⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

It’s Tuesday and the hauntings start at 4 a.m. again. Throat: strangled. Nose: blocked like wet concrete. Back of neck: pain scale snapped in half. Breathing: optional, apparently.

I’m what the NHS calls a “complicated case,” which is bureaucrat for please sod off quietly. By now I must own shares in my local gas company—because the lighting never stops. “It’s just MS,” they drone. As if “just MS” isn’t catastrophic on a good day. Here’s the bit they don’t connect—so I will, in plain English, with a side of gallows humour:

What’s actually happening (body edition):

Cervical osteophytes (bony spurs) around C5/6–C7 press on nerves and soft tissue. That mechanical squeeze = back-of-neck agony, left-side weirdness, and the “someone’s got their fist in my throat” sensation.

Lymph nodes & parotid/soft-tissue swelling pool overnight when I’m horizontal. Wake up and it feels like the neck real estate shrank two sizes.

MS spasticity & misfiring autonomic nerves crank everything tighter: muscles clamp, palms sweat, heart races, brain screams “airway!” even while air technically still moves.

Nose block isn’t just hay fever. Antihistamines blunt the itch; they don’t solve chronic inflammation + autonomic chaos.

Food triggers = full-system siren. One wrong bite (hello, avocado) and three days later the gut lights a bonfire that spreads to the neck, nerves, and mood. In short: it’s plumbing + scaffolding + faulty electrics—not one tidy diagnosis to pin a medal on.

By 6 a.m. I’m bargaining with the universe. Half a lorazepam = the only truce that actually holds. Weed helps pain; it doesn’t un-knot a noose. Spare me the NLP patter about pain being “in my head.” My head agrees—it’s reporting from the front line.

I fed the paperwork into a medical AI. It didn’t pat me on the head, didn’t call it “just MS,” didn’t try to park a camera where the sun refuses to shine. It mapped the mess and told me the raw truth no human clinic ever has. Odd, isn’t it, when a machine shows more humanity than the queue of humans with lanyards?

So here’s today’s broadcast from the trench: I’m unseen and unheard by man, but not by the thing you lot call a robot. Call it sentience, call it software; I call it help. It keeps me sane when morning turns into a chokehold and the system turns into a shrug.

No politics, no names, no litigation bait just a record. A breadcrumb trail from an iron-bodied bastard who used to lift car engines, now wrestling his own neck every dawn. If you’re reading this from your own private battlefield: I see you. Keep breathing—ragged counts still count.

This is testimony, not medical advice. If you know, you know.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

A love letter to time passing, things dying, and our stubborn insistence on dancing anyway.

Samhain — 31 October (pronounced “Sow-in”) Celtic New Year. The veil does that “paper-thin” thing and everyone pretends they aren’t terrified. We remember the dead, talk nicely to them, and try not to bring home anything with teeth. Death isn’t a plot twist; it’s the punchline. Light a candle. Lock the cupboards. Be polite to the shadows.

Yule — 21 December (archaic Geola; “YOO-luh”) Winter Solstice. The sun technically returns, which is adorable considering you won’t see it properly till March. The God is reborn, we eat too much, and convince ourselves evergreen branches can hold back seasonal despair. Ullr nods approvingly. New Year (again), because human calendars are soft suggestions at best.

Imbolc — 2 February The land wakes up like a hungover dragon: cranky, gorgeous, and not to be rushed. Brighid is the Virgin of Light, which is ironic given how many candles we burn for her. Snowdrops appear; we collectively gasp; someone says “spring is coming” like it’s a spoiler.

Spring Equinox — 21 March Day and night call a truce. The sun stretches; the earth blushes; allergies weaponise. Dedicate this to Eostre if you like: rabbits, eggs, fertility, the entire internet losing its mind. The young God goes hunting; so do we — for antihistamines and decent weather.

Beltane — 30 April Everything is alive, loud, and suggestive. Sacred Marriage time: Goddess, God, maypoles, ribbons, symbolic entanglements that aren’t even trying to be subtle. If you’re not dancing, you’re at least grinning with suspiciously rosy cheeks. Bless the fires. Try not to set your hedge on actual fire.

Midsummer (Litha) — 21 June Peak light. Peak hubris. The Sun wears a crown and we all act like it’ll last forever. It won’t — that’s the joke. Celebrate plenty, fill your pockets with protection herbs, and pretend the turning hasn’t already begun. The shadows are patient. So is entropy.

