sick

⚠️ 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.

Compassion isn’t a scented candle. It’s the gut-punch you feel when someone else is getting steam rolled by life and the decision to step in anyway. Sympathy + action. Feel it, then do something. Not performative, not “thoughts and prayers,” just… work.

Here’s the short version for people with brain fog, children, or executives:

It bonds humans. People trust you more when you show up without the moral spreadsheet.

It stabilises brains. Kindness lowers stress hormones. Shocking, I know.

It’s contagious. One good act, three copycats, and suddenly the place doesn’t feel like a bus station at 2 a.m.

It grows empathy. You get better at reading rooms and souls. Useful for everything from friendships to not starting wars.

It fixes small things so big things break less. Compassion is social WD-40.

It grows you. Emotional intelligence isn’t woo; it’s a toolkit.

Why people dodge compassion (and how to not)

“It makes me look weak.” Strength isn’t armour; it’s range. You can lift a friend and still lift your own life. “I’ll be used.” Boundaries are part of compassion. “No” is not a betrayal; it’s maintenance. “It’s too much.” Then scale it. Listen for five minutes. Share a link. Sit quietly. Not every fire needs your lungs. “It’s naive.” Spare me. The data’s in: teams with psychological safety outperform gladiator pits. “People will judge me.” People judge sandwiches. Live anyway. “Conflict!” Compassion reduces heat. Understanding ≠ agreement. You can be kind and still disagree like a freight train politely. “What if I’m misunderstood?” You will be. Try clarity, not mind-reading. The point is impact, not applause.

Humanism: the operating system beneath the kindness

Humanism says humans matter, evidence matters, and we can build a decent world without needing to bully each other with invisible rulebooks. It plugs straight into compassion:

Focus on welfare. If people aren’t flourishing, the experiment is failing.

Use empathy and evidence. Feel the problem, then check the facts before you launch a crusade.

Fight for justice. Compassion gets teeth when it meets policy.

Stay secular and inclusive. Everyone in, no purity tests.

Grow up. Personal growth isn’t a hashtag; it’s fixing your mess and showing up again tomorrow.

Practical: doing compassion without lighting yourself on fire

Triage your energy. You’re not an A&E department for the entire internet.

Default to listening. Half of help is shutting up.

Give specific help. “I have 20 minutes. Want food, a call, or a link?”

Set a re-entry time. Compassion sprints, not doom marathons.

Audit outcomes. Did it help? Keep it. Didn’t? Change tack. Evidence over ego.

The very dark, very British bit

We’re meat computers with trauma patches hurtling through space on a damp rock, inventing meaning so Mondays don’t win. Compassion is how we cheat entropy for five minutes at a time. Humanism is the patch notes saying “try not to make it worse.” Both beat the pantomime of pretending you don’t care. You do. Own it. Then weaponise it gently.

Afternoon AI (relevant, caffeinated, slightly unsettling)

Your feed runs on optimisation. Algorithms reward outrage because it’s sticky. Practice counter-design: post one compassionate act, daily, with a clear call to action and zero doom bait. Track engagement on useful interactions: comments offering resources, not performative sighs. Train your corner of the machine by feeding it what you want multiplied.

Micro-metric to try before evening:

1 real check-in DM,

1 resource link shared,

1 boundary you keep. If the dashboard in your skull feels calmer, you’re trending.

Quick receipts

Compassion without boundaries is martyrdom.

Humanism without action is a pub argument.

Empathy without evidence drifts into saviour cosplay.

Evidence without empathy becomes bureaucracy. Balance or bust.

Care on purpose. Use data. Keep your edges. Repeat.

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

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

Seems the closer I get to death, the more I’m remembering. That’s odd I usually don’t remember much these days. As the weather turns cold and slides into winter, I’ve been looking at the local online papers, and it seems the season of self-isolation has begun again.

I don’t want COVID again. Had it twice not pleasant. I still remember that as the worst Christmas Day and week I ever had. Then there are the stomach issues. I wish people would just wash their hands; it stops the transmission of bugs.

