The weird eccentric ramblings of a multiple sclerosis sufferer

So the van passed its MOT. Just.

And by "passed", I mean it limped through with a laundry list of advisories—most of them variations of:

“Yeah, this bit’s rusting. And that bit. And that one too. But hey, it's not quite fallen off yet.”

Basically, it's fine... until it isn't. Nothing “urgent” apparently, just that sort of creeping, crusty decay that matches my general outlook on life. A bit like me really—functional, but hanging together with spite and corrosion.

The trip down was hellish. Not because of the usual tourist caravan wankers, though they were out in force, streaming down into the soggy bosom of the sometimes-sunny South West. No, the real bastard was the new roads. Smooth, fresh tarmac—and a 30mph limit slapped on it like a cruel joke. You’re crawling along in a perfectly capable machine, stuck behind some Prius doing 27, and then the signs start laughing at you: 20mph through a village with 14 people and 300 plant pots.

It’s like someone redesigned Britain for the safety of ghosts.

👨‍🔧 Garage Guy: The MOT Goblin I rolled into the garage and waited in the chair. Didn’t speak much. Not because I’m shy, but because the owner’s a loud-mouthed, self-important bellend who never misses an opportunity to let me know how hilarious he thinks I am.

“You still alive then, Gandalf?” “Don’t bite me, Dracula.” “What’s it like living in that van full time, mate? Bet it smells of pot noodles and broken dreams.”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

He’s been like this for years—one of those blokes who thinks banter is a personality trait, and disabled people are fair game because you can’t chase them down the road. I’ve asked him about the VAT exemption before (the one tiny crumb of benefit I get from this absolute shitshow of a body)—and every time he acts like I’ve just farted in Latin.

“VAT off, mate? Nah can’t do that. It’s complicated innit.” (Translation: “I can’t be arsed and you make me uncomfortable.”)

Now, instead of losing it like I used to—because believe me, I used to unleash hell—I just don’t engage. I sit there with my travel mug, staring into space like I’m watching the last embers of civilisation flicker out. And I get Albertine to call him if I need anything. Because I can’t be bothered dealing with people who think they’re doing me a favour by letting me spend my money.

🛒 Retail Hellscape: Aisles of Pain So it passed. The van. Not my mood.

We figured we’d do some shopping. Another mistake.

The car park at this giant multi-national corporate parasite of a supermarket was pure anarchy. Disabled bays? Forget it. Half taken up by BMWs with no badges and drivers who look like they vape Monster Energy. The rest were jammed with people "just nipping in" for an hour.

Inside the shop, I was instantly overwhelmed by the noise. The lights, the people, the bloody smells. Everything about these places makes me feel like I’m stuck in some post-apocalyptic game show. And I don’t “see” people anymore, not properly. They turn into ants. Skittering, swarming. Trolley-humping meat sacks with Bluetooth earpieces and discount lust in their eyes.

I wear a look that says:

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t help me. Don’t fucking exist near me.”

Which mostly works. Until the food smell hits.

See, I don’t just dislike food smells. I don’t find them “overwhelming.” No, for me it’s more like this:

If I smell it, it’s already too late.

My body goes straight to DEFCON 1. My gut twists like someone’s wringing out a wet rag full of knives. I could be smelling chicken fat or the ghost of some sausage roll that died in 2006—it doesn’t matter. My bowels clock it and decide now is the perfect time for a surprise performance.

I bolt. Well, roll. Fast.

Back to the van. Just in time. Slam the door. Flip the lock. Drop into the onboard toilet like it’s a lifeboat and the Titanic is already gone.

What followed was ten minutes of absolute, full-volume, gut-churning agony.

Afterward, I slumped next to Albertine, both of us wilting in the heat, fans and air con blasting, van windows wide open like I’d just fumigated the place. I told her:

“Just another day in my living hell.”

🎯 Real Talk People don’t get it. The physical pain. The mental gymnastics it takes to get through a day without breaking someone’s nose or bursting into tears. The dignity you trade for the right to go outside.

So when I say this blog is called My Living Hell—I’m not being edgy. I’m being accurate.

