I HATE the Pain Scale Question (Chronic Illness Edition)

If you live with chronic illness, you already know what I’m about to say...

the pain scale question is a TRAP!!

Every appointment, every ER visit, every new doctor... it’s always the same:

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad is your pain?”

And I freeze...

Because... which pain are we talking about exactly?

My back pain? My fibromyalgia flare? My migraines?

The burning in my legs? The ache in my joints? The stabbing in my ribs?

The stiff, tight pain in my neck that pulls when I twist it... the muscles and tendons stretching like cords wound too tight?

Or the exhaustion that feels like cement poured through my veins?

And even if I somehow pick one... do they mean right now, while I’m sitting perfectly still, holding my breath to keep from crying?

Or do they mean when I start moving around?

Because let me tell you... five minutes after I move is completely different from thirty minutes after.

And by the end of the day, my “six” has turned into an “eight,” maybe even a “ten.”

Oh, and we’re not even factoring in weather, stress, barometric pressure, or how much sleep I got last night.

My baseline is a six... and that’s on a “good” day.

But if I say that out loud, I get judged either way.

If I say I’m in high pain but my face looks calm, I’m not taken seriously.

Because apparently, if you can speak in full sentences and hold eye contact, you must not be in that much pain, right?

So I’ve learned... unless I’m physically scrunching my face, squinting my eyes, hunched over, and breathing erratically... people don’t believe me.

It’s like they need visible suffering to validate invisible pain.

And somehow, that makes me feel worse.

Like I have to perform my pain just to be believed.

“Oh good,” I think sarcastically, “you finally believe me... now that I can clench my teeth and grit my face.”

And the truth is... you can’t win.

If you go too low, they ask why you’re even in the ER.

But if you go too high, they look at you like you’re exaggerating.

Suddenly you’re labeled a hypochondriac, a pill popper, or worse... a drug seeker.

So you start doubting yourself... wondering if your pain even matters anymore... or if you just need to learn how to suffer quietly.

Here’s a thought... how about you just be grateful you can’t relate... and we move on, instead of fixating on a number so you can neatly write it in your chart?

Because this isn’t about a number... it’s about a life.

A body that fights invisible wars every single day.

But I also want to say this...

I am truly grateful for the hospitals and doctors who do listen.

The ones who take the time to hear my words, to see my effort, to understand that I know my body.

The ones who don’t question my reality but meet it with care, compassion, and help.

They remind me that there are still people in medicine who see the person behind the patient... and I never take that for granted.

Because when you live with chronic pain, those moments of being heard... of being believed... mean everything.

They restore hope in a system that sometimes forgets how human we are.

It’s not just pain... it’s layers of pain, fatigue, inflammation, nerve misfires, muscle spasms, brain fog, and a thousand invisible battles happening all at once.

So when I’m asked for a number, I just stare for a second...

Because my version of a “four” would probably send a “normal person” straight to the ER.

And my “six” is my baseline.

It climbs to seven or eight most nights... and if it hits ten... that’s when I’m in the ER praying for relief.

It’s not that I don’t want to answer...

It’s that numbers don’t tell the story of what it’s like to live in this body.

They don’t explain the days where I push through tears to fold laundry or wash dishes because they need to get done...

Or when I smile through dinner with my husband... not because I’m okay, but because I still want to show up as a wife.

I don’t want him to suffer because of my illness... I try to make it through the day without breaking down... and thank God, he’s understanding when I can’t.

They don’t see how I always carry my meds with me everywhere I go... because I never know when a flare will hit and I’ll need an emergency dose just to push through.

The only time I don’t bring them is when I’m already in the ER being pumped with something through an IV.

Every single day is a battle not to take more than I should...

Because the temptation is real... it would be so easy to go beyond my limit just to quiet the pain for a little while.

But I won’t.

Because I’ve worked too hard to stay here... to still have a resemblance of myself.

I don’t want to disappear under the “hard stuff” that shuts down my central nervous system and turns me into a zombie.

I’m fighting to live... not just exist under the weight of pain and medication.

The pain scale doesn’t measure resilience.

It doesn’t measure faith, patience, or the thousand small ways we keep showing up in bodies that betray us.

It doesn’t show how many times we’ve whispered, “God, please give me strength,” before forcing a smile.

So yeah... screw the number system.

Because I am more than my pain scale.

I am a walking miracle, surviving what most people couldn’t comprehend.

And even on the worst days, I know God is still with me in this body... aching, trembling, and still choosing hope.

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> “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18

Kristen, Unfiltered Xo 💋