Daniel Triendl

It never occurred to me that I would stop working. I graduated with degrees in nursing and psychology. I had a great job working in health and safety engineering.

Then, in 2004, I fell down some steps carrying a basket of laundry and broke my tailbone. My doctor told me to take about two or three weeks off, then I should be able to go back to work. And I did. But there were complications with my recovery. The pain continued, and I had to leave my job. That’s where the chronic pain comes in.

My doctor prescribed OxyContin and fentanyl. I knew nothing about chronic pain management. But I remember how OxyContin was advertised in the doctor’s office. People made a lot of money off of people’s misery.

When my doctors started leaving the practice, I couldn't get my medicine anymore. Without it, I got dopesick. The first time I didn't know what was happening: nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, a fever. I turned to buying pills on the street, but they were expensive. I couldn't afford them. Heroin was cheaper.

"Without it, I got dopesick. The first time I didn't know what was happening: nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, a fever."

My husband was a raging alcoholic. He never put his hands on me, but he was verbally abusive. There was no way I could be around somebody like that. So I ended up leaving him in 2015, and I was homeless for over two years and making money by panhandling.

On December 8, 2017, I was diagnosed with HIV. I was in the hospital because I had MRSA in my arm, and a doctor came into my room and told me. When I got out of the hospital, I was sent to a respite center, which is like a nursing home for homeless people. They got me into a methadone clinic—methadone is used to treat opioid use disorder—and helped me find housing in a privately-funded building for people living with HIV.

I have three degrees, but I still panhandle for my income now. I call it “going to work.” People are often surprised. I don't look or speak like a drug addict or what their idea of one is. I catch strangers off guard by asking for help.

I walk anywhere between 15 and 20 miles a day. I have a dog, and when I bring him with me I make money faster; people care more about dogs than they do about people. I push him in a cart because he has arthritis.

"Pain management has collapsed on itself in this country. It's a mess. It's a big, big clusterfuck."

I’ve thought about chronic pain management in this country a million times. You’ve got people addicted. How do we fix them? First of all, make methadone available to everybody. Medicaid pays for methadone in some states. Medicare won’t . [Editor’s note: This is scheduled to change starting in January 2020.] If people aren’t in pain themselves, they just don’t get it. And if my brother or my own neighbor, people who know me, don’t get it, how in the world can I expect a stranger at Medicare to?

Sometimes, I almost miss being homeless because there were no expectations. Just having responsibilities of living in an apartment—making sure I have food in the refrigerator, bus fare to the clinic, keeping a roof over my head, toilet paper, things that people take as normal are a big thing for me now.

Pain management has collapsed on itself in this country. It's a mess. It's a big, big clusterfuck. Excuse my language, but it's the truth. There’s nothing else you could call it.

K, 56, now resides in a building for people living with HIV in Ohio, a state with one of the highest rates of opioid overdose deaths. These days, she’s off illegal drugs but still in pain, which she manages by going to a methadone clinic. She asked to remain anonymous because those at the clinic believe she is going there to stay off opiates.

.