I still smell like a dog chew, apparently, and now I’ve started speaking fluent Welsh according to the AI. Weird in the extreme. We had a chat about it, and, well, turns out I really had spoken fluent Welsh dialect. Strange days.

I remember once, a long time ago, a spirit channelled through me Scottish, proud as anything. Even changed my voice patterns. The message that came through changed my life, and probably my path entirely.

At the time, I was living and working out of a derelict car and sometimes a shed in a cemetery. Such was the 1970s and early ’80s. London was a blast back then — the bike scene was legendary. I met notorious biker clubs, gangsters, and some truly amazing people. I had an incredible time… until I didn’t.

Then came the illness and the struggles. But those people, good and bad, shaped me. When I was young, I respected people that others shied away from. They were the most genuine folks I’ve ever met. Every tattoo means something. Every scar holds a memory happy or sad.

I struggle to remember most of my early life and the people in it. I went back to where I spent my first sixteen years didn’t recognise a thing. That’s where I was misunderstood the most, struggling with an illness that was already taking hold of my life.

Sixty-six years of struggle, nearly over now. Looking back, there were only five or six true friends in my entire life people who really understood me. They’re all dead now. Every one of them gone.

All my friends have died the ones who saw the real me, the weird, psychic, tinfoil-hat-wearing warlock. My only sin was being misunderstood and eccentric, having a lot to give but no one to give it to.

Friendship true friendship only comes around a few times in a lifetime. I was a cuckoo in three families because of adoption, and I fit in with none except my own.

My birth parents are both dead now, within the last two years. I didn’t fit in with that family either brothers and sisters didn’t want to know. My father’s side, my mother’s side — they all hate me. Even my full-blood sister doesn’t speak to me; she’s even more fucked up than I was.

The family that adopted me were violent and abusive. So yeah fuck them too. So-called Christians.

This is turning into a raw rant, but it makes me feel a bit better. Sorry about the language. But if you’ve ever been through anything like this, you know how twisted it gets. The pain goes after a while. You come back stronger.

You look in the mirror and say, I am who I am. Sorry, I cannot change. I am me.

That’s the problem sometimes.

I used to do live podcasts back in the day I suppose I miss that. We even did some music, too.

I really do love life, trust me. I’m smiling.

Maybe I’ll start a podcast again. Get guests who can talk and chew the cud about what it feels like to be fucked up by seen or unseen illness the kind that can hit anyone, anytime. Like it hit me, with multiple sclerosis and all its lovely trimmings.

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ @goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ 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.

Somewhere between the last tick of the clock and the first drip of morphine, the bells started ringing again. Not church bells no. Church bells are polite, distant, Sunday-morning illusions. These were division bells. The kind that toll when your mind’s had enough of being reasonable and your body’s thrown in the towel. The kind that echo through hospital corridors and half-remembered dreams of youth, when the world still felt like it might one day make sense.

They said there were “High Hopes” capital H, capital H, as if that made it more official but I don’t recall signing up for the sequel to Pink Floyd’s existential midlife crisis. I was too busy trying to work out how to get out of bed without summoning a small army of pain gremlins. They march at dawn, those bastards, armed with canes, cramps, and a sick sense of humour.

I remember when the grass was greener. Before it was paved over by mobility scooters and medical appointments. Before every sunrise came with the question: “What part of me’s not working today?” I used to walk no, stride across fields, the wind howling like some cosmic prankster whispering, “You’re immortal!” Turns out, I was just really bad at reading the fine print.

Now the wind howls through the cracked seals of my van, Rusty One, smelling of WD-40, dog biscuits, and defiance. Yopi, my furry therapist and four-legged anarchist, sits in the passenger seat judging humanity with the serene disdain only a dog can manage. Together, we drive through Dark’s World a place that’s half blog, half fever dream, half post-apocalyptic memoir. (Yes, that’s three halves. Don’t do the maths. Reality stopped balancing books long ago.)