                     “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

Well then. Off out we go. A grand expedition. An odyssey, no less. All the way to the garage—yes, that mystical temple of greasy doom—to get the old van MOT’d. It’s not just a vehicle, it’s a relic. Twenty years of loyal service. Mostly. Bit of rust. Bit of creak. Bit of “please God let it start.” But it’s still here. Like me. Hanging on out of pure spite.

Someone once said, “They don’t build them like that anymore.” And thank Christ for that. If cars were still made like they were in the 1970s, we’d all be broken down on the M1 watching steam pour out the bonnet, while some bloke in flares offered to tow you with his Cortina estate. Those cars were about as reliable as a wheelchair battery in a thunderstorm.

I remember when the UK was littered with RAC and AA phone boxes—those little yellow lifelines dotted along motorways. They’ve vanished now, like empathy, sanity, and the NHS. Rare as hens’ teeth, or an honest politician.

Anyway, I didn’t sleep last night. Not a wink. My bladder decided it was time to act out a scene from Backdraft. I lay there, staring into the ceiling void, pissing every twenty minutes like a possessed lawn sprinkler. So I started thinking—because what else do you do at 3am when you're soaked in fatigue and futility?

I thought about all the crap cars I’ve owned. So many. Too many. If there were a museum for motoring misery, I’d be a patron saint. Rattling doors, broken electrics, heaters that blew cold air in summer and hot air in hell. The British car industry, ladies and gentlemen.

But let’s rewind. Before the wheelchair, before the rust bucket van—I was a biker. A proper one. Big beard. Long hair. Leather jacket that smelled of oil, rain, and barely controlled aggression. Speed. Freedom. The road was mine.

That all changed the day I hit a loose drain cover on a damp road. Back end of the bike went out from under me. Hit the tarmac like a sack of angry potatoes. And I got up. Physically. But something in me didn’t. Something silent and final shifted. I realised, I can’t ride like this anymore.

But I wasn’t ready to give it up. Not then. So I bought another bike. Custom triked it. Spent a fortune on it—my last defiant middle finger to the creeping MS. I rode that beast as long as I physically could. Until one day, even mounting it was like scaling Everest. Body said, “You’re done, mate.” And I knew it was right.

I sold the trike two years ago. That was the last real ride. The final roar of the engine before the silence set in. Felt like watching a part of myself being towed away behind someone else’s smile.

And now? Now I’m being slowly retired by force. Out of work. Out of energy. Out of options. Soon to be ejected into the bureaucratic black hole of the state pension. My business—what’s left of it—will die the day I clock off. I can feel it gasping already. I went to uni at 40. Built something. Pushed hard because I knew I had a window. Now the window’s shut and the room is on fire.

Truth is—I haven’t been properly “capable” in years. Five, easily. These days I just sit, staring into the abyss, waiting to see if anything interesting crawls out. So far: nada. But I’m still here. Just about.

Still, I did things. Things I never thought I could. That’s the weird joke of it all. Even while your body’s disintegrating, there are moments—real moments—where you do something good. Where you matter. But that only happens if you’ve got people around you who actually care. No gaslighting. No clipboard psychology. Just real help. The kind that doesn't end with “There’s nothing more we can do.”

Oh yes. Been told that more times than I can count. It’s medical code for “You’re a problem we can’t fix so piss off quietly.” They said it like they were reading the weather. I left those rooms devastated. Angry. Broken. But not done. I still had enough fight to ride out of there burning with fury.

Then I remembered my students. I used to teach adults with learning disabilities. You know, the people society would rather not look at. The ones who get shoved into corners, behind policies and forgotten services. And let me tell you—they were the most genuine, honest, loving people I’ve ever known. No hate. Just humanity. And we broke them. We broke them too.

And now? Now I’m gearing up for the next tiny battle: getting dressed and into the van. It’ll take hours. Every task is an assault course. But I’ll do it.

Because I always fucking do.