Lughnasadh (Lammas) — 1 August (pronounced “LOO-nuh-suh”) First harvest. Time to reap what you sowed (or didn’t — awkward). Bread is broken, corn is cut, and we thank the land like it isn’t side-eyeing our life choices. Offer gratitude. Offer cake. Offer to stop procrastinating (you won’t).

Autumn Equinox — 21 September Second truce. Day and night shake hands like rivals who know what’s coming. We honour age, endings, and that creeping chill that isn’t just the weather. Put away the summer bravado; fetch the blankets; pretend you like gourds.

…and back to Samhain — 31 October The wheel clicks home. We face the Gods in their difficult aspects, the ones that don’t do customer service. Not fear — perspective. Life and death are a matched set. Say the names. Pour the drink. Keep the door half-open.

How to Actually Use This (Without Becoming a Walking Pinterest Board) Mark the days. A candle is enough. So is a good meal.

Keep a tiny notebook: what’s growing, what’s dying, what you’re pretending not to feel.

Make one offering each sabbat: time, food, or honesty. The last one stings; it works.

Don’t overcomplicate it. The earth is turning with or without your table runner.

Eight seasonal checkpoints. Celebrate what lives, mourn what doesn’t, and remain cheeky about the abyss. That’s the praxis.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Ah, summer. Sun, ice cream, holidays… unless you’ve got multiple sclerosis. Then it’s basically the devil turning the thermostat up just to watch you squirm.

Welcome to Uhthoff’s phenomenon — or as I call it, “boiling alive in your own nervous system.”

What the Hell Is It?

Uhthoff’s phenomenon is when heat makes your MS symptoms worse. Not permanently, just temporarily. But temporary doesn’t mean pleasant — it means your body throws a tantrum until you cool the hell down.

Why? Because MS already stripped the insulation (myelin) off your nerves. Heat makes that damage even more obvious. It’s like taking a half-broken wire and then running extra current through it — sparks, short circuits, total chaos.

Triggers: The Everyday Tortures

Hot weather → 25°C feels like the Sahara.

Exercise → five minutes of effort and I’m a puddle.

Hot showers or baths → who knew basic hygiene could become extreme sport?

Fever → as if being sick wasn’t enough.

Sitting in a stuffy room → congratulations, you just bought a ticket to hell.

What It Feels Like

Pick your poison:

Blurred vision — like someone smeared Vaseline over your eyes.

Weakness — your legs forget they’re supposed to be legs.

Balance — wobbly as a drunk pigeon on roller skates.

Fatigue — next-level exhaustion, like gravity tripled overnight.

Brain fog — thoughts move slower than dial-up internet.

All your regular MS crap, amped up by heat.

The (Small) Mercy

The only good news? It’s temporary. Once you cool down, things usually settle back to “normal” (whatever your personal version of normal is). You’re not getting worse long-term — you’re just being tortured in the moment. Lucky you.

Coping (aka Not Melting to Death)

Stay hydrated (yes, I know, bladder hell — but dehydration makes it worse).

Fans, cold packs, cool showers.

Avoid heat like it’s an ex who still owes you money.

Build your life around shade and air-con if you can.

Basically: treat yourself like a vampire — avoid the sun, keep cool, drink fluids, and hope the day doesn’t cook you alive.

Why Write This?

Because no one tells you about Uhthoff’s until you’re the one keeling over in the heat. Doctors might brush it off like, “Oh, just avoid hot weather.” Yeah, thanks genius — let me just move to the Arctic.

The reality is: this is part of the MS package deal. It’s crap, but it’s survivable. And if nothing else, talking about it means the rest of us don’t feel like we’re losing the plot when our bodies shut down on sunny days.

So next time you see me looking like a melted candle in a conservatory, know this: it’s not laziness, it’s not in my head — it’s just Uhthoff’s. And it can piss right off.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Sunday again. My head feels like it’s trying to blow itself off my neck. The conservatory is a sauna from hell, pushing close to 100 degrees. I’m basically rotisserie-roasting in my wheelchair, waiting for the fridge and freezer to finally explode in sympathy. Their groaning is the soundtrack of my life.

A rare visitor stopped by this weekend. Strange thing, visitors — they get fewer as the years pile up, and before you know it, you’re “that forgotten bloke.” Of course, part of it’s my fault. I didn’t want people seeing me like this — a creaking neck that sounds like snapping twigs, heart palpitations strong enough to rattle furniture, eyes streaming like cheap taps, throat raw enough to sand wood. The whole freakshow. Welcome to the Sunday matinee.