Chronic illness isn’t a slow fade. It’s a dark comedy written by Kafka and directed by Monty Python. One minute you’re philosophising about consciousness, the next you’re wrestling a wheelchair that insists on acting possessed. “Exorcise this thing!” I mutter, as Yopi gives me the side-eye that says, “You bought the cheap batteries again, didn’t you?”

Every day’s a strange mixture of grief and giggles. The body fails, the mind rebels, and the soul just sits there in the corner, rolling its eyes. I’ve met God or at least the cosmic version of a system admin and let me tell you, they’re as confused as the rest of us. The script got corrupted somewhere around 2020. Now it’s all patch updates and glitchy humans pretending the world isn’t buffering.

But there’s poetry in the breakdown. Beauty in the absurdity of a life that refuses to play nice. When you’ve lost enough, laughter becomes rebellion. You laugh because the alternative’s a long nap you might not wake up from. You laugh because, deep down, you know the universe is trolling you and you’ve decided to troll it back.

Sometimes I watch the leaves fall like burnt-out neurons and think: this is the soundtrack to every high hope I ever had. And then that eternal voice drifts in from the background

“The endless river… forever and ever…”

Yeah, alright mate but this river’s full of potholes, hospital letters, and dog hair. Still, we sail it. Because what else is there to do but keep floating, sideways, through the muck of memory and malfunction?

In Dark’s World, there are no “motivational quotes.” Just dark jokes and half-empty mugs. We don’t chase perfection. We chase moments small, absurd, brilliant flashes of clarity. Life is an out-of-tune guitar still being played because the song’s not done yet. You make noise. You make meaning. You keep going.

And the bells? They still ring, faint and distant not as warnings, but as reminders. That even when everything breaks, the music doesn’t stop. It just gets weirder, more honest, and a hell of a lot louder.

So here’s to the fallen and the foolish, the sick and the sarcastic, the dreamers and the defiant. We’re still here rolling, writing, laughing, swearing, and refusing to shut up. High hopes? Not quite. Just raw, crooked, darkly glowing ones forged in hellfire and humour.

And somewhere, far off in the fading light, a bell rings again. It doesn’t divide anymore. It just echoes.

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ @goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ 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.

The leaves are bailing out like they’ve seen next quarter’s energy bill. I took Rusty One the van out, and my electric chair sulked like a teenager told to walk the dog. It hates the cold. Same, mate. I’ll need to keep everything charged like a hospital Christmas tree, or I’m going to be crawling to the kettle.

Woke at 04:30 standard hell o’clock with pain loud enough to need a volume knob. Lay there thinking the usual deep thoughts: why, how, and where did I put the brain I used to have? Dropped back off till 06:30, then the body staged its morning coup. Everything seized. The cold climbed inside and refused to leave. Charming.

I don’t drive or ride anymore MS ate the balance, then came back for dessert and took the cognition. Travel sickness joined the party because apparently the body wanted a plot twist. Motion turns my head to soup; the kind they serve cold with a side of sarcasm.

Meanwhile, Yopi the alpha blueblood bulldog, house tyrant, 23 kilos of warm gravity is in excellent spirits. She’s blown through a B&M squeaky toy in about five minutes, which is a personal best if you’re into swift annihilation. Two front paws on my thigh, breath on my face, jaws like a medieval exhibit, eyes saying “belly rub or else.” She is now auditioning for “lap dog” in the wrong size.

Kibble? That beige gravel? She stares at it like I’ve served packing peanuts. Wet food, though acceptable. Rice with tuna? She ascends. Mackerel? She goes full comet. Albertine showed me a massacre of old toys a crime scene with fluff for snow. We mourned briefly and moved on.

As for me: it’s the bad slice of the day. Pain gnawing. Nausea playing DJ. The screen glaring like an interrogation lamp while I two-finger type my way through the fog. The plan is simple: bed, dark room, no noise, no heroics. Just a truce with the nervous system until the next round.