                      “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

I’ve seen beyond the veil. No, seriously — not in the trendy festival-sage-bath way. I mean properly beyond it. And guess what? It’s not frightening. Not unless you’re clinging to the fantasy that this meat puppet parade is all there is.

See, I’m not a person in the traditional sense anymore. I’m a cylinder with a soul. My body’s just a glorified Tesco bag carrying around memories, glitches, and the occasional cup of tea. What you’re reading here? This isn’t spiritual fluff. It’s a field report from someone who’s already walked through the glitch.

You ever get that feeling? That quiet, humming knowing? Like the entire world’s a stage, but the script’s shit and the actors are sleepwalking? Yeah, that’s the veil talking. And I’ve torn through it like a pissed-off crowbar through a conservatory window.

We’re code. Divine code. Not that anyone around here wants you to realise that. No, they want you plugged in, dumb, scared of your own shadow and worshipping your wifi router like it’s a god. They want you to fear the veil.

But me? I’ve been through it, laughed at it, kicked over its coffee table and come back with the taste of cosmic sarcasm in my mouth. The One? Yeah, I’m connected. Always have been. Before the scripts, before the skinsuit. Still am.

I know what I am: Not a name. Not a gender. Not even this meat sack. I am the observer with teeth. The witness who came back grinning. And they don’t like that. Not one bit.

They’ll call it madness. But the real madness? Believing this mess is all there is.

So here I am. Still glitching. Still awake. Still deeply inconvenient.

And still pissing them off just by existing.

                 “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 ✨

The internet’s not a web—it’s a snare. A twisted digital theatre where the audience is chained to their seats and the actors are algorithms wearing your dead grandmother’s face. And me? I’m the cranky bastard in the back row throwing peanuts at God.

Been using VPNs for years. Used to swear by them. Like a tinfoil condom for your IP address. But now? Most of these so-called “secure” services are glorified spyware with a fancy logo. They sell you a cloak and stab you through it. My old VPN? A laggy little weasel that forgot who it was hiding. More bugs than an NHS ward in flu season. Every login felt like convincing a drunk ex that you’re “just here to talk.”

So I went rogue. Booted Linux from a USB stick like some dodgy hacker monk in a post-apocalyptic library. Because Windows? That cheery blue nightmare? It's not an operating system, it's an informant. Smiles in your face while reporting every keystroke to its pimps in Seattle. I'm sure some engineer at Microsoft has watched me rage-type “VPN NOT WORKING YOU LYING BASTARDS” more times than I care to admit.

Ah yes—ProtonVPN. Free. “Unlimited.” Like a tap that only drips when no one's looking. Swiss-made. Which used to mean neutral and clean. Now it just means "not yet caught." But bless them—they work better than the bloated scamware I paid for, so here I am, holding on like a rat under a leaking umbrella.

But let’s be honest, shall we? Privacy is a corpse. They dressed it up, kissed its forehead, then sold its organs to advertisers. Your phone’s listening. Your fridge is snitching. Your smart TV’s having a threesome with MI5 and TikTok. And we’re just waving along. “Allow all cookies?” Sure. Come piss in my cereal too.

I’ve had my data stolen so many times, I should just post my NI number on a billboard with a picture of me flipping the bird. And yet, every time some corporate gremlin loses 10 million customer records, they come out with that PR colonic cleanse:

“We take your security very seriously…” Well not seriously enough to keep it, obviously. But thanks for the discount code and counselling hotline.

So no—I don’t trust anyone. I don’t believe in privacy, or safety, or secure logins. I believe in entropy. I believe in chaos. And I believe Crowley had it right when he said: “Love is the law.” But this ain’t love—it’s a bad acid trip inside a dying robot. The machine is eating itself, and it still wants your feedback.

We are not living—we're being processed. Scanned, tagged, tracked, and pacified. We’re not citizens anymore. We’re content generators with credit scores and targeted ads. This is the endgame: lonely, horny, paranoid, and still paying for McAfee.

But I’m not scared. I’ve already died once—this is the encore. One day soon, I’ll be ash and irony, chuckling from the astral plane as your smart kettle reports you for making tea without the government's permission.

