sick

Now, you'd think being adopted would make you feel special, wouldn't you? Plucked from the masses. Chosen. Wanted. Like some sort of limited-edition porcelain doll — or at least a slightly bruised Cabbage Patch Kid on the clearance shelf. Especially when the couple adopting you were the well-meaning, late-blooming, churchgoing sort. A pair who left it a bit too long to do things the natural way and turned instead to the almighty bureaucracy of the adoption system. We were, allegedly, pillars of the community. Church on Sundays. Bible verses in frames. Smiling politely while dead inside. One of those families people described as “nice” — which, as we all know, is English for deeply repressed and probably hiding something. But let me tell you now — there was nothing particularly special about my experience. No grand celebration. No “you were chosen” speech bathed in soft lighting. Just the cold hard weirdness of being handed over like a package someone ordered by mistake and then kept out of obligation. This is my story, or at least the bits I can remember. Thanks to MS chewing through my memory like a moth in a charity shop wool bin, I’ll stick to what I know actually happened. No dramatics. No supposition. Just the highlight reel of what went down in the first 21 years of life with my “caring, loving” adopters. (Heavy on the sarcasm. Light on the caring.) I was born in 1959 — glamorous era of grey fog, casual repression, and processed meat — to Shirley Chester and Roland White. My grand debut took place in a mother and baby unit near Windsor, Berkshire. Very posh. Very discreet. The kind of place designed to make “problems” go away quietly. Now, as for dear old dad — Roland — he wasn’t exactly the pipe-and-slippers family man type. No, Roland was what you might call a prolific contributor to the UK’s secret sibling population. Six foot six, blue eyes, and apparently charming enough to talk the legs off a barstool (and then climb on). A proper lady-killer, in the sort of “charming bastard” way that leaves behind an impressive trail of broken hearts, confused women, and half-siblings you’ll never meet. A walking DNA test ad, really. He was one of those men whose legacy wasn’t love or honour, but volume. If my mum was one of many, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised. Bloke probably thought commitment was a French cheese. He was, quite frankly, a cocky sod with a weak zipper and no follow-through. Couldn’t raise a child, but could apparently raise eyebrows in every pub south of Birmingham. Anyway. After that fleeting start in Windsor, I entered the warm and loving arms of the Church of England’s Waifs and Strays adoption society — an organisation with a name that sounds like it was invented by Charles Dickens in a particularly bleak mood. I always thought that was a bit rich, honestly. “Waif”? Cheers for that. Makes me sound like a malnourished chimney sweep rescued by God-fearing benefactors instead of, you know, a tiny, confused infant with absolutely no say in the matter. At six weeks old, I was scooped up and spirited away. I seem to remember strange people looming over me — the kind of memory that sits somewhere between a fever dream and a bad 1960s public information film. You may find that odd. People say, “You can’t remember anything from when you were six weeks old.” Well, I beg to differ. I was breastfed by my birth mother — bonded in those crucial first weeks. That kind of connection isn’t something you file away and forget. That bond stayed. Unbroken. Quiet. But there. The earliest memory I have — and it's a cracker — is of being in a cot, staring out into a room filled with people. Adults. Talking in that dull, droning way that adults do when they think babies aren’t paying attention. But I was. And I could understand them. That’s the weird bit, I know. I was trying to speak back — but what came out were just howls. Screams. Imagine the frustration of having something to say and only being able to scream it into the void. Pretty much set the tone for the next two decades, to be honest. The room was grand, in that ‘drafty Victorian mausoleum’ sort of way. Tall sash windows. Curtains like theatre drapes — thick, dark purple, like something draped over a coffin. They fascinated me. Probably the most emotionally available thing in the house at the time. That place was called Broxton Manor. Sounds fancy, doesn’t it? Like it should come with servants and scandal. But to me, it was just the first stop in a life that never quite lined up with the story I was sold. The adoptive parents — I won’t name them. Not out of respect. Just out of sheer lack of interest in giving them more attention than they gave me most days. They’re dead now, anyway, along with most of the cast of this grim little play. But I’ll tell you this much: that early image, of me screaming in that room, desperate to be heard by people more concerned with appearances than emotion — well, that one stayed with me. So no, adoption didn’t make me feel chosen. It made me feel processed. More to come. The curtain hasn't even lifted yet.

