Hiding Your Chronic Pain Can Backfire

By Crystal Lindell

When I first developed intercostal neuralgia in 2013, I was so undermedicated and in so much pain that hiding my physical deterioration was not an option.

On work trips, I would lay on the floor behind our magazine booth in conference centers crying. Back in the office, I would sob as I typed out emails at my desk.

And I would talk openly with colleagues about wanting to kill myself because the pain was so severe.

It was the same at family events and social gatherings. If I showed up at all, I would lay on a couch in the back of the house for most of the party, tears streaming down my face because I was in too much pain to even sit up right. I would hardly interact with anyone.

And I would openly tell everyone there how I only made it because I took 20 mg of Norco before I left the house — and I’d be taking 20 more in a couple hours.

I was in a lot of pain, and I made no effort to hide that from anyone.

But then, as medication helped me get my pain slightly more under control, and as I learned coping strategies like pacing and forcing myself to stay calm, I started to find it easier to just hide what I was going through.

Unfortunately, I fear I may have now gone too far in the other direction.

The thing is, I saw firsthand how many people recoiled at my pain. They hated it, and by extension, they started to hate me. 

Visible physical pain — especially the kind that never seems to go away — makes people lash out, or worse, pull away completely.

In fact, when you’re in so much physical pain that people are forced to bear witness, they usually decide it’s easier to cover their eyes and pretend you don’t exist.

So, I changed my approach. When I interacted with people in real life, I did my best to pretend to be pain-free.

I loaded up on opioids, anti-inflammatories, and whatever else I could get my hands on, and plastered a smile across my face. I stopped talking about my health issues during polite conversation, and I made sure that if I had tears streaming down my face, it was only after the event, alone in my car.

Unfortunately, I’m sad to report that this has all been extremely effective. People are nicer to me when they think I’m healthy. More professional opportunities have opened up for me. And I have made more friends.

But now, all these years later, I’m starting to wonder if trying to completely hide my chronic pain is also, maybe, a mistake?

Because my chronic pain is very much a part of who I am, and it means that I make heavy sacrifices to show up with a smile on my face.

It means that if I want to get through a 7-hour work shift, I have to sleep for 13 hours before I go in. And then I have to sleep for 13 more when I get back home.

It means that I’m constantly counting out pain pills, and making sure I’m dosing at just the right times so that I’m at my peak when it’s most needed.

It means that a lot of the money I earn is going to medical bills, prescriptions and treatments.

It means that I’m often showing up after being awake all night in pain. And that every hour I give to a colleague or a friend has to be paid for with three hours of rest. 

It means I lose time with my fiancé when I am finally at home, because I physically can’t get out of bed.

Sometimes, I wish I could find a way to explain that to people. I wish I could tell them how much work it takes for me to show up so that they don’t take it — or me — for granted.

Then again, maybe I’m kidding myself in thinking that it even matters. If they really knew how much of a sacrifice I was making to walk through the door, maybe that would just make things worse. It would just make them more uncomfortable, more annoyed, and more avoidant.

I’ve been living with debilitating chronic pain for more than a decade, and I still haven’t found the perfect balance with all this. I still struggle with how open I should be about my health issues, and how much I should hide. 

I still don’t know how to make people understand, or care.

Perhaps I never will. 

In the end, all I can really do is be a person who understands and who cares. 

I have developed a reputation recently for being “super nice” and “caring so much.” I know it’s not always meant as a compliment, but I always take it that way regardless. 

I know what unrelenting pain does to a person, and as such, I also know just how much of an impact it can have when someone, anyone, shows even the slightest bit of empathy for what you’re going through. 

So being nice is the least I can do.