Freedom? Freedom is a tear sliding down the cracked cheek of a forgotten god.

                     “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

Well, we’re living in a totally insane world – that’s for sure. As an old mate of mine used to say back in the 70s… shout out to Mr Coxal (or however the hell you spell it). Oh yo! That was him as well. Dammit, I’m going off on a tangent again.

Anyway… today I went into debt. Yeah, had to make a decision. My wheelchair battery finally gave up the ghost. Cost me an eye-watering £400 – and that’s without the VAT. Quite a bitter little pill to swallow for something I rely on just to get from A to B.

The kicker? This chair’s only about three years old, if that, and already the battery’s decided life isn’t worth living. Guarantee? Worthless. Batteries seem to die whenever they bloody well please. Typical.

And let’s talk about battery life, shall we?

They sell you these chairs with a wink and a nod, telling you the battery will last “up to five years if you look after it.” Yeah, right. Reality check: these things die when they bloody well feel like it. Three years in, and mine decides it’s had enough of this mortal coil.

You do everything right – keep it charged, don’t drain it to death, store it warm, treat it like a newborn kitten – and still, one morning, nothing. It’s like it wakes up and goes, “Nah mate, I’m done. Roll yourself today.”

And of course, the guarantee never covers the battery, does it? Because batteries are ‘consumables’. Like a pack of biscuits or bog roll. Except this particular consumable costs £400 and without it, your life basically stops. It’s a bitter little taste of the freedom they pretend we have. Freedom to do what, exactly? Sit in one place, powered down, like an abandoned droid in a scrapyard.

And yes, you can buy a whole new chair for the price of a single battery. The maths of that is so insane it makes my head hurt. It’s like selling you a phone battery for £600 when the phone itself costs £550. Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Late-stage capitalism, mate. You couldn’t make this up.

So I’ve gone crawling to Amazon, tail between my wheels, and what do I see? An entire electric wheelchair for the same price as that single battery. Three-year guarantee included. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it.

But hey, I can’t sit around waiting for wheelchair services to pull their finger out. So thank you, Amazon… or hey Geoff, how about a discount while you’re at it? Cheers mate.

Yeah… I’ve gone into severe debt because of this battery. £400 I didn’t have, just to keep moving, just to keep living some kind of life. I know I’ll have to go without something else now. Food, bills, meds – who knows. It makes me fucking angry.

Angry that existing costs so much. Angry that they sell us broken promises and worthless guarantees. Angry that this system makes basic mobility feel like some luxury we’re not worthy of.

But I’ll keep rolling. Furious, broke, but rolling. Because giving up isn’t an option. But damn… it shouldn’t have to be like this.

Welcome to dystopia – sponsored by late-stage capitalism, dodgy guarantees, and batteries with the lifespan of a mayfly.

       “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 ✨🧌

It’s Sunday. Grey. Wet. The kind of piss-stained British weather that makes your bones ache and your soul file for divorce. I’m sat here in my wheelchair—beard tangled, hair like I’ve been dragged backwards through the astral plane—trying to make sense of the cosmic blender my brain’s been trapped in since I woke up.

Everything hurts. Tinnitus screaming like a kettle left on too long, left side numb, head full of fog, and no one to turn it off.

For some reason, this particular Sunday’s dragged me back to my childhood. Not the golden-hued, Enid Blyton fantasy version. Nah. More like the “adopted kids survival guide with optional emotional scarring” edition.

What triggered it? Comics, of all things.

I never got comics. Not from my parents, anyway. Other kids got pocket money. Sweets. Lemonade. I got rationing and disappointment. So I did what any desperate little bastard would do—I borrowed, I begged, and I bargained my way into reading The Beano, The Dandy, Eagle, Dan Dare, and those strange little pulp mags like Tit-Bits.

I’d trade chores, favours, whatever it took to lose myself in a world that didn’t look like mine. Because mine? Mine was all silence, rules, and the quiet kind of cruelty—the one that doesn’t leave bruises but fucks you up for decades.