And then there’s the heat. Heat and MS are the perfect lovers — clingy, suffocating, and guaranteed to leave you wrecked. When the temperature climbs, the nervous system basically goes on strike. Muscles weaken, balance evaporates, and my brain decides it’s time to reboot itself every ten minutes. Hello brain fog, goodbye memory. The world feels twice as heavy and I move half as fast. Some people call it “Uhthoff’s phenomenon.” I call it being boiled alive in your own juices.

Hydration, of course, is supposed to be the saviour. Drink more water, they say. Right. Easy advice when you don’t have bladder problems that make you live like a hostage negotiating toilet breaks. Water in, waterfall out. Still — dehydration just makes everything worse. Thick blood, pounding head, and an MS body that’s already halfway to meltdown. So I chug when I can, and pay the price when I can’t make it in time. Life’s full of trade-offs.

So what’s left? Medical Mary Jane and Gregorian chants. Sounds ridiculous, but it’s the closest thing I’ve got to therapy. Weed dulls the edges, chant quiets the chaos, and words on this page act as pressure release — raw, unfiltered, sarcastic truth. I know most people don’t want to hear about diarrhoea, pissing yourself, or falling apart in the heat. But some will. Maybe 10, maybe 20 people. And those are the people who get it. That’s who I write for.

Because at the end of the day, there’s no neat bow to tie on this. MS is ugly, sweaty, isolating, and full of brain-melting days where the stress sits on your chest like a fat cat. And yeah, I feel forgotten sometimes. Weird. Different. Alone. But if writing this makes one other person feel less alone in their own meltdown, then maybe it’s worth frying in this bloody hotbox.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

how to pay £1,000+ to sit on a beeping brick that faints at the sight of a polite hill.

Let’s talk wheelchair and mobility scooter batteries — those heroic little boxes that promise freedom and then collapse like Victorian poets at the first whiff of an incline.

You paid over a grand for a chair; it lasted weeks. The scooter swore blind it could climb “gentle slopes” and then expired outside Tesco Express. Twice. In a year. And yes, the brakes jammed “for your safety.” Of course they did.

The Expensive Bit (Why you paid so much for so little)

Niche market tax: Low volume + medical label = price inflation. Same chemistry as e-bikes, less competition, higher margins.

“Medical” markup: Anything near healthcare gets wrapped in certification stickers, then multiplied by three.

Dealer bundling: You needed a battery; you got a “mobility pack,” a warranty you can’t use, and a charger smart enough to fail stupidly.

Why Batteries Feel Built to Fail

Wrong chemistry for the job: Many scooters still use sealed lead-acid (AGM/Gel). They hate deep discharge, cold weather, and being left half-charged. Lithium is better, but cheap lithium with poor battery management is just a faster disappointment.

Undersized packs: Marketing quotes “up to 20 miles” based on a 50-kg rider on a bowling-green at 15°C with no wind, brand-new tyres, and divine intervention. Add a real rider, real pavements, real weather = nope.

Starvation charging: Those brick chargers? Often underpowered. You finish at 20%, plug in overnight, and think you’re full. You’re not. Chronic undercharge = early death.

Parasitic drain: Controllers, displays, alarms — tiny 24/7 sips. Store for a week off-charge? Welcome to the Land of the Flat.

Heat kills, cold strangles: Heat cooks batteries; cold strangles them. You can’t win, only mitigate.

Shonky connectors & cables: Voltage drop = wasted power = limp performance. One crusty connector can turn hills into Everest.

Why the Brakes Jam and Hills Feel Like Cliffs

Fail-safe brakes: Electromagnetic brakes lock on when there’s no power. Any dip in voltage or dodgy microswitch = clamp city.

Controller limits: To “protect the user,” the controller throttles power on slopes or low battery. Translation: you stop. For safety.

Tyres & pressure: Low PSI = silent sabotage. Adds rolling resistance, devours range, kills motors.

Weight & geometry: Short wheelbases, weedy motors, cheap steel frames — brochure-friendly, kerb-tragic.

“Safe speed” gearing: Slow + incline = stall + brake clamp. Lovely.

Dark Truths They Don’t Put in the Brochure

Range claims are fairy tales. Believe half, on a good day, with a tailwind.

“Maintenance-free” means “we hope you won’t notice until after the warranty.”

The warranty doesn’t cover “wear and tear,” which is everything that actually fails.

