“They Treat Me Like an Addict”: The Silent Struggle of a Veteran Living in Pain
The Story
He’s 53 years old, permanently disabled, and living on SSDI. On paper, that might look like just another statistic. But behind those cold numbers is a man who feels like his body has turned into a cage — a body he can no longer trust.
“I feel like a rusty robot,” he wrote in a message to our page, “every joint breaking down, every surgery just adding scars but not relief.”
His medical history reads like a grim ledger of pain. Multiple surgeries on both shoulders. Operations on his elbows and hands. A neck surgery in 2019 that left him with nerve damage and limited mobility. His lower back? A “mess,” as he puts it. Doctors’ notes from his last scan document the damage in excruciating detail: L5 pars defects, disc bulges, stenosis, nerve compression, even a synovial cyst crowding his spinal canal. Each word is more than jargon — it’s a reminder that every step, every breath, every attempt at sleep comes with pain.
And yet, for all this, the real battle he fights daily isn’t only with his broken body. It’s with the way the world sees him.
Living With Pain, Judged by the System
Like many in his shoes, prescription medication is part of his survival. He follows a strict pain management program outside the VA, never asking for meds early, never giving anyone reason to doubt his integrity. He’s meticulous — almost painfully so — because he knows how quickly trust can be lost in a system obsessed with suspicion.
“I’ve never done anything to question my character,” he insists.
But that doesn’t matter. Because in today’s America, where the opioid crisis has cast a long and deadly shadow, every pain patient is treated as a potential addict, every refill request as a red flag.
And that judgment crushes him.
Haunted by Addiction — But Not His Own
If anyone understands the dangers of narcotics, it’s him. His first wife fell into addiction, spiraling into a 21-year battle that tore apart their marriage. He lost his nephew — who was also his best friend — to a fentanyl overdose. His sister-in-law, a pharmacy doctor, constantly reminds him of the risks.
He doesn’t need lectures about addiction. He’s lived the fallout. He knows the cost.
That’s what makes the way he’s treated so unbearable.
The Pharmacy Incident That Broke Him
The breaking point came on what should have been a routine prescription fill. He and his wife were preparing to leave town. Out of caution, he asked for a paper prescription, which his wife dropped off at their local grocery store pharmacy.
At first, the pharmacist said they had enough in stock. Then came the call an hour later: No, actually, we can’t fill it. We don’t have enough. Maybe late next week.
And then, the words that cut him deepest: “We have a hard time filling prescriptions of that amount for one patient.”
It wasn’t just a refusal — it was an accusation, dressed up in professional language.
For three years, he’s been on the same dose. Sometimes, when stock was low, doctors prescribed an alternative tablet size. Pharmacies had always managed. But this time, the tone was different. Condescending. Dismissive. As if he was trying to pull something shady.
When he called to clarify, the pharmacy tech was combative. The pharmacist who eventually picked up was cold, passive-aggressive, cutting him off mid-sentence. Records showed they had made adjustments in the past, but she insisted otherwise.
He felt like a criminal, begging for relief from a pain he never chose.
“I apologized over and over,” he admitted. “It’s what I do when I feel judged. I just didn’t want it to be this hard.”
When his wife reminded him about the 10 mg tablets, he asked if that was possible. The pharmacist said yes — but by then, the damage was done. He hung up the phone and broke down in tears.
More Than Physical Pain
Living with unending pain is already a heavy weight. But add judgment, suspicion, and humiliation on top of it, and the burden becomes crushing.
“It’s simply too much,” he confessed.
The stress triggered chest pain — alarming, given his medical history. The anxiety of being seen not as a patient but as a problem, of being dismissed instead of cared for, left him shaken.
Now, he’s considering asking for a sit-down with pharmacy managers. Maybe even requesting an inventory audit, because he believes he was lied to. But more than action, what he needs — what so many pain patients need — is something simpler: dignity.
The Bigger Picture
His story isn’t an isolated case. Across the U.S., thousands of patients with legitimate pain are being squeezed between two extremes: a medical system afraid of fueling addiction, and a pharmaceutical crisis that has already claimed too many lives.
The result? Innocent patients are left suffering, shamed, and stripped of trust.
This veteran’s letter is a painful reminder: behind every prescription is a person. Behind every refill request is a fight to simply get through the day.
And while the system debates statistics, he — and people like him — are just trying to survive.
Editor’s Note
This story was submitted by a reader. Names and identifying details have been withheld for privacy. If you have a story you want to share, message us. Your voice deserves to be heard.
