The hard truth about permanent disability is that you don't get your old life back. What you have to do now, and we all struggle with it, is find your new 100% level, and begin to build your life around that. For instance, I can no longer climb mountains, or even hike them, so I paint them. My new 100% is less than 50% of my old level, but if I were to spend all my time lamenting the loss of the other 50% I would get nothing done. And I had a desk job, with no heavy lifting, etc. I am just tied to a ready restroom with no lines . . . and have flare-ups and issues that pop up with no warning. . . and my employer opted to retire me on disability.

First, I think you may be doing yourself a disservice by waiting until you have extreme pain to use your pain meds. They work better when you use them before the pain reaches the desperation level. Taking them more often, in metered doses and at set times actually helps to prevent the addictive qualities which often are a result of rising and falling blood levels of the medication.

Each state has a little different structure for permanent disability. I would ask your claims person for all the information about this you can get. They should be your first resource for information about your claim. But remember, they only facilitate your bills and benefits being paid, your medical care and any rehab. . . .they can't make your injuries easier to bear. I was a claims examiner for over 13 years. . . . and believe me we wish sometimes we could make your pain and disability disappear. I had a draftsman who was losing the use of both arms, a father of five who slept on the ground in a in a tent in the campground (he was homeless) right out of the hospital following a spinal fusion, and a fireman with PTSD so bad the department had to take his gun away. Work injuries are not fun, and just because they happen at work does not mean they can't be just as disabling, if not more so, than an injury you get at home.

I am in this forum because in the course of treating severe ulcerative colitis, and having my entire colon and rectum removed, I developed peripheral neuropathy as a side effect of several of the medications I have taken or still take. I will never get my intestines back, nor the care-free life that goes with having an intact digestive system. I am lucky I have a reconstruction called a j-pouch so I do not have to wear an ostomy bag. . . but with that I have other issues. My nerves will probably never grow back either. And soon I may be facing carpal tunnel surgery . . . and when they do my left hand, I will be helpless to care for myself in the bathroom, and I live with chronic loose stools and other issues I must care for daily "down there." On top of that, I am an artist and will be unable to create while I am healing. I also have cataracts forming from the steroids I was given before my surgery, and another eye inflammation process related to my Crohn's diagnosis. My fall-back profession of artist seems also to be in jeopardy. . . and it feels very unfair. So I hear your pain.

The best you can do its get some good physical training to set you up for exercises you can do the rest of your life to prevent further issues form developing. I guess you could say you will be in training the rest of your life to maintain your new level of 100%. I know letting go of the prior "you" is hard. . . .I was fit, active, vibrant, and very happy before my illness.

I feel the same way you do about anti-depressants. . . they don't change your situation, only your body's chemistry. I have been to many therapists looking for the tools to deal with my situation instead of meds to deal with the depression it causes. I would rather do preventative measures than just treat symptoms.

While it is natural and ok to want to be sure of your diagnosis and situation, at some point you will realize that you ARE as good, or close to it, as you can possibly be. At that point your life will begin again. . . only on a slightly different scale. You will then find the determination and character within to make that all it can be.

I do wish you well . . .