My Wife Is in Constant Pain and Her Despair Has Destroyed Our Lives
Editor’s Note by Brendan McDonald: Chronic pain doesn’t just impact the person experiencing it—it changes the lives of those who love them. In this raw and honest essay, written under a pseudonym to protect privacy, “Michael J. Carter” shares what it’s like to love a partner with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome. This story reflects the emotional toll invisible illness can take on marriages, identities, and daily life. At URevolution, we believe sharing stories like this can break the silence around disability, chronic illness, and caregiver trauma.
I never imagined our lives would turn out like this.
Before chronic pain took everything, we were normal. We argued about grocery lists and movie nights. We planned vacations, birthday surprises, and house renovations. We laughed a lot. We lived.
Now I wake up next to a woman whose body has become a prison, and whose despair is eroding both of us from the inside out. My wife is in constant pain, and her despair has destroyed our lives.
I’m writing this because no one talks honestly about what it’s like to live with someone with chronic pain. The endless grieving. The guilt. The emotional burnout. The invisible trauma.
This is our truth.
The Day Everything Changed
It started with what seemed like a pinched nerve. A burning pain in her lower back that refused to fade. Doctors prescribed rest, then painkillers, then physical therapy. Nothing worked. Weeks turned into months. Then years.
She was eventually diagnosed with complex regional pain syndrome. The diagnosis brought no comfort—only a label for the monster stealing her life.
Some days she can barely get out of bed. Others, she pushes herself until she collapses. There's no predictability, no peace. Only pain. And a growing fear that it’s never going to end.
Living with Someone with Chronic Pain
If you're reading this because you're also living with someone with chronic pain, then you probably know: this isn’t just their illness. It becomes yours, too.
I have watched the woman I love disappear in fragments. Chronic pain has robbed her of sleep, hobbies, social life, work, self-worth, and joy. It’s also robbed me of the person I married.
She no longer laughs the way she used to. Her spark is dimmed. Most days, she drifts like a ghost through the house, curled into herself, eyes vacant with suffering, crying, 'My chronic pain is killing me.'
And I—I feel helpless. Useless. Sometimes resentful. Then, I immediately felt ashamed.
That’s what people don’t understand. Chronic pain doesn’t just break the person who has it. It cracks everyone who loves them.
How to Support a Partner with Chronic Pain (When You’re Falling Apart Too)
I’ve read countless advice columns on how to support a partner with chronic pain. They talk about empathy, patience, and communication. That’s all true. But no one prepares you for the loneliness. The exhaustion. The silent mourning.
Supporting her means sacrificing my own needs. I’ve learned how to cook, clean, do the errands, and manage her appointments. I’ve learned what medications she can take and when. I’ve memorized pain scales, dietary triggers, and emergency room procedures.
But what I haven’t learned is how to protect my own heart. How to stop feeling like I’m drowning in her suffering.
One of the hardest lessons in all of this has been navigating intent vs. impact in relationships. I might intend to help, to comfort, to show love—but the impact doesn't always land. Sometimes she feels smothered, or misunderstood, or worse: like a burden. And then I feel like I’ve failed her, even when I was trying my best.
People tell me I’m strong. That I’m a good man. But strength doesn’t mean you don’t break. It just means you break silently.
When Despair Moves Into a Relationship
It’s not just the pain that’s relentless—it’s the despair. Chronic pain isn’t just physical; it’s mental, emotional, spiritual. It steals her hope. Her will. Her sense of purpose.
I remember the first time she said she wished she didn’t exist.
I froze. Not because I didn’t care, but because I did—and I had no idea how to help her through that darkness. I held her hand. I told her I loved her. But I couldn’t pull her back from the edge. That night changed everything.
We began drifting apart, even though we shared the same bed. Her despair became the uninvited guest in every room, every conversation.
It whispered things to her that I couldn’t hear. It told her she was a burden. That she had ruined my life. That it would be better if she were gone.
And me? I stopped sharing my feelings because I didn’t want to add weight to the crushing load she already carried.
How to Get Family to Understand Chronic Pain
If you’re trying to figure out how to get family to understand chronic pain, I get it. We tried. God knows we tried.
At first, everyone was sympathetic. But sympathy has an expiration date. When weeks turned into years, people began to disappear.
Some accused her of exaggerating. Others said she just needed to "think positive," or worse, "just get over it." Even well-meaning relatives offered miracle cures from Facebook or YouTube.
They couldn’t grasp that this was permanent. That chronic meant forever.
Eventually, we stopped talking about it. And they stopped asking. Our isolation deepened.
If you're navigating this too, my advice is simple: don't beg for understanding. Educate those willing to learn. Let go of the rest. Their lack of empathy is not your fault.
Grief Without a Funeral
There is no funeral for the life we lost.
No ceremony to mourn the dreams we buried. No closure. Just a slow erosion of identity, intimacy, and independence.
We don’t go out anymore. We don’t make plans. We live minute to minute. When you love someone in constant pain, life shrinks. You stop being partners. You become a caregiver and a patient. It kills romance. It kills spontaneity. It kills joy.
We both grieve every day. Sometimes in silence. Sometimes in tears. Always together. Always alone.
What I Wish Others Knew
I wish people understood that chronic pain is real—even if you can’t see it. That despair is dangerous—even if it's quiet. That love doesn’t fix everything.
I wish they knew that being strong isn’t about holding it together. It’s about showing up, even when everything inside you wants to run away.
I wish they’d stop judging, stop offering advice, stop making us feel invisible. I hope they’d just listen.
When Love Becomes Survival
There are still moments when I see her—the woman I married. When she smiles through the pain. When she touches my hand with affection. When she whispers “thank you” with tears in her eyes.
Those moments keep me going. But they’re not enough to erase the damage.
We survive now. That’s what our love has become. Not thriving. Not dreaming. Just surviving.
Why I’m Still Here
Sometimes I ask myself why I stay. It’s not out of obligation. It’s not pity.
It’s love. Tired, beaten-down, grief-soaked love. But love all the same.
She didn’t choose this. And neither did I. But we’re in it together.
Even if the laughter is gone. Even if our future is a fog of uncertainty. Even if our lives have been reduced to pain, pills, and prayer.
Some days I wonder if this is suffering as a test of faith—not in God, necessarily, but in each other. In the vows we made. In the love we promised would endure, even through the unthinkable.
She’s still my wife. And I’m still her person.
That has to mean something.
If You’re Living This Too
If you stumbled on this article because your wife is in constant pain and her despair is destroying your lives too, I see you.
You're not alone.
Your pain matters.
Your story matters.
It’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to want to run away—and still stay.
You are doing something unimaginably hard. And you’re doing it without applause, without recognition, without relief.
You are not weak.
You are not selfish.
You are human.
My wife is in constant pain and her despair has destroyed our lives.
But within that wreckage, there’s still love. A quieter kind. A harder kind. But love nonetheless.
And sometimes, that’s enough to keep going.
One broken, hopeful, honest day at a time.
Michael J. Carter
Michael J. Carter, the author of My Wife Is in Constant Pain and Her Despair Has Destroyed Our Lives, is a writer and nonprofit consultant living in Washington, D.C. He shares his personal journey as a husband caring for his wife, who lives with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome. Through honest storytelling, Michael hopes to break the silence around invisible illness, caregiver grief, and the realities of living with someone in constant pain. Michael J. Carter is a pseudonym used to protect his wife's privacy.
