"But you look so strong"

"You look so good!"

"Your color is good," with a grin, "I can't believe how strong you look!"

I don't go out when I don't feel good. 

When you see me, you see me at max a 3 on the pain scale. Keep in mind, as someone who suffered from chronic pain before my diagnosis, a 3 is barely notable. I've taught classes with 3/10 migraines. I've tutored students or graded 50 papers with 3/10 pulled muscle in my less than healthy back. I've hiked up mountains with 3/10 for pain from my plantar's fasciitis.

I can't remember the last time I had a 0/10 day. Recovering from this most recent brain surgery has been a lesson in pain. All day, I hurt. My head. My skin. My joints. Everything. 

I can sleep through 8/10 pain if I take prescription painkillers. I was always so afraid of becoming a statistic, but I can barely function in my own home without warm blankets, a heating pad, and opiates to bring me back away from the higher end of the pain scale. Every day, at some point, without fail, I hit 7 easily. Some days I hit 8 and I don't know what to do with myself besides be angry for not being stronger. Be angry for becoming a statistic with my opiates. Be angry that the pain just. Won't. Stop. 

But it doesn't stop me. The Husband listens to me complain, but I can only let it get me down for so long. I assess my incision site, my joints, my neck. Strong enough for now; may as well take advantage while I can. 

I go out and paste a smile on my face. "You're so strong!"

You don't get to see my tears. My drug induced sleep. My frustration with a body that is not strong enough, not warm enough, not stable enough. My fear of tripping over my dog, falling down in the shower, bumping my head on the cabinets that are exactly the right height for my still tender surgical wounds. 

Before the coronapocalypse, I used to go out for coffee and read a book, comforted with the knowledge that The Husband would take me home as soon as I was ready to go, too tired to be out, feeling too much pain to paste on that fake smile. He would see the moment when my eyes stopped hiding the pain and start looking for an escape. 

3 out of 10 on the pain scale is barely worth a Tylenol. I can do anything at a 3.

You don't get to see me at a 7. The tears at a 10 are my secret. See how strong I am?