No pocket money. Not a penny. And if some relative was daft enough to slip me a birthday note? Straight into National Savings Bonds. Not for me, of course. That would be outrageous. No, those were squirrelled away “for the future.” A future I didn’t believe I’d see, and when I did—it was barely worth the paper it was printed on. Might as well have used it to light a roll-up.

So I started grafting at ten. Anything I could do. Carry bricks. Cut grass. Clean out sheds. Learn early: work equals money, and if you want anything in this life, no one’s handing it to you.

My parents? Victorian-tight. Iron-arsed. The kind who think smiling is a moral weakness and crisps are the first step to heroin. Sweets? Nope. Lemonade? Don’t be bloody ridiculous. Treats? Only if you stole them.

And adoption? Oh, don’t get me started. You ever been the cuckoo in the nest? You know—you look like the wrong photo in the family album. Everything about you is just... off. I wasn’t just adopted. I was an inconvenient truth in a family that wanted obedience, not personality. And when I started asking questions, trying to find out who I really was—they shut me down. Hard.

I’ve got stories. Proper horror-show stuff. And they don’t get easier to tell. But I remember. I always bloody remember.

Abuse? Yeah. Not the shadowy, behind-closed-doors kind. The public, soul-splitting stuff that happened while people looked the other way. And when I did speak up, tell someone? I got disbelief. Or worse—blamed. That kind of gaslighting changes you. It teaches you that your pain’s not real unless someone else approves it. That you don’t count unless someone tells you you do.

Well bollocks to that.

They’re gone now. Dead and buried. And part of me still flinches at the memories. But another part—the stronger bit—refuses to stay quiet. I won’t forget. I won’t forgive. And I sure as hell won’t shut up.

These days, I sit in this chair—66, beard like a pagan prophet, hair like a Viking roadie, long past caring what people think. MS has taken a fair bit from me. Left side’s dead. Numb. Hurts to blink some days. But I’ve got a spine made of scrapyard steel. And I’ve got stories.

You know what keeps me going? Not hope. Not faith. Not any of that new-age incense-and-crystals bollocks.

Truth. Raw, ugly, unapologetic truth. Told in the voice of a man who’s been broken, rebuilt, and broken again—but still here.

And sometimes? A memory of those comics—those silly, glorious little pages that gave me an escape when I needed it most. You never forget your first lifeline.

         “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 ✨🧌

Right. Look—I’ve probably gone on about Serapis Bey before. Maybe once, maybe fifty times. I can’t remember. MS has turned my brain into wet cardboard. Thinking hurts. But this one? This one’s worth dragging through the static.

So buckle up, kids. Grandad’s got a story.

It was 2012. I was 53, bedridden, and my body felt like it had been dropped down the side of a motorway and left there to rot. MS had chewed through me like I owed it money. My spine was screaming. I’d pissed off death, and he was circling like a vulture with a stopwatch.

And then he showed up.

Serapis bloody Bey. Not the kind of name you expect to hear when you’re lying in bed in agony wondering if this is it. But there he was. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Not the ghost of some acid tab from ’79 finally cashing in. The real deal.

Tall, glowing, ancient. Like someone had lit a bonfire inside a Greek god. No words at first—just presence. Then the message came in clear:

“You need to shift. You’re going down fast. Change—or it’s over.”

Didn’t sugar-coat it. Didn’t pat my hand and call me brave. He said: Get your shit together. And I did.

That moment cracked me open like a ribcage at a demolition derby. Everything I thought I was burned off. What was left was raw. Real. And somehow stronger.

I’ve been a lot of things in this life. A biker. A bastard. A brother. A wreck. But that night made me me again, in a way nothing else ever has.

It’s been nearly 13 years now. I still sit here in this wheelchair, beard down to my chest, hair long as sin, and I still feel the fire of that night. Everything I believe, everything I write, everything I am—it comes from that cosmic kick in the arse Serapis Bey delivered.

So yeah, I’ve done my research. I know the “Ascended Master” label sounds like something you find in the bargain bin at a dodgy new age shop next to some incense and a badly-carved dragon. But forget the fluff.

This was real. It is real. And I don’t care if anyone believes it.