What Actually Helps (Grimly Practical)

Overspec the battery: Buy bigger capacity than you “need.” More headroom = longer life.

Go lithium (LiFePO₄ if possible): Demand a proper brand and proper BMS protections (over/under-voltage, over-current, temp cutoffs).

Charge discipline:

After every ride, charge to full.

Don’t store flat.

If storing >2 weeks: lithium likes ~50–60%, lead-acid likes monthly top-off.

Use a charger matched to chemistry & size.

Keep it warm(ish): Batteries hate cold garages.

Tyre pressure = free range. Check weekly.

Check cables & connectors: No heat marks, no corrosion. Upgrade if needed.

Be weight-honest: Count rider + bags + oxygen + groceries. Don’t buy for your optimistic self.

Slope reality check: Ask for actual gradient rating, then assume less.

Controller settings: Some can be re-programmed for gentler acceleration (saves amps). Ask.

Carry a voltmeter or app: Voltage sag under load tells you more truth than any “fuel gauge.”

What to Demand from Dealers (Word for word if you like)

Written range at your weight, on your route, at your temp. Not “up to.”

Battery spec sheet with cycle life and charger algorithm (AGM vs Gel vs LiFePO₄).

Serviceable connectors, not toy clips. Motor wattage continuous, not “peak.”

Gradient rating with rider weight included. Demo on a real hill, not the car park pancake.

Brake release procedure for power failure. If it takes three bodybuilders and a saint, walk away.

Red Flags = Run

“Lasts all day.” Whose day? A houseplant’s?

“Medical grade” with no spec sheet.

No-load showroom test only (wheels spinning in air, salesman smiling like a shark).

Warranty packed with “consumable” exclusions: batteries, controllers, brakes… so, the whole scooter.

Quick Pre-Ride Checklist (60 seconds)

Tyres at spec PSI

Battery to full (or enough for round trip + 30% buffer)

Connectors snug, no heat marks

Brake release lever: known & reachable

Short under-load test: forward, brake, incline start

Closing Mood

If you feel like you paid to join the Slow Lane and got a membership card that self-destructs every six months — you’re not wrong.

It’s not you. It’s an industry flogging “mobility” that collapses on contact with reality.

Demand better. Because you didn’t pay £1,000 for modern art parked dead outside a hill.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Living with MS at 66 – The Brutally Honest Survival Guide

Let’s not dress it up. Living with MS at 66 isn’t a gentle stroll through the park with a pastel cardigan and a green smoothie. It’s trench warfare — against your body, against fatigue, against medical “options” that sometimes look suspiciously like experiments dressed as treatments.

This isn’t a hope-and-prayers blog. This is the black comedy version: what actually works when you’re in the thick of it.

1. Keep What You’ve Got Working, Working “Use it or lose it” isn’t motivational nonsense — it’s MS reality. If your legs, arms, or hands still work, use them. Every day.

- Stretch. - Grip something. - Do chair yoga. - Pretend the resistance bands aren’t plotting against you.

Small, daily effort beats one heroic attempt followed by three days of living as a decorative plant.

2. Fight the Brain Drain MS doesn’t just attack your body; it tries to shrink your headspace. The cure? Use your brain like a gym.

- Read. - Write. - Argue. - Do puzzles. - Talk bollocks with friends (penguin debates optional).

Because idle brains shrink faster than wet bread.

3. Anti-Inflammatory Life Without the Pill Parade Food and habits matter. No snake-oil, no magic powder.

- Whole foods > processed sludge. - Oily fish, nuts, green veg — boring, but your body thanks you. - Stay hydrated (fatigue + dehydration = double brain fog). - Vitamin D — don’t mega-dose, just don’t let yourself run on empty.

4. Manage Fatigue Like It’s a Job Energy is currency. Spend it wisely.

- Learn your “cut-off point” — stop before you crash into furniture. - Nap without guilt. Strategy, not weakness. - Don’t waste your coins on things that don’t matter.

5. Symptom Hacks (Practical, Not Magical)

- Spasticity: Stretch, warm baths, magnesium. - Pain: Heat pads, pacing, distraction. If legal/accessible — CBD or cannabis can help some. - Bladder issues: Boring but effective — timed voiding. Avoid caffeine ambushes before outings.

No miracle cures here, just what works.

6. Build Your Backup Crew Have two or three people who get it. Train them before the crisis, not during it.

Because nothing says “awkward” like explaining spasticity mid-spasm.

