🧠 "Fogged Off: Living with a Brain Full of Static and a Body That’s on Strike"

Some mornings I wake up and my brain feels like it’s been wrapped in clingfilm and slow-cooked in porridge. Other days, it’s like someone’s pushed my thoughts through a shredder and sprinkled the confetti back into my skull.

They call it “brain fog.” Cute, right? Sounds like a lovely little mist rolling over a field of daisies. Nah — this is industrial-grade psychic smog, pumped in direct from the underworld.

Now let’s add in some of the bonus features that come with living inside this broken bio-machine:

My left side is a bloody disaster zone. Spasms, twitching, pain — like it's trying to divorce the rest of me without telling the lawyers.

My arms are numb. Like holding ghosts. Pins and needles, static shocks, a constant reminder I’m glitching.

My neck’s buzzing like someone wired it to a phone mast.

My head? Feels like it’s been blendered. I mean that. Mentally, spiritually, and maybe physically violated by a Nutribullet.

Tinnitus — so loud it’s practically its own entity. High-pitched screeches like I’m stuck inside a dying TV set from 1993.

My throat’s raw, like I’ve swallowed sandpaper.

And my gut? Welcome to the underground pain circus. Nerve pain in the bowels. Left side again, obviously. Feels like my intestines are throwing a rave on broken glass.

I feel nauseous all the time. Like life itself makes me queasy.

And my MS just laughs. Because this is the version of me it built. Cheers, you bastard.

And through all of this? People still expect me to perform like a functioning human being. To smile. To “push through.” To maybe try a walk, or eat kale, or just “think positively.” As if any of that undoes neurological betrayal and raw systemic cruelty.

Let me say it plainly: This isn’t tiredness. It isn’t laziness. It’s war. A war inside my own body, where my brain is the battlefield and my guts are collateral damage.

But here's the twist in the tale: I still show up.

Even when the fog’s choking, the pain is singing, the static is screaming. Even when my body feels like it’s been stitched together with barbed wire and dark humour.

I write. I speak. I make noise — even if all I can do is whisper.

Because that’s what warriors do. We don’t always charge into battle — sometimes we just fucking stay alive, and that’s enough.

So if you’re reading this and you know this hell — I see you.

You’re not weak. You’re not broken. You’re forged in fire, mate. And somehow, you’re still here.

Rock on, Life. Rock on, Hell. Let’s fucking go.

                !!DISCLAIMER !! 

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

        “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.”

      @goblinbloggeruk  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk