Somewhere, a form wants me to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten, as though my body has ever once agreed to use a rubric. My pain does not do numbers. It does vibes. It does interpretive dance.
Because what is a ten, exactly? Compared to what? My ten is calibrated entirely against my other tens, which is like reviewing hurricanes against each other and acting surprised when the categories wobble.
Also, the faces. The little faces on the chart are serene. One raised eyebrow, at most. Nobody has ever designed a face for “flaring, but politely, in public, while holding a conversation about the weather.”
So now I answer with a number and an asterisk. A seven, with context. A four, with a footnote. The scale is a starting point, not a verdict — and the most honest answer has always been a short paragraph, delivered with eye contact.
