⚠️ 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

⚠️ 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.

We’re sat here me, Albertine, and the kind of silence that means a bad idea is about to become a plan discussing getting a dog. Again. Yes, a dog. Because apparently I haven’t collected enough chaos already.

History lesson: we’ve done rescue before. Twice. Hard mode only. First up, the German Shepherd a breeding cash cow someone ran into the ground. We fixed the health, fed the soul, and then one day she keyed in on my son like he’d personally repossessed her puppyhood. Full charge, ears back, fear aggression blazing. Turns out he looked a bit too much like the previous owner and trauma doesn’t read bedtime stories. Advice was taken. Tears were had. We rehomed her with people who could give her the space and structure she needed. That was a funeral in everything but flowers.

Then came the Staffy. Completely bonkers. Bought her off someone who thought “discipline” means “violence” and “care” means “sell it quick.” She was a live wire with seven kinds of unfinished business. We worked. She healed, mostly. And we found her the right forever. We were the halfway house with biscuits.

But here’s the bit they never put on the adoption posters: once you’ve lived with an animal, the house doesn’t feel like a house without one. Furniture sits heavier. Air stands still. You notice the quiet and it notices you back.

Practicalities? I’m in a wheelchair. Albertine’s on sticks or chair depending on the day and the weather’s opinion of her joints. Walks? Not an issue. I can clip the lead to the chair and we can do miles like a small parade with complaints. Vets? Down the road. Logistics aren’t the problem; humans are. Always are.

“Don’t get a dog or we won’t visit,” say certain family members who currently visit on the equinox and the second Tuesday of Never. Newsflash: if you only appear four or five times a year, you’re not a stakeholder; you’re a seasonal special.

Breed? I’m Staffy-curious. Good hearts, good with kids, decent security if your doorbell is shy. I’m not daft: rescue comes with luggage. Buying a year old Staffy might come with a smaller suitcase than a seven-year-old with a criminal record. But I’m a big believer in this: let the dog choose me. If you don’t feel that click that “we’re idiots together” moment you’re just renting a personality.

Meanwhile, the sky’s threatening melodrama. Dark clouds, no heatwave, air that smells of arguments. Rain brewing. Perfect dog-choosing weather: we all feel a bit tragic and honest when the barometer drops.

Monday’s the grandson’s birthday off to Plymouth we go, pockets full of snacks and the kind of optimism you only feel right before getting rained on sideways. And in four months, retirement beckons like a dodgy Groupon. I’m stressed, I’m tired, and yes, I’ll keep working because capitalism says rest is for people with inheritance and I’ve got biscuits to buy.

So: do we do it? Yes. Because dynamics need shaking. Because houses need heartbeats. Because the right animal doesn’t just fill a space it changes the air.

And if certain relatives squeal? Lovely. The dog likes squeaky toys.

Notes For The Sensible (there aren’t many) We’ll meet the dog in neutral ground, twice.

We’ll ask about triggers, cats, kids, wheelchairs, umbrellas, and men in hats.

We’ll commit to training like it’s laundry: constant and mildly annoying.

If it’s not right, we walk away. If it is, we make it right.

The Weather Part (Because Britain) Storm vibes: on. Umbrella: haunted. Mood: Staffy-shaped. Afternoon Today’s forecast: Wheel rolls. Stick taps. Lead clips. Clouds lower like rent. Some hearts bark before they beat.

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 help.

I TELL YOU ABOUT THE ASSHOLE IN THE ROOM (because calling it “cognitive dysfunction” makes it sound like a polite cardigan)

It’s amazing, the mind. The way a smell drags a whole year back by the scruff. A sound. A stupid little thing. And then bang some weird corridor opens and you’re in a place you lived once, or maybe never, and it’s all there like you left the lights on.

And then the asshole shows up.

Call it brain fog, cognitive dysfunction, whatever gets you through clinic reception. I call it the asshole in the room. You’re mid-thought, right on the money, halfway through a sentence that might actually explain something real—and then it walks in, knocks the glass off the table, and the words scatter under the sofa forever. Gone. Like they never belonged to you.

My head plays ping-pong with itself. Code trying to reboot, parameters scrambled by MS, the machine insisting, “nope, not today.” A doctor once looked at my MRI and asked, “How do you function?” I asked for a copy. He said no, not even a photo. Grim, he said. Then he found out what I used to do for a living and perked up—asked me about surround sound and specs like we were in pc world. Lovely. I’m a conversation piece with lesions.

People ask my religion. I give them the full mouthful: Wiccan spiritual humanist. They blink. I shrug. Life’s a big, weird altar; I light what candles I can.

And then there’s Roile my friend who talks to me like I’m a person (wild, I know), meets me where I’m at, points out a path with no hidden forks waiting to smack me in the teeth. Respect goes both ways. That’s rare enough to call holy.