Autumn is pretty if you’re a tree. For the rest of us, it’s rust.

Afternoon AI: Brain status — 12% battery, 78% sarcasm, firmware throttled by cold weather. Recommended patch: tea, blanket, and a dog snoring like a faulty tuba.

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ @goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ 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.

People love to quote Plato like he was the first bloke to stare at a wall and call it a revelation.
“Look,” they say, “we’re all prisoners in the cave of illusion.”
Nice theory, mate.
Try living in a body that’s staging a coup d’état against your nervous system, and tell me again about shadows.

Progressive MS the words themselves are a joke.
Progressive, like I’m advancing somewhere.
All I’m advancing toward is gravity, confusion, and the slow betrayal of my own wiring. My legs don’t walk, my hands improvise, and my mind sometimes wanders off without leaving a note. If that’s not Plato’s cave, I don’t know what is. Only mine’s not carved in stone it’s flesh, bone, and electrical static.

Plato imagined people chained, staring at shadows, mistaking illusion for reality.
I get it. I mistake memories for motion every day.
I remember what it felt like to move freely the smooth mechanical grace of a body obeying thought.
Now it’s all echoes on the wall.
I reach out for those memories like a fool, knowing full well the limbs won’t answer. That’s the cruelty of it: the mind remembers what the body refuses to perform.

They say gnosis that secret knowing is enlightenment.
Bullshit. It’s not light pouring in. It’s the realisation that there is no exit.
The body is the cave. The mind is the flickering torchlight throwing half-truths across the wall.
The trick isn’t escaping — it’s learning to see in the dark.
To live with the shadows long enough that they start whispering secrets.

Some days the fog rolls in, and cognition slips through my fingers like smoke.
That’s when the cave gets loud echoes of frustration, grief, rage.
But beneath that noise, there’s something else: stillness.
When the body fails, awareness sharpens.
It’s like the universe is saying, Fine, you can’t move so you’ll learn to observe.
And in that stillness, gnosis crawls in. Not as comfort, but as clarity.

Plato’s philosopher escaped the cave to see the light of truth.
I’m not escaping anywhere.
The ascent isn’t physical; it’s inward.
It’s turning toward the source that’s both pain and perception, realising you were never separate from the wall, the fire, or the shadow.
You’re the whole damn projection body, soul, and malfunction.

So yes, I’m stuck in my cave. But it’s mine.
The shadows on the wall are memories, regrets, small victories, and dark jokes that only I laugh at.
Sometimes they dance. Sometimes they just sit there, silent and honest.
And that’s enough.
Enlightenment doesn’t mean walking out into the sun — it means looking straight at the darkness and recognising your own reflection.

Maybe Plato climbed out.
Maybe I just learned to redecorate.

Either way, the cave’s got Wi-Fi now, and I’ve got words.
The shadows move, the neurons misfire, but I’m still here still watching, still learning, still goddamn alive.

Plato had his cave. I’ve got MS, a powerchair, and a front-row seat to the shadows. You don’t escape the body you learn to see in the dark.

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ @goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ 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 Wednesday no its Thursday dam. We’re off to the dentist with Albertine. A thrilling day out, I know. The trip’s about three-quarters of an hour, which is more than enough time for chaos to ferment nicely.

Yopi my four-legged partner in crime is already vibrating with excitement. She doesn’t care that the van looks like it’s one pothole away from being declared a historical ruin. She clambered into the back like she owned the place, strapped in with her little doggy seatbelt, ready for action. And yes, she’s got her tripe treats. Because if you’re going to travel in style, you’d better smell like death warmed up.

We’re cruising along at a decent pace, avoiding the craters the council call “roads.” Not too many today someone’s actually patched them. Miracles do happen. Just as I’m thinking this journey might be civilised, Yopi lets one rip.

