Mojo and the Mess

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You know that little chart at the doctor’s office?
The one with the cartoon faces — smiling at 0, crying at 10?

Yeah.
I broke it.

Not because I’m dramatic.
Not because I “don’t tolerate pain well.”
But because when you live inside a body that’s been burned, poisoned, cut open, starved, scanned, and scarred —
you lose your baseline.

Pain isn’t a moment for me.
It’s a place I live in.

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What even is a “5” anymore?
Is it bone pain that makes it hurt to stand?
Is it nerve pain that makes my skin scream when fabric touches it?
Is it the migraines from medication withdrawal?
Or the mouth sores that make soup feel like swallowing knives?

Is it when my joints grind every time I move,
or when I feel like I’m inside out with nausea?

Or is it just a regular Tuesday?

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I’ve had to teach myself how to function through pain most people would call unbearable.
Because if I cried every time it hurt, I’d never stop crying.
And if I stopped every time my body screamed, I’d never move again.

So I don’t stop.
I grit my teeth.
I down the meds.
I act normal, because people get uncomfortable when I don’t.

But just because I look like I’m coping doesn’t mean I’m not still breaking underneath.

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Doctors ask, “What’s your pain, 1 to 10?”
And I don’t know how to answer anymore.
Because if 10 is supposed to be “the worst pain of your life” —
what do I do when I’ve had fifteen different versions of a 10?

The scale wasn’t built for bodies like mine.
It wasn’t built for chronic pain.
It wasn’t built for layered pain.
It wasn’t built for cancer pain.

And sometimes…
it feels like the system wasn’t built for me, either.

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I’ve had nurses tell me I look too calm to be in real pain.
I’ve had doctors brush me off because I smiled through a flare-up.
I’ve had people assume I’m exaggerating — because if it was really that bad, wouldn’t I be screaming?

No.
I’d be ignored faster if I screamed.

So I’ve learned to shrink it down.
To make it palatable.
To say “it’s manageable” even when it’s not — because I need them to listen, not dismiss me.

I’ve learned to speak about my pain like I’m giving a PowerPoint,
because if I show too much emotion, they call it anxiety instead.

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Here’s the truth no one wants to hear:
I’m not brave because I push through the pain.
I’m trained to.
Because the world doesn’t believe people like me when we say,
“I’m hurting.”

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From Mojo:

You want a scale?
Here’s my version:

0 — She’s asleep, and I’m snoring.
5 — She flinches when I nudge her with my nose.
7 — She hasn’t moved in hours.
9 — She’s shaking and whispering through it.
10 — She doesn’t call for help. She just goes quiet. That’s how I know.

I don’t need a chart. I need humans to pay attention.
And to stop measuring her pain against how they think it should look.

She’s in pain all the time.
And she’s still standing.
So don’t you dare call her dramatic.

— Mojo 🐾