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

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

Today’s ride? Oh, only the finest in terrifying neurological tourism. Think: one-way ticket to Neuro-Nowhere on the fastest fracking ghost train the NHS never ordered. It started subtly, like all horror stories do — a bit of brain fog, just a hint. You know, that charming little mental haze where you try to remember why you walked into the kitchen and end up staring into the fridge wondering if milk is a concept. But then, WHAM — the fog rolls in thick, like some straight-to-DVD horror film, complete with dodgy scenery and a soundtrack composed entirely of your own tinnitus. My head? Once a finely tuned Ryzen processor — top-spec, liquid-cooled brilliance. Now? I’m a dusty old 486 with a cracked fan and a hard drive that sounds like it’s trying to speak in Morse code. Bad sectors? More like bad everything. And then came the glorious MS parade. Step right up for numbness in places you didn’t even know could feel numb. Whole left side: offline. Zero coordination. Like a wet sock full of jelly. That’s the hand I used to write with — now it flops around like it's trying to start a fight with gravity and losing. Muscle spasms? Oh, darling. I'm twitching like a freshly electrocuted squirrel. My legs feel like overcooked spaghetti, while my arms do an interpretive dance I didn’t choreograph. Meanwhile, pins and needles prance up and down my limbs like they’ve got somewhere better to be. Then there’s the tremors — the sort that make you question whether you’re anxious or auditioning to be a malfunctioning animatronic at a forgotten seaside theme park. Add in fatigue so heavy it could anchor the Titanic, and you’ve got yourself a full-house bingo card of chronic chaos. Let’s not forget vision problems. My eyes are doing a sexy little in-and-out-of-focus routine, because who needs depth perception when you can feel like you're watching your life through a bootleg VR headset taped to a microwave? Balance? Coordination? Gone. I'm walking like a baby giraffe on a treadmill greased with WD-40 and regret. Gravity has declared war on me. I’ve fallen over more times today than a British politician answering a straight question. Oh and the bladder — everyone's favourite. It’s like a confused toddler. Sometimes silent. Sometimes shouting. Never at the right moment. Cheers for that. Of course, I had the nausea, too — and when I say "had," I mean projectile vomited like Satan’s own party cannon. Took a nice 20-minute break to redecorate the bathroom in eau de horror, came back covered in the stuff, laughing like a drunk banshee at a funeral disco. Shaking, sweating, spasming, blind-ish, numb-ish, and emotionally somewhere between existential dread and dark comedy gold. If Kafka and Monty Python had a lovechild with a neurological disorder, I’d be the script. Am I worried? Nah. This is Britain. We don’t panic. We just make sarcastic blog posts while quietly falling apart, perhaps accompanied by a lukewarm cuppa and the creeping suspicion that our body's warranty expired three years ago. So here I am. Still riding the neurocoaster. Still laughing. Still shaking like a ferret on MDMA. If this is hell, at least it’s got character. Back soon. Or not. Depends if my right leg decides to go on strike next.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

Ah, multiple sclerosis—the gift that keeps on giving, like a bad hangover that just won’t quit. You’ve got your body playing a game of “What’s Next?” with symptoms that range from the mildly annoying to the utterly ridiculous. And just when you think you’ve got a handle on it, depression waltzes in like it’s the life of the party. Spoiler alert: it’s not. Let’s be real: dealing with MS is like being stuck in a never-ending episode of a soap opera where the plot twists are all terrible. You’re already battling fatigue that makes a sloth look hyperactive, and now your brain decides to join the fray, dragging you down into the depths of despair. It’s like your body is throwing a tantrum, and your mind is right there, cheering it on. “Yes! Let’s make everything worse!” And what’s the cherry on top of this delightful sundae? The charming stigma that comes with mental health issues. You know the type: “Just pull yourself together!” or “Have you tried yoga?” Because, obviously, if you just do a downward dog, your brain will magically stop feeling like a lead weight. It’s not like you’re dealing with a chronic illness or anything. Let’s not forget the joy of explaining to friends and family why you’re not just “feeling a bit down.” It’s like trying to explain quantum physics to a toddler. “No, Auntie Mabel, it’s not just the blues; it’s a full-on existential crisis wrapped in a nice little package of hopelessness.” So, if you’re trudging through the muck of MS and depression, know this: you’re not alone in this grim circus. It’s a dark ride, and while it may feel like you’re stuck in a never-ending loop of despair, at least you can take solace in the fact that you’re part of a club that no one wants to join. Welcome to the madness!