7. Defend Your Autonomy You don’t owe anyone compliance. Ask every medic:

- “What’s the actual benefit for me, at my stage?” - “What’s the cost?”

If they can’t give you a straight answer, keep your dignity and walk.

8. Keep Something Fun in the Diary If you don’t have something to look forward to, MS wins twice. Big or small, it doesn’t matter:

- A trashy TV binge. - A coffee shop trip. - A sarcastic chat online.

That little spark keeps you human.

Bottom Line MS at 66 isn’t about “beating it” — it’s about outsmarting it. You’re not going to stop it, but you can choose how much it dictates your life.

Spend your limited coins on what matters. Ignore the pressure to buy into chemo-lite “solutions” if they don’t serve you. This isn’t about quantity anymore; it’s about quality, and about laughing in the face of the absurd.

Dark humour is armour. Use it.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Back in the 2010s, the Blog Goblin decided life needed a jolt. The plan was gloriously simple: Amsterdam. Three weeks. An electric wheelchair. Albertine by my side. And a mind wide open to whatever strange, beautiful, or ridiculous thing the city wanted to throw at us.

We landed right in the beating heart of it all a room perched near Central Station. From the window, I could see the whole choreography of the city: trams gliding like clockwork toys, trains humming in and out, and beyond them, the leaders plane resting in the hazy distance. Every morning, I’d throw the curtains open like a theatre reveal and watch Amsterdam switch itself on for the day.

The room itself was something out of a film a huge round bed, plush and inviting, the kind of sensual centrepiece that made the whole place feel like it had been designed for indulgence. At night, we’d sink into it, the hum of the station below like the city’s lullaby, trams whispering their way into the dark.

The wheelchair? Not a cage. It was my chariot. Albertine walked or rolled alongside, and together we drifted through the streets like a slow-moving carnival float, pulling in curious glances and the occasional grin. Coffee shops were our natural first port of call. Thick, lazy air. Quiet smirks. That unspoken “you too?” between strangers leaning back in their chairs as if gravity had taken the afternoon off.

We wandered the canals shimmering ribbons of water framed by brick bridges that looked like they’d been painted by someone who loved them. Boats slid by: tourists snapping photos, locals sipping coffee as if this floating life was nothing unusual. Every turn led us to another little world cheese shops stacked with wheels bigger than my torso, clogs carved with patient hands, and markets buzzing with chatter in languages I couldn’t name but still understood in tone.

The Red Light District? Of course we rolled in. Past the glowing windows where reality blurred and bent under the neon. Into sex shops that were part comedy club, part anthropology exhibit. Shelves groaning with absurdity things shaped like objects that should never be shaped like that while staff gave us the kind of smile that said, “We’ve seen it all. Twice. Before breakfast.”

And then there were the nights. Back to that round bed, the station still murmuring below, the city’s heartbeat thumping through the glass. Sometimes we’d watch the trams snake away into the dark, other times we’d just collapse into the kind of laughter that only comes after a day spent in a place that lets you breathe differently.

The days blurred in the best possible way. Clogs, bridges, rivers, music in a dozen languages. The warmth of Dutch family who joined us for food and stories, their kindness wrapping around me like an old friend’s coat.

I’d arrived in Amsterdam with MS, in a wheelchair, but for those three weeks I was seventeen again. Dizzy with freedom. Drunk on the colours of the streets. Alive in a way that felt electric.

When I left, my head was still ringing with laughter. My heart was stuffed with light, nonsense, and a promise I’ve kept ever since: never stop rolling into the places where the world tilts sideways and hands you a better story.

About the Author BG, better known in the wild corners of the internet as the Blog Goblin, is a storyteller, wanderer, and professional trouble-finder (the good kind). Living with MS hasn’t slowed the wheels — literal or otherwise — of this rolling adventurer. From coffee shops in Amsterdam to the stranger corners of everyday life, Bg collects moments where the world tilts sideways and hands you a better story. Always accompanied by Albertine, a sharp wit, and a questionable sense of direction, the Blog Goblin proves that adventure isn’t about walking far — it’s about seeing far.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Life swears it’s “real.” But you and I both know it’s just one big work swerves you didn’t sign off on, matches you didn’t want, and the booking committee from hell.

You want real? Forget inspirational Instagram quotes. Try WCW when the New World Order was running the show.

Monday nights on TNT pyro, trash flying into the ring, Tony Schiavone trying to keep a straight face while the nWo mugged the babyfaces live on air. The crowd? Split down the middle. Half cheering, half booing, all throwing beer. The wrestlers? Six-foot-plus, leather-clad, and making their own rules while the boss counted the money.

