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Well, wasn’t that just delightful. Another evening of bedtime surprises, like a game show where all the prizes are torture devices. Honestly, it was hotter than Satan’s armpit during a heatwave in a sauna. Crawling into bed felt like checking into Hell, room 666, with a complimentary pillow and a welcome spasm.

I lay there, the Human Spasm Machine™, twitching like I was possessed by a caffeinated poltergeist. My throat? Oh, just casually reenacting a scene from The Exorcist. My tongue joined in too—spasming, shooting out like a party blower at a funeral. Except this party was full of pain and the numb tongue made it all the more festive.

Then came the lip bite. Oh yes, proper horror film moment. Bit down hard—no pain, of course, just the iron-rich taste of failure. And with the temperature of any drink being a potential lava experience, I just lay there like a damp breadstick marinating in misery, waiting for the THC-CBD oil to take the edge off. Slowly, things downgraded from “murderous seizure rave” to just being Mr. Asshole at an all-you-can-eat buffet of nerve damage.

Then my bladder piped up. "You need to piss," it said, like some condescending narrator. No catheter in, because clearly I'm not in any state to thread a tube down the Eye of Thunderer (yes, that eye). I tried to sit up—cue electric shocks to the spine like Zeus having a tantrum.

Next thing I know, I'm just sitting there...and the floodgates open. Like a broken dam of dignity. Full-on urine monsoon. No lifeboat.

As if that wasn’t enough of a carnival, my head joined in. Pins and needles danced round the crown like a medieval torture crown. Ears ringing with tinnitus so aggressive, it felt like Motörhead doing one last gig in my skull for their number one fan: Fizzy the Sultry Goblin Girl. And she wanted encores.

And it still goes on, mind you. This isn’t a one-off. It’s not an episode. It’s just a revolving carousel of neurological hell. Sometimes it’