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

• “How to Irritate Your Consultant in Five Easy Steps”—a handy, satirical survival guide for the chronically ill rebel who refuses to behave like a docile NHS statistic: How to Irritate Your Consultant in Five Easy Steps Because illness is hard enough without surrendering your personality too.

Step 1: Arrive Informed—A.K.A. Their Worst Nightmare Before your appointment, read everything. Medical journals, dodgy Reddit forums, patient blogs, the back of your medication box—anything. Then casually drop phrases like “emerging evidence suggests” or “have you seen the latest NICE guidelines update?” Watch the colour drain from their face as they realise you might know what you’re talking about. Bonus points: Quote a study they haven’t read. Wait for the squirm.

Step 2: Refuse to Speak in Bullet Points They love a clean symptom list: “Fatigue. Numbness. Blah blah blah.” Instead, give them the full poetic experience: “It’s like my limbs are made of lukewarm jelly and my brain’s running Windows 95.” They’ll try to summarise it with “patient reports fatigue.” Interrupt with: “No, it’s existential fatigue. There’s a difference.”

Step 3: Make Jokes Oh, they hate this. You’re supposed to be weeping softly, not cracking one-liners. Try these: “So when do I evolve into my final Pokémon form: WobbleSaurus Rex?” “If I fall again, I’ll need a loyalty card for A&E.” “Does this come with a prize for ‘Least Functional Nervous System’?” They’ll either laugh nervously or refer you to psych. Either way, you win.

Step 4: Express Unfiltered Opinions Don't be afraid to question The System™. Say things like: “Do you actually read my notes or is that just for show?” “Gosh, it's wild how I had to chase eight departments for a scan I didn’t want in the first place.” “Do any of you talk to each other, or is this NHS-wide charades?” You’ll see them twitch, possibly make a note that says “difficult.” Wear that badge proudly.

Step 5: Be Consistently Human This is the final nail in the coffin. Cry a little. Laugh mid-sentence. Tell an unrelated story about a pigeon that made you feel seen. Say, “Some days I want to scream into a cushion, but I’d probably miss the cushion and dislocate something.” They won’t know what to do. They prefer data over depth. You’ve brought personhood into their spreadsheet. Unforgivable.

Bonus Round: Refuse to Be Fixed They’ll want a treatment plan, a “solution,” something they can tick off. Say, “I don’t want a cure today. I just want to be understood.” Boom. Consultant meltdown in three... two... one...

In Summary: Be curious. Be messy. Be sarcastic. Be loud in a system that prefers whispers. And never, ever, let them forget that you're not a diagnosis—you’re a whole, infuriating, brilliant human being.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area sick@mylivinghell.co.uk *

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

Here I am again—nobly fused to my chair like some relic of British stubbornness—gazing out of the window at the national weather forecast: wet, with a 100% chance of more wet. If grey skies were a national currency, we’d be laughing all the way to the food bank. Outside, the world carries on with its usual grim determination. Cars hum by on the main road, all in a hurry to get absolutely nowhere worth going. The local train wheezes around the loop like it’s got a purpose—bless it. And then the HSTs roar over the viaduct like they’re auditioning for a midlife crisis on wheels. What are they even rushing for? Everything’s still going to be crap when they get there. And the sheep—oh, the sheep. Standing around in the rain, bleating into the void like drunk students at a philosophy open mic. Not a brain cell between them, just damp wool and existential confusion. Honestly, if reincarnation's real, I must've pissed off someone important. Over all this melodrama, my music plays softly. Well, not so much softly as "pointlessly," because I've already got my own built-in horror soundtrack—tinnitus. That sweet, sweet screech that says “good morning” before I even open my eyes. Sometimes it hums, sometimes it screams, sometimes it sounds like someone’s microwaving a wasp inside my skull. Delightful. I remember when it first began—driving along the A39, minding my own business, when bam, reality decided to turn into a low-budget horror film. Been over ten years now. Ten years of having my own private noise machine jammed into my head. Wouldn't recommend it. As if that wasn’t already enough to make life feel like a practical joke, I’ve got MS too. The balance is shot. The fingers don’t work. The keyboard’s just a decorative item now. I dictate everything into my phone like I’m issuing commands to a particularly thick servant. Flashback time—around 25 years ago, I’m doing the washing up, pretending to be normal. Suddenly I notice the dishwater’s gone red. Thought the tomatoes had gotten out of hand—turns out, I’d stabbed myself in the hand. Didn’t feel a thing. Just stood there wondering if I’d invented blood-flavoured Fairy Liquid. That was just the start. Since then, I’ve had more accidents than a drunk toddler on roller skates. Broke both shoulders falling over. Multiple scars, most of them self-inflicted through sheer bloody-mindedness. Fell off a ladder, got back on it, fell off again. You’d think at some point I’d learn. But no—this is Britain. We don’t quit, we just keep making the same mistakes with added sarcasm. So now, I’ve accepted that my life is part soap opera, part public safety announcement. My body's turned into a rogue machine, and my brain’s mostly fog and loud noises. I don’t fear death—it’s not exactly hiding. Shows up every morning, waving from the corner like an overly familiar neighbour. And still, I sit here. Watching the rain, listening to the sheep, absorbing the relentless mediocrity of everything. It’s not tragic, it’s not heroic—it’s just... Tuesday. Sucks to be me? Oh, absolutely. But hey—if you can’t laugh at your own spectacular misfortune, what’s the point?