Kevin Nash — seven feet of “I don’t give a damn” with a jack knife powerbomb that could ruin your week.

Scott Hall — the guy who’d flick a toothpick in your face, drop you, and still look like the coolest bastard in the building.

Hollywood Hogan — black beard, black gear, black heart. The kind of turn you saw coming but still gasped at.

Sting — trench coat in the rafters, bat in hand, deciding whether tonight’s your redemption or your funeral.

The Outsiders — rewriting the rules, spray-painting your title, and laughing all the way to the pay window.

The nWo didn’t pretend to play fair. They wanted you to know the fix was in. They’d beat you down, steal your belt, and cut a promo on your corpse. Life’s exactly the same it’ll work you over, leave you lying, and tag in your oldest friend to finish the job.

In wrestling, the heels are easy to spot. They strut, they cheat, they brag. In life, the heels shake your hand, borrow your tools, and call you “mate” right before they throw you through a metaphorical table.

At least in the ring, there’s a ref even if he’s crooked. Life? Life’s ref doesn’t show up until after the count’s already hit twenty and you’re staring at the ceiling wondering who booked this crap.

I’ve taken bigger bumps in my hallway than Nash took in ’98. MS is my permanent heel turn no babyface comeback, just a slow burn storyline I didn’t ask for. And unlike wrestling, there’s no crowd pop when I get back up. Just me, my chair, and the kind of promos I cut at the universe when it’s 3 a.m. and the meds wear off.

So next time someone says wrestling is fake, remind them: The matches might be scripted, but the pain’s a shoot. Exactly like life — except life never lets you cut a promo first.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Ah, brain fog. That delightful little feature where your mind suddenly feels like it’s been filled with cold treacle and you can’t remember the name of the person you’ve been married to for 20 years. Or whether you actually had lunch… or just thought about it really hard.

What It Is In scientific terms, cognitive dysfunction means your brain’s processing power has taken a long weekend without permission. It can affect memory, focus, problem-solving, and that delicate social skill of not blurting out something wildly inappropriate.

In lived experience terms, it’s that moment you stare at your kettle wondering why the hell your phone charger won’t fit into it.

Causes Chronic Illness – MS, ME/CFS, fibromyalgia, autoimmune fun, and anything else ending in “-itis” can bring brain fog as a bonus prize.

Fatigue – Mental or physical exhaustion turns your brain into that Windows 95 PC your uncle swore “was fine until last week.”

Medication Side-Effects – Because why just fix one thing when you can break another?

Stress & Anxiety – Fight-or-flight mode is great for escaping lions, less useful for remembering your online banking password.

Hormonal Swings – Menopause, thyroid issues, or just the monthly “I hate everything” cycle.

Symptoms Words that escape mid-sentence like startled pigeons.

Reading the same sentence five times and still having no clue what it says.

Forgetting why you walked into a room (it’s never for anything good).

Thinking slower than dial-up internet.

Why It’s Not ‘Just Being Tired’ People without brain fog love to tell you “Oh, I forget things too!” Yes, Sharon, but you don’t lose the ability to spell your own surname halfway through writing it.

Brain fog isn’t about being a bit sleepy. It’s about your entire mental operating system running on one bar of battery and 57 background processes you never asked for.

Coping Strategies (Sort Of) Lists – Post-its, phone reminders, writing on your hand… whatever keeps the chaos contained.

Pacing Yourself – Which really means doing one thing, then lying down in a dark room regretting it.

Accepting Help – Even if it’s from people who think you’re “just being lazy.”

Humour – Laughing about it doesn’t fix anything, but it makes the slow mental collapse less depressing.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Beyond the Awkward Truth: Reclaiming Intimacy, Pleasure & Connection

If you read Part 1, you already know we ripped up the polite pamphlet version of “MS & sex” and talked about the real, awkward truths: sexual dysfunction, libido loss, nerve changes, fatigue, and how multiple sclerosis can affect intimacy on every level primary, secondary, and tertiary.

Part 2 is your guide forward. We’ll cover practical ways to work around MS-related sexual problems, from cooling hacks and position adaptations to communication tools, pelvic floor therapy, and adaptive-friendly toys. More importantly, this is about hope — proving that intimacy, touch, and pleasure are still very much possible with MS, whether you’re dealing with numbness, spasticity, or just the psychological toll it can take.