I got tired of hearing it was my fault. I think we all do. That’s the crux of it, the cross that certain people bear— women, doctors sneer like it’s a dirty word and then they take your pain and put it in a bottle with a number on it. And the number’s always low, did you notice that? Maybe because pain is relative, but when pain is your relative, your nasty bedfellow, it’s hard to see them label it three when your mind is screaming twelve, when it’s ticking off time—