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

Ah, medical marijuana—the green leafed miracle that’s somehow both a blessing and a punchline. Let’s dive into this delightful plant that’s been making waves since it was legalized in the UK in 2018. Because, you know, nothing says “we care about your health” quite like a prescription for a plant that’s been around since the dawn of time. The Pharmaceutical Rollercoaster

First off, let’s talk about the pharmaceutical drugs I’ve tried. You know, those little pills that promise to fix everything but instead turn you into a walking side effect machine? I’ve had more adverse reactions than a cat at a dog show. Horrific side effects? Check. Worsening conditions? Double check. It’s like a twisted game of “how much worse can it get?” Spoiler alert: it can get pretty bad. So, after a series of unfortunate events that would make even Lemony Snicket cringe, I decided to ditch the pills that were clearly plotting against me. Enter Medical Marijuana

Now, let’s get to the good stuff—medical marijuana. This isn’t just any old weed; this is the fancy THC oil that’s supposed to be the answer to my prayers. And guess what? It actually helps! Who would’ve thought that a plant could do what a pharmacy full of pills couldn’t? It’s like finding out that the secret to happiness was hiding in your garden all along. The Benefits of THC

So, what’s the deal with THC? Well, it’s the part of the cannabis plant that gets you a bit high, but don’t worry—I’m not permanently floating in a cloud of bliss. Instead, I’m just a bit more relaxed, which is a nice change from the usual tension that comes with living in a body that seems to have declared war on itself. The spasms? Fewer. The pain? More manageable. It’s like having a personal bodyguard that doesn’t mind if you’re still stuck in your wheelchair.

And let’s not forget the added bonus of not having to deal with the nasty side effects that come with traditional medications. No more feeling like a zombie or dealing with the delightful surprise of new health issues popping up like unwanted guests at a party. Just me, my THC oil, and a slightly less miserable existence. A Bit of British Humor

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Isn’t it a bit cheeky to rely on a plant for relief?” Well, in a world where pharmaceuticals can turn you into a human guinea pig, I’d say it’s a bloody genius move. It’s like choosing to sip a nice cup of tea instead of downing a pint of something that tastes like regret.

So, here’s to medical marijuana—the green leafed plant that’s not just a punchline but a genuine source of relief. It’s not a miracle cure, but it’s certainly a step in the right direction. And if it means I can manage my pain without feeling like I’ve been hit by a bus, then I’ll take it. Cheers to that! looking out for a cheap 2hand q100 wheelchair sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

“Many years ago, I was sitting in my wheelchair, minding my own business, when some prat decided to stare at me as though I were some sort of sideshow attraction. I wasn’t in the mood to feed the animals, so I ignored him. But, of course, he carried on, relentless as ever. So, I finally decided to turn my manual wheelchair to face him—no small feat, mind you, as it required the sort of effort usually reserved for a gym session. Anyway, long story short, I eventually upgraded to an electric wheelchair—supposedly the height of luxury. But let’s be honest: it was absolute rubbish. It ended up in wheelchair heaven, alongside all the other overpriced tin cans I’ve wasted money on over the years. They brag about a 20-mile range—utter nonsense. Three miles if you’re feeling optimistic. And as for the handling? Let’s just say there were a few moments that nearly saw me flattened by clueless drivers. Good fun, really. Still, I do try to be polite—sometimes even managing a half-hearted smile if I’m feeling generous. Mind you, my brain’s always off on some tangent—‘that’s just my head for you’, as they say. Anyway, I finally rolled over to this bloke and asked, ever so nicely, ‘Do we have a problem here?’ He started spouting off—language not fit for polite conversation—and I stayed calm as you like. Little did he know, I’m no delicate flower. Yes, I’ve got multiple sclerosis, but I’ve also got a wicked laugh and a tendency to surprise. So, I stood up to my full height, took off my shirt (why not, eh?), and said, ‘Let’s have it then.’ He legged it like a startled rabbit. I laughed so hard I nearly fell back into my chair. My balance wasn’t great back then—worse now, if I’m honest. So, that’s that. A little detour in memory lane, with a nod to my mates Warlock Stumuzz and the crew—those were the days. Happy times, even if the wheelchairs were rubbish.” looking out for a cheap 2hand q100 wheelchair sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