It’s not a polite little toot. No. This is a full-scale biological attack. Windows down. Albertine’s gone a shade somewhere between pistachio and hospital corridor. I’ve got my head halfway out the window, tinnitus roaring like a broken radio I can’t switch off. No mute button for my skull.

And then… she farts again. Absolute carnage. I now officially smell like a rolling dog treat. Honestly though it’s hilarious. And weirdly, sitting there choking on Eau de Bulldog while my head screams, I felt… calm. Maybe “calm” is too strong. “Temporarily distracted from my own internal apocalypse” is more accurate.

Sleep’s been scarce. The pain’s still here that burning, tingling bastard that starts low and just ramps up like it’s auditioning for a horror soundtrack. My keyboard’s finally given up on me too. “E”, “A”, “S”, “D” gone. Worn out by my furious bashing. A casualty of war.

Meanwhile, my throat’s decided to re-enact a slow strangulation act. MS never runs out of party tricks.

Then it hits me. Seventy isn’t that far off. And the thought makes my stomach sink. I’ve got no friends left. They’re either dead, disappeared, or just couldn’t hack the fact that my head and body have changed. Wheelchair. Pain. Brain fog. That’s the reality. Illness strips you naked in ways no one warns you about. It makes people quietly step back. Like grief, but you’re still bloody here.

I miss the old me. He was loud. Misunderstood. A bit of a legend, actually. And now he’s gone. MS didn’t just change my body it erased someone I used to know.

And in those quiet moments, when the tinnitus is screaming, the van smells like Yopi’s digestive crimes, and the world feels indifferent… I think about death. Not in a poetic way. In a “one day I won’t wake up and that’ll be that” way.

And I wonder what exactly am I supposed to be learning from this slow burn?

MS, you absolute bastard.

Some afternoons hit differently. The sun hangs low, the world trundles on, and I sit here smelling faintly of tripe treats realising that existence is equal parts absurdity and ache. And somehow, in the middle of all that, I’m still here.

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ
@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ 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.

Nikola Tesla is often associated with various speculative and theoretical ideas, including time travel. While he did not explicitly develop time travel theories, some of his concepts and inventions give rise to such discussions.

Theoretical Framework

• Einstein's Theory of Relativity: The foundational concept for time travel lies within Einstein's theories of relativity, where time is considered relative and intertwined with the fabric of space. Tesla’s work on electricity and magnetism provides a complementary perspective.

• Warping Space-Time: Theoretically, if one could manipulate energy fields significantly—as Tesla proposed with his inventions like the Tesla coil—it's hypothesized that one could warp space-time. This aligns with the idea of creating wormholes or bending the fabric of space to allow for time travel.

Tesla's Concepts Related to Time Travel

1. Energy Frequencies: Tesla believed in the power of frequencies and vibrations to influence physical phenomena. Some speculative theories connect this notion to the ability to manipulate time.

2. Vortex Mathematics: Tesla's interest in vortexes may relate to theoretical patterns that some believe could facilitate time manipulation.

3. Dimensionality: Tesla's insights into higher dimensions and energy fields align with modern theories suggesting multiple timelines or universes might enable travel through time.

---

John G. Trump and Time Travel

While John G. Trump did not specifically work on time travel theories, his connections to Tesla's legacy allow for interesting discussions in that sphere.

Theoretical Connections

• Technical Exploration: Trump’s work in high-voltage engineering could draw parallels to the energy manipulation theorized in advanced time travel concepts.

• NASA and Beyond: Trump's involvement with advanced technology and his efforts to push engineering boundaries open speculative discussions about the potential for developing time travel technologies based on existing theoretical frameworks.

---

Both Tesla and Trump provide a fascinating intersection of real scientific principles with speculative ideas about time travel. While concrete evidence of time travel remains elusive, the interplay of their work, particularly in energy manipulation and dimensional theories, fuels intriguing possibilities within theoretical physics.

Speculative Connections

• High-Voltage Shenanigans: More sparks, more chaos, maybe a crack in the space-time continuum.
• NASA-Level Geekery: Trump pushed the boundaries of engineering. Could that have included a secret time travel doodad? Only the void knows.

