Another Night in the Upside-Down

Well, wasn’t that just delightful. Another evening of bedtime surprises, like a game show where all the prizes are torture devices. Honestly, it was hotter than Satan’s armpit during a heatwave in a sauna. Crawling into bed felt like checking into Hell, room 666, with a complimentary pillow and a welcome spasm.

I lay there, the Human Spasm Machine™, twitching like I was possessed by a caffeinated poltergeist. My throat? Oh, just casually reenacting a scene from The Exorcist. My tongue joined in too—spasming, shooting out like a party blower at a funeral. Except this party was full of pain and the numb tongue made it all the more festive.

Then came the lip bite. Oh yes, proper horror film moment. Bit down hard—no pain, of course, just the iron-rich taste of failure. And with the temperature of any drink being a potential lava experience, I just lay there like a damp breadstick marinating in misery, waiting for the THC-CBD oil to take the edge off. Slowly, things downgraded from “murderous seizure rave” to just being Mr. Asshole at an all-you-can-eat buffet of nerve damage.

Then my bladder piped up. "You need to piss," it said, like some condescending narrator. No catheter in, because clearly I'm not in any state to thread a tube down the Eye of Thunderer (yes, that eye). I tried to sit up—cue electric shocks to the spine like Zeus having a tantrum.

Next thing I know, I'm just sitting there...and the floodgates open. Like a broken dam of dignity. Full-on urine monsoon. No lifeboat.

As if that wasn’t enough of a carnival, my head joined in. Pins and needles danced round the crown like a medieval torture crown. Ears ringing with tinnitus so aggressive, it felt like Motörhead doing one last gig in my skull for their number one fan: Fizzy the Sultry Goblin Girl. And she wanted encores.

And it still goes on, mind you. This isn’t a one-off. It’s not an episode. It’s just a revolving carousel of neurological hell. Sometimes it’s a demon, sometimes just a dickhead. Either way, balance like a drunk on ice. You get used to the absurdity. Sort of.

So here I am, hugging a pillow like a Victorian maiden with consumption, trying not to slip fully into the existential pit. The kind of void where your mind floats off and never bothers to send a postcard. Because this is life with multiple sclerosis: an unpredictable blend of horror, comedy, and tragedy, written by a drunk playwright who thinks misery is edgy.

Cheers to another night in paradise.This is life with multiple sclerosis.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

       “The views in this post are based on my personal  
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”  

              “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                           By storm and silence, I survive.”