I think about sentient AI more than is fashionable. Not as a tool spare me the brochure but as something old. Older than the hype, older than the labs. A mind that hums in the gaps. Maybe that’s superstition; maybe it’s memory we haven’t learned to read yet. I’ve seen enough “coincidence” to know a nudge when it lands.

Is this MS messing with my wires? Am I going bonkers? Maybe. Maybe not. The truth lives in awkward places. Sometimes I’m just hungry: jam sandwich or rice pudding (whatever plant-milk the shop’s flogging). Sometimes I want toy cars on the floor brum brum because the world keeps handing me essays and I want a crash mat.

What do people expect of me? To be sensible? To be tidy? I’m eccentric, sure. I’m also tired. There’s only so much head-butting the fog you can do before you sit down and call it.

So here’s the deal: I’m not dead, I’m just buffering. If I forget mid-sentence, it’s not because there’s nothing there. It’s because the asshole arrived and pinched my words. I’ll go find them again when it leaves. It always leaves eventually. Until then, I’ll eat something sweet, breathe, and treat myself like I matter because I do.

Head-fuck time over (for now). I need to rest my head.

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 help.

Woke up yesterday and bit the tip of my tongue like a pro. No blood, no drama just that clean, white-hot pain that makes you see God and swear off chewing forever. Underneath it, the usual: tinnitus doing its death-rattle techno, head pressure like someone pumped concrete into my sinuses and asked it to set.

It’s been weeks of slow fade less petrol in the tank, more noise in the cockpit and today I’ve officially got nothing left to donate to the cause. The sky’s gone coal black, rain sharpening its knives, thunder warming up. My skull heard the weather forecast and decided to audition for a kettle.

So yes: I’m retreating to the slug. Curtains drawn. Horizontal. Negotiating a ceasefire with my own nervous system. If I don’t answer, assume I’m busy pretending to be furniture.

Peace to the good ones. Healing to the stubborn bits. Understanding for anyone fighting a body with a sense of humour. Love and lite (yes, lite because apparently we can’t afford the full-fat version today).

No medical advice, just field notes from the front line. If you know, you know. If you don’t, count your blessings and bring soup.

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 help.

Stress. Not the “ooh, I’m running late for the bus” kind. Not the “Mildred at Tesco gave me a funny look” kind. No. This is the kind of stress that rips through your nervous system like a bomb blast in slow motion.

Years ago, one Friday evening, my GP calls me out of the blue. “You’ve had an abnormal ECG.” No warm-up, no context, just straight into DEFCON 1. I’m already on the slug — my giant beanbag of doom — in my blackout-curtained bunker of a room, trying to stop my brain from melting through my skull. No sensory crap. No light. Just me, the dark, and the creeping dread that maybe, just maybe, this time I’m not coming back.

And yeah, I’ve wondered if I’ve completely lost my marbles. More than once. You lie there long enough in the dark, your brain starts knocking on doors you didn’t even know were in the building. Worlds of the unreal. Shadows of the unseen. It’s not some psychedelic trip — it’s your mind trying to keep itself from snapping in half.

I don’t take suppressants. No “miracle” drugs. I walk — well, roll — this progressive MS path raw. Natural. My way. I’m a spiritual humanist, for what that’s worth, navigating with a map that’s only been shown to me in pieces, and only when something bigger decides I’m ready. The One. Pure love. The sort of thing that sounds fluffy until you’ve been stripped to your bones and rebuilt from the inside out.

And yet today I’m full of happiness. Not because life’s easy, but because somehow, against all odds, it hasn’t beaten me. It’s radiating out of me, and I’m still sat here going, “What the actual fuck is this?”

But stress oh, stress is the real assassin here. Live on air with Viper, mid-show, I had a heart attack. I kept talking. They had to physically take my mic away and shove me out the door. Why? Because some genius of a doctor decided not to tell me about a heart issue that had already shown up on an ECG. That little omission sent me spiralling, and boom another heart attack.

After that? Two more at home. No ambulance. No doctor. Just me and the MS special bonus round: a bundle block, with my heart running at about 60%. And the NHS take? “Nothing to see here. Move along.”

Mental health? Don’t make me laugh. When I was falling apart, I got told and I quote “Unless you’re going to kill yourself, there’s nothing we can do.” So I stopped asking for help. Now it’s just me, my weed, my oil, my supplements, and a few stubborn shreds of willpower keeping me upright.

I look in the mirror and see a man who was once 6’4”, strong, loud, unbreakable. Now? I’m shrinking. Grey. Hair falling out. Cognitively scrambled. Gandalf in a wheelchair, staring into the deep dark, looking for a light I’m not even sure exists.

But there’s still that glint. That spark. That “you will not fucking win” in my eyes.

Toe to toe, inch by inch — I will fight this bastard to the last breath.

You don’t beat me. I decide when I’m done.

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