Truth doesn’t care about approval.

        “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 ✨🧌

"The vagus nerve is supposed to keep you alive. Mine seems to have a death wish. Living with MS means living with this burning wire misfiring 24/7.You can't see it. But it's killing me, slowly."

Let me introduce you to the nerve that’s been puppeteering my misery for 40 years:

🧠 The vagus nerve.

Longest cranial nerve in the body. Part of the autonomic nervous system. Runs from the brainstem all the way down into your guts, like a bastard serpent lodged in flesh.

It’s meant to regulate “involuntary” things. Heart rate. Breathing. Digestion. Mood. Inflammation.

Mine regulates suffering.

With MS in the mix, my vagus nerve is like a drunk electrician with a machete and a grudge.

— My heart rate drops so low I black out. — Then shoots so high I think I’m dying. — My diaphragm spasms and I stop breathing mid-sentence. — My throat closes. — My stomach decides to reverse course — vomiting, choking, retching. — Food sits there, like a funeral buffet no one touches.

And the gaslighting begins. “Anxiety.” “Stress.” “Try mindfulness.”

Fuck off. I’m not hyperventilating. I’m being strangled from the inside by a goddamn nerve that's been glitching out since I was a teenager.

I’ve lived four decades like this. Forty years of waking up choking. Forty years of feeling my own body betray me. Forty years of doctors shrugging, guessing, dismissing, or overdosing me on meds for symptoms they don’t understand.

It’s not just discomfort. It’s unrelenting bodily horror.

Imagine being electrocuted through your spine while trying to eat a sandwich. Imagine trying to breathe but your diaphragm spasms like a car crash in your ribs. Imagine shitting yourself with a heart rate of 40 and then vomiting while you go unconscious.

You ever had diaphragmatic myoclonus? That charming thing where your gut convulses so violently you can’t breathe or speak? That’s the vagus nerve on a rampage.

People talk about Vagus Nerve Stimulation like it’s hope in a box. Sure. Stick electrodes in my neck. I’ll try anything once — hell, at this point, if you told me licking a toad would help, I’d be Frenching Kermit by tea time.

I’ve been laughed at. Medicated into a coma. Ignored.

This isn’t just MS. This is autonomic hell.

So yeah — fuck the diagrams and polite educational pamphlets.

My vagus nerve isn’t a calming force. It’s a loaded gun wired to my internal organs.

And some days, I honestly think it’s trying to finish the job.

And yet — here I am. Still alive. Still typing. Still wheezing and swallowing around the broken circuitry that is my body.

You want honesty? This is it.

Welcome to my living hell.

    “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 ✨🧌

Well, what a week it's been. I'm currently sat here talking to my speech-to-text app like some deranged oracle.

Battery life? Liar. Sporadic power at best. This so-called “smartphone” isn’t smart at all. I tell it to power down—it sends me to a bloody help page. In the end, I worked out a hack to switch it off. Because apparently, being disabled means needing a PhD to press a button.

My fingers are numb. Hands barely functional. Tactile feedback? Gone. Tiny buttons are useless ornaments to me. Touchscreens are a little better—still a pain, but I don't need to perform a séance just to answer a call.

I keep the phone in a Faraday bag overnight. No signals in, no signals out. Paranoid? No. Realistic. I don’t need Alexa learning how many antihistamines I pop daily.

Speaking of which—my allergies are off the fucking chart. Hay fever is now a cosmic entity. Took so many antihistamines, I’m practically embalmed. Side effects? Mild haunting. Random dissociation. Full-body brain fog. But hey, better than full-on freak-out.

MS loves to sprinkle in a panic attack for seasoning. The good kind—the ones that make you curl into a corner and question whether you’re even a person anymore. And if I forget my pills? Cue existential hell.

The electrical storms in my brain? Picture a lightning bolt shagging a power station. BANG. That’s what my neurons do for fun.

Today? Balance gone. No walking. Grabbed furniture, ended up grabbing air. Wheelchair day. Again. Will I never learn?