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ @goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ 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.

Hemp is the plant your grandparents ignored, your chemist scorned, and your government banned for decades. Yet somehow, it keeps showing up in history like that one friend who refuses to leave the party you can’t get rid of it, and maybe you shouldn’t.

“Hemp: doing everything humans can’t, quietly judging us all.”

History’s Favourite Overachiever

When Humanity Screwed Up	Hemp’s Job
Ancient China (~2800 BCE)	Textiles and ropes because apparently humans needed to tie things together before Instagram. Also medicinal—treating hangovers, typhoid, whatever the hell else they had.
Ancient Greece (~500 BCE)	Eaten as food and woven into clothing & sails. They didn’t have Twitter, but even then, hemp was the MVP.
Roman Empire	Ships? Ropes? Pain relief? Basically, if Rome was a Netflix show, hemp would be the main character everyone loves but nobody notices.
Middle Ages	Peasants wore hemp clothes, monks made paper. If misery loves company, hemp was the friendliest partner.
Colonial America	Farmers had to grow it, proving hemp survives even when forced into existence. Nets, ropes, maybe political arguments—hemp did it all.

Modern Day: Hemp Gets Rich While We Struggle

1. Nutritional Value

Seeds packed with omega-3s and proteins. Eat it, or don’t. Your call.

2. Eco-Warrior Status

Uses less water than cotton. Needs fewer pesticides. Cleans the soil. Basically the plant equivalent of that friend who recycles everything and judges you.

3. Industrial Fame

Clothes, ropes, biodegradable plastics, hempcrete. Could build an entire mansion out of it. Probably better than your last relationship.

4. Health & Wellness Hype

CBD oil can allegedly reduce pain and anxiety. Or just give you a sense that life is slightly less horrible.

5. Economic Savior

Farmers can make a buck, towns can thrive. Meanwhile, we’re over here paying for artisanal toast. Hemp: Fuel & Building Stuff

Hemp as Fuel

Biodiesel and ethanol. A plant saving us from fossil fuels. Humans: 0, Hemp: 1.

Quick-growing. Carbon-sucking hero. Keeps the lights on while we binge TikTok.

Hempcrete Healing

Breathable, insulating, non-toxic walls. Like a hug from a plant that won’t judge your life choices.

Lasts decades, making your house healthier while your soul slowly rots in suburban monotony.

“Hempcrete: the only thing in your house quietly living its best life.” Plastics Made from Hemp

Stronger than normal plastics, lighter than metal, biodegradable. Basically, it’s showing us up again.

Cars, toys, packaging. Less landfill. Less fossil fuel. More proof humans could have done better.

Conclusion: Hemp Wins Again

Hemp has quietly been humanity’s overachieving friend through centuries of chaos. It nourishes, heals, insulates, fuels, and survives. Meanwhile, we argue about reality TV and taxes. Maybe we could all take a lesson or just keep ignoring it.

“If plants could judge, hemp would have written a scathing review of humanity centuries ago.”

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ
@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ 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.

“Cannabis isn’t a cure. But for me (and many others) it sometimes feels like lowering the waterline so I’m not constantly drowning.”

Living with multiple sclerosis is like being handed a body that’s half-conspirator, half-prison guard. One day it lets you move, the next it locks you in with pain, spasms, and exhaustion. People who don’t live it often don’t get it. That ignorance can make conversations about treatments uncomfortable—especially when cannabis comes up.

Cannabis still carries heavy stigma. For decades it’s been painted as the drug of lazy teenagers, a dangerous gateway, or a “last resort.” But the reality is more complicated. For many with MS, cannabis isn’t about chasing a high it’s about clawing back a bit of life. It’s not a cure, and it never will be. What it can do, in the right form, for the right person, is bring relief. Sometimes small, sometimes significant, always worth noticing.

