remember crying in the shower. Giving a break to the people in my life.
I remember the anxiety. The restlessness. The inability to find a comfortable spot. The feelings of isolation.
I remember the Dr appts. That made me feel like a criminal, a drug addict and not important.
I remember multiple attempts to fix my pain. Injections, procedures, meds, and I remember that hopeful feeling I would get EVERY time. That this time, things would be different. Better. But they weren’t.
I remember being kicked out of dr offices for asking too many questions.
I remember my kids seeing me at my worst while I was struggling to do my best.
And in all of this, what I DON’T remember, are days without pain. Because they don’t exist. And on all the medicine, either did I. It’s all a lie. They can’t fix me. And I refuse to die slowly.