We are all familiar with the question, “On a scale of 1–10, 10 being the worst pain you’ve ever felt, where is your pain right now?” It is commonly asked by health care providers, even if you’re at a 0. I live at a 3 most days, maybe a 2 if I’m lucky. If I’m unlucky I’m at a 6 or an 8, or stuck in bed or on my floor at a 10. It’s been this way since 2009, when I was in Iraq. My best guess is months of wear and tear just broke something so my shoulder doesn’t work right. There was no significant trauma, oh how I wish there had been.

I’ve been poked and prodded for 7 years. I’ve tried medication and physical therapy. I’ve had test after test. I’ve cried in offices as doctors proclaim that my tests show completely normal, and sometimes really great for someone my age. They’re tears of frustration that I feel the need to explain or apologize for. I wish they would find something wrong.

This pain interferes with my life. I want to feel better, so I spend time at the VA trying to discover what’s going on. It takes a lot out of me to go to the doctor so often. To put myself through tests over and over. To be on medication that helps me forget the pain, as well as everything else, including what I want to order at dinner, 30 seconds after making a decision.

As each specialist tells me they can’t help I look at them with tears in my eyes and ask that they keep trying. I’m only 29, I shouldn’t live in this much pain. It starts in my shoulder blade and effects my whole left arm and shoulder. It often effects my whole back. I’m amazingly strong they say, but it hurts to make the motions to prove my strength.

I was looking forward to Thanksgiving with my family coming to visit. I knew it would be a busy few days, but I’d cleaned and prepped and was ready. Then I woke up on Thanksgiving day to go get them at the airport and my 3 was a 6 with every movement and every breathe. It didn’t get better as the day went on, but I shouldered through (pun intended).

I thought that a good night’s sleep would help. I took my forgetting medication (gabapentin) and tried to forget and to sleep. It didn’t work, I awoke to a 10, feeling crippled. I breathed through it, took my forgetting meds, and prayed I would forget. I forgot except when I tried to check traffic as I drove. I forgot except when I tried to breathe or moved too quickly. In 7 years I’ve gotten used to breathing and moving carefully, but then the forgetting medication makes me forget to be careful.

I found that I spent too much time complaining about my pain, so I don’t mention it, as much, when my hand goes numb or it hurts to breathe. I try to not mention it when I’m having a bad day and can’t get out of bed, or I’m so distracted by it while sitting at my desk at work. I don’t want people to be absorbed with my pain scale, because I don’t want to be absorbed with my pain scale. I don’t want my physical injury to have anymore control over me than I do my mental injuries. So I try to not mention it. I still want people to care though, so I don’t feel alone in my pain, with my demons.

The reason I mention it now is because this thanksgiving, despite the pain, I am very thankful. My family is incredible, and they will listen to me complain and talk about my pain.

They will discuss remedies and help me place my TENS unit that I can’t put on correctly by myself. They’ll place the lidocaine patches just so in order to provide the most help. They’ll claim sympathy pains alongside me. They rub my back and carry heavy bags. They do what they can to make me feel better.

I also think about everything I’ve learned in 7 years. I know so much about the human body that it made me a great EMT. I helped people feel better, even if my own pain is mysterious. I’ve learned to set boundaries and to care for myself to try and not cause more pain. I’ve learned it the hard way with chainsaws that cause my muscles to scream and people who now help me not feel compelled to pick up a chainsaw. Being in pain has made me lean on my friends and family for help, and I believe that has made us closer than if I were not injured. It has insisted I give more trust to doctors than I feel I should.

It helps me be grateful for the fact I’m alive. I think about selectively numbing things, if I had no pain, I’d have no pleasure. I think the medication I take to forget makes me funnier, just as much as it embarrasses me. I may be in pain when I breathe, but I’m breathing. I may lay in bed or on my floor for a while when it really hurts, but I have a bed and a floor under a roof.

I think about how when I’m in pain but wanting to still function I can pull it together for minutes at a time to keep going and enjoy my life. How I can accept the pain to feel the pleasure and to control my life instead of the pain controlling me. How I can breathe through it and be more conscious of my body when it hurts. It allows me to work harder to listen to my body.

Yes, I would prefer to live without pain, but I won’t let it control me. I have learned to deal with it, to still be functional and valuable in my disaster relief work. To be honest, open, and transparent with my capabilities and my struggles. For my weakness and my pain I become stronger. For this I am very very thankful.

We should accept our reality, our pain, and our struggle. It does not mean we give up looking for answers and solutions, but it means that we choose to win. We can make the choice to be thankful even in the roughest moments. I am thankful that I can do this, and I am thankful that I can share this with you. I hope it inspires you push through and be thankful even in the depths of pain.

Original Post on Medium.