Well, it appears the universe has decided I need a front-row seat to the carnival of my own mind. Strange happenings, indeed. I’m left wondering whether I’m teetering on the edge of madness or just auditioning for the part of “eccentric hermit” in some cosmic sitcom. No, I’m not on any of those delightful MS meds, thank you very much. My body seems to view anything remotely pharmaceutical as a personal insult, so I let it run the show. The last time I had the pleasure of a “medication experiment,” it almost landed me an eight-day vacation in the hospital. And, as you can imagine, that wasn’t exactly on my bucket list. Anyway, back to the matter at hand—or perhaps I should say, misfiring nerves at hand. Am I seeing real things or just tripping on my own imagination? Who can say. My brain’s decided it’s time for a foggy intermission, complete with the usual “left-side-of-my-body hates me” encore. Lovely. The cherry on top? My tongue’s throwing a tantrum again with those oh-so-charming spasms, my gut nerves are having a rave, and the tinnitus is cranked up to eleven—like a personal heavy metal concert in my skull. So yes, everything’s perfectly normal around here.

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

Oh, another night in my personal version of Dante’s Inferno—just as delightful as the last. It’s funny how the nights just roll into one giant, sleepless horror show, starring yours truly: the eternally exhausted insomniac. Sleep? Ha! That’s just a luxury for people who aren’t forced to dance to the bladder’s hourly encore performance. And of course, this whole tragicomedy began because I had the sheer audacity to indulge in some sugar-laden jam. Sugar—apparently the mortal enemy of my wretched existence. Add to that the fact that my body decided to go full diva and refuse any animal fats, so now I’m stuck with a vegan diet. Except even the plant oils have formed a personal vendetta against me, turning mealtimes into a game of “Will This Kill Me or Merely Torture Me?” But wait, there’s more! Let’s not forget my lovely companion: multiple sclerosis. Yes, that dear old friend makes sure that pain and spasms are constant guests at this midnight carnival. A twitch here, a stabbing ache there—such delightful party tricks. And of course, the nerves love to join in, turning everything into an electrifying circus of agony. It’s like my entire body is in open revolt—because why the hell not? Dairy? Oh, dairy’s the showstopper. One whiff of it and I’m stuck in an endless cycle of gut-wrenching bathroom performances that would make even the most jaded horror director cringe. There’s nothing quite like losing your insides while your nerves are throwing their own spasm-fueled mosh pit. Sometimes, when the pain’s at its peak and sleep is a distant dream, my mind wanders to that dark, seductive thought: death. Not that I’d actually go there—I cling to life out of sheer stubbornness or maybe spite. But in those raw, bleak moments, it’s hard not to wonder why this is all happening to me. But then again—why the hell not? Life’s a twisted carnival, after all, and every night’s just another ride on this endless, blood-curdling loop. And so I ramble on, because what else is there to do?

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

It's 2 in the morning, and I've managed a whopping 20 minutes of sleep. What a treat! Looks like it's going to be another long night of tossing and turning. Sleep? What’s that? The pain in my stomach and lower intestines is off the charts, and breathing feels like a luxury I can’t afford. I’m just lying here, wondering if I’m going to survive the night. It’s a real joy, let me tell you—staring into the dark, clutching my pillow like it’s a life raft in a storm. Eventually, I might squeeze in a catnap until 6, if I’m lucky. Oh, and let’s not forget the delightful MS nerve pain that’s decided to throw a party in my body. The side of my throat is in spasm, and my left side is completely numb—because who doesn’t love a little extra excitement in the middle of the night? So, yeah, not exactly a good night.

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