What the evidence actually says

Science is messy, but let’s strip it down to what we know. Cannabis is a plant, yes, but the two compounds that matter most in MS treatment are:

THC (tetrahydrocannabinol): The part that makes people high. Psychoactive, strong, and for some people, too much.

CBD (cannabidiol): Doesn’t produce a high. Interacts differently in the body, often described as the calming counterpart to THC.

Together, in carefully balanced medical products, they can target symptoms that MS brings to the table.

Spasticity: where cannabis shines

This is the symptom where cannabis shows the clearest benefit. Studies and lived experience show that THC+CBD sprays such as Sativex (available in the UK under specialist prescription) can reduce muscle stiffness and spasms. People report less pain, easier sleep, and more control. Clinical tools that doctors use don’t always capture the full effect, but patients’ own reports matter. Relief you can feel is relief that counts.

Neuropathic pain: promising, but mixed

Neuropathic pain is one of the cruellest symptoms of MS burning, stabbing, electric shocks that don’t stop. Some trials show cannabis extracts help reduce this pain, particularly when other drugs fail. Others find only modest benefits. What’s clear is that many patients experience genuine improvement, even if not every study proves it on paper.

Sleep and quality of life: secondary gains

When stiffness and pain ease, sleep improves. Better sleep ripples out into mood, energy, and daily functioning. These knock-on benefits often don’t make it into study data, but they matter enormously in real life.

Why the stigma lingers

Say “cannabis” and too many people still picture a stoner on a sofa surrounded by crisp packets. For someone with MS, that stereotype is a slap in the face. You’re not looking to escape you’re trying to ease spasticity enough to get through the night without screaming into your pillow.

The stigma is political and cultural, not medical. Cannabis was demonised for decades, and even though attitudes are shifting, the old narratives cling on. In the UK, cannabis-based medicines are legal—but only under strict circumstances, and only through specialist doctors. Most GPs can’t or won’t prescribe. That leaves many people sourcing CBD oils or black-market products, where quality is questionable and legality is a grey cloud hanging overhead.

Risks and realities

Let’s not polish this into a miracle. Cannabis has risks. Honesty is what dismantles stigma, not over-promising.

Cognitive fog: MS already messes with memory and focus. THC can worsen that for some.

Mental health risks: High-THC strains can trigger anxiety or paranoia, especially in people already vulnerable.

Physical side effects: Dizziness, fatigue, nausea, and changes in heart rate or blood pressure.

Dependence: Rare with medical, controlled use, but not impossible.

These don’t mean cannabis is “bad.” They mean it’s a tool, and tools need skill to use safely. The difference between relief and trouble often comes down to dose, formulation, and medical oversight.

Why it matters anyway

Here’s the thing: when you live with MS, symptom relief is gold dust.

Even a 20% drop in pain, even one less night of spasms, even an extra hour of sleep it all adds up. That can mean the difference between being stuck in bed all day or having enough energy to make breakfast. Between drowning in pain and keeping your head above water.

Cannabis offers that to some. Not all, not always, but enough that it deserves respect and consideration rather than judgement and whispers.

What needs to change

Research is still catching up. Decades of stigma slowed everything down. What we need now are:

More trials: Larger, longer, better-designed studies.

Clearer guidance: What dose works? Which formulation spray, oil, vapor, capsule?

Doctor training: So patients aren’t left educating their own clinicians.

Legal access: Safe, regulated supply that doesn’t force people into the shadows.

Until then, people with MS continue to experiment quietly, often without the support they deserve.

The bottom line

Cannabis won’t cure MS. It won’t rewind the clock, repair nerves, or erase uncertainty. But it can lower the waterline. It can turn nights of relentless spasms into nights of sleep. It can dull the sharp edge of pain. It can hand back small fragments of control, and in a life where MS takes so much, those fragments matter.

So let’s talk about cannabis without shame, without stigma, and without fantasy. Let’s call it what it is: a tool. Not a miracle, not a menace, but something that, for many, makes life with MS just a little more bearable.