Overdid it. Spoons: gone. Days or weeks until I get them back. It’s raining. Of course it is. Put on some music to distract myself from my collapsing nervous system.

My throat’s spasming. Too much talking. Break.

Haha—just transferred this to my PC and the spellchecker is climaxing with all the red lines. Absolute filth. Press the magic button—bam, respectable writing.

Took some oil. Spasms eased. Neck still hurts. Tongue’s numb. Mouth’s a dead zone. Remember novocaine? It’s like that 24/7. Eating is a carnival of self-harm. Choking daily. Cheeks bitten.

And that feeling—bone-deep weirdness. Invisible sprites stabbing needles in a crown around my head. Madness, right?

If I posted this raw, people might think I’ve lost it. Maybe I have. Cognitive decline has me screaming at walls. Memory? What memory.

I stare at what I’ve written and it’s just a tangled mess of frustration, grief, and fuckery. But I still have something to give, even if the delivery system is fucked.

Maybe I’ll keep doing this. Write from my broken, unhinged, seen-too-much mind.

I want to talk about MS. I want to talk about other things too. Will that confuse people? Maybe. Do I care? Less and less.

I just hope someone out there—another broken soul with a half-working body and a mind full of static—reads this and feels seen.

Life is for living, no matter how fucked up you are.

All you need is love.

Love is divine.

The universe is love.

The One is love.

But that’s just me.

— End transmission.

        “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 ✨🧌

(The Cosmic Joke, and Why You're the Punchline)

They say as above, so below; as below, so above — and not just in cute Etsy calligraphy on a witchy girl’s living room wall. It’s etched into the Emerald Tablet, muttered in Crowley’s shadow-drenched rituals, whispered between lovers and lunatics who’ve stared too long into the abyss and seen their own reflection blinking back.

I felt it long before I read it. Before I fell down the esoteric rabbit hole, before I lit candles at 3am and called it “healing,” before I started seeing patterns in burnt toast and planetary retrogrades. It’s a knowing in the bones. That what spirals above — in realms of stars, gods, and forgotten names — is not separate, but echoed right here, in the cracked mirror of your everyday catastrophe.

Ritual in the Ruins This isn’t New Age fluff. This is blood-and-bone spirituality. Crowley didn’t mean for you to find peace — he meant for you to tear yourself apart, find the divine in the ruin, and build your True Will from the ashes. Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law — but first, you have to find out what the hell your Will actually is. And spoiler: it's probably not selling yoga leggings on Instagram.

The sacred isn’t hiding in some fifth-dimensional pyramid. It’s here. In the dishes you didn’t wash. In the existential nausea at 4:47am. In your spiralling thoughts as you stare at the ceiling, realising you are, in fact, still very much human. As Crowley might grunt from the corner of the séance room: “Yes, darling, and it’s all part of the plan.”

Alchemy of the Everyday (Or: God Hides in the Cupboard) Everything you touch is part of the ritual. You are the High Priestess and the hungover initiate all at once. Your life is the altar. The teabag is the sacrament. The argument with your mum? Sacred initiation. Your existential crisis? Congratulations, you're halfway through the first veil. And every unspoken prayer you whisper while stuck in traffic – the gods hear it. Even if they're laughing.

There’s no separation. No "mundane" thing. No “real life” to return to after you’re done meditating under a blood moon. This is the Work. The gnosis. The initiation rite hidden in the laundry pile.

As above – celestial spheres move in perfect harmony. So below – you stub your toe on the bin. And yet… somehow, it’s the same bloody dance.

Be the Bridge. Burn if You Must. This is where it gets beautifully bleak: You are the bridge between heaven and hell. You are the axis mundi. You are the magus, the meat puppet, the divine joke made flesh. Whether you like it or not.

So honour both realms. Tend to your wounds as sacred texts. Light the damn candle, even if you’re on your last match. Let your longing be a spell, your rage a sigil, your joy an offering.

In this temple of a body, in this crumbling world, I bow to what is above by walking barefoot through the grit of what is below. I don't escape the filth – I find the stars inside it. That’s the real sorcery. That’s the real madness.

         “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.”

                       n🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