Even Morphine doesn't work
Even Morphine Doesn’t Work
There’s a level of pain that makes you feel like you’re not in your own body anymore — like you’re trapped inside skin that’s too tight, too sore, too raw to live in.
Tonight, even morphine didn’t touch it.
And that’s a kind of fear no one prepares you for.
Morphine is supposed to be the strong stuff.
The thing they give you when nothing else works.
The thing that’s meant to dull the edges, soften the ache, give you a little space to breathe.
So when it doesn’t help…
when the pain keeps burning through your body like it didn’t even notice the medication…
it hits you in a different way.
It feels cruel.
It feels unfair.
It feels like your body is screaming and nothing can quiet it.
Pain becomes everything
It’s in your bones.
Your muscles.
Your joints.
Your skin.
Your head.
Every inch of you aches in its own miserable rhythm.
You can’t lie still.
You can’t get comfortable.
You can’t stop the waves that come out of nowhere.
It’s like your body is made of hot metal and your nerves are all firing at once.
And you’re left thinking:
“If even morphine can’t help… what will?”
It’s not just pain , it’s panic
Because this kind of pain doesn’t sit quietly.
It makes your chest tight.
It makes you tremble.
It makes you breathe too fast.
It makes you cry out of frustration, fear, and pure exhaustion.
You try not to cry, but the tears still come — slow, helpless, angry tears.
Not because you’re weak,
but because you’re human
and your body is overwhelmed.
People think pain is just physical — it isn’t
It gets into your mind.
It scrambles your thoughts.
It steals your patience, your strength, your sense of control.
You start thinking things like:
“I can’t do this.”
“I can’t take another minute.”
“Why won’t it stop?”
“Please, please just give me a break.”
Pain this strong is its own kind of isolation — because no one else can feel it but you.
But here’s the part that matters: this moment doesn’t last forever
Even when it feels endless,
even when you’re shaking,
even when the medicine isn’t helping,
even when you’re crying into your pillow wishing for relief —
the wave will pass.
It always does.
And when it does, even slightly, even for a minute, you breathe again.
You feel your shoulders drop.
Your mind unclenches.
Your body loosens just enough to survive the next moment.
Pain this intense is terrifying.
But it’s temporary, even when your brain tries to convince you otherwise.
You’re not weak
You’re not dramatic
You’re not “too much”
You’re in pain that would break anyone
And you’re still here.
That is strength — even if you don’t feel strong right now.
Right going for a hot steaming bath