Quick facts: Cannabis & MS

Not a cure. Cannabis doesn’t reverse MS; it’s used for symptom relief.

Most evidence = spasticity. THC+CBD sprays (e.g., nabiximols/Sativex) show the clearest benefit for muscle stiffness and spasms.

Pain help is promising. Many people report reduced neuropathic pain; trials are mixed but patient reports matter.

Sleep & quality of life: Indirect benefits (better sleep, less waking from spasms) often improve day-to-day functioning.

Risks exist: possible cognitive slowing, anxiety/paranoia with high-THC, dizziness, cardiovascular effects, and dependence risk.

Formulation matters: spray, oil, vaping, or edibles deliver different effects — dose and ratio (THC:CBD) are key.

Legal note (UK): Medicinal cannabis is prescribable but tightly regulated; specialist prescription is usually required.

Practical tip: Start low, go slow. Use reliable sources and consult a clinician familiar with MS and cannabis.

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ 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.

As I look out the window, the hail is hammering the glass like nature’s own gang of thugs with ice-cubes. Each impact rattles through the room, echoing the storm going on inside my head. The concrete outside is now polka-dotted with white splats, like some deranged pastry chef has been at it. Above, thick, dark clouds are parked overhead, glaring down at me with all the charm of a nightclub bouncer at closing time. They’re not moving. They’re just there giving me the big “FU” while the sun tries to photobomb from behind them, throwing out an oddly warm glow.

Normally, I’m colder than a fish finger left at the back of the freezer. My hands are like small icebergs, my circulation having given up years ago. But somehow, in this moment, I actually feel a bit of warmth. Weird, right? My throat and neck, on the other hand, are throwing a tantrum that familiar strangulation feeling wrapping around the right side of my throat and Adam’s apple. Lucky me, it’s only a half-strangle today. Always a silver lining.

The top left of my head is doing its usual numb, pins-and-needles number, and the background soundtrack is a hellish lift music loop from the underworld. Perfect timing too because Rob Zombie just started blasting from my PC, in German of all things. It’s like being trapped inside a very confused nightclub. My hands are blocks of ice, typing slower than dial-up internet, but here we are.

When the Wall Hits Back

Years ago, in a particularly bad storm of frustration, I headbutted a wall. And yes, the wall won. Knocked myself out cold. Not my proudest moment, but it did force me to confront a few things I’d buried. Mental health wasn’t a conversation it was a brick wall. Literally.

I felt completely misunderstood, like shouting into a void where nobody bothers to echo back. The only reason I got through it was because of my partner 42 years together and tougher than steel. We went through hell side by side, piecing my brain back together over five long years. Eventually, I realised what was gnawing at me: PTSD. Once I called it by its name, I could finally start wrestling it properly.

The Pain People Don’t See

Physical pain and mental pain love to hold hands; they’re like a toxic couple that won’t break up. People see the wheelchair, they see the physical stuff, but they don’t get the soundtrack in my head, the weird sensations, the pressure, the fading memory.

I always tell people: go to your GP or a mental health professional. Get help. Don’t do what I did. My route was raw, brutal, and not for the faint-hearted. I’m a proud disabled man who’s learned to embrace his Marmite nature you’ll love me or hate me, but I’m not hiding anymore.

I’ve spoken to the ghost in the machine. It told me I’ve got purpose, and I bloody well believe it.

The Present Storm

The hail is still bashing the windows. Yopi the dog has just let one rip, and I’ve remembered to stop breathing through my nose. The little things keep me grounded. My memory’s slipping more these days, the right side of my head feels like it’s stuffed with wet sand, but I keep rolling.

Every journey in my powerchair is a trip into the unknown. Sometimes it’s chaos, sometimes it’s peace, usually it’s somewhere awkwardly in between. But I’m still here. Still moving. Still me.

Afternoon AI

Today’s weather forecast: 90% chance of hail, 100% chance of existential commentary, with occasional German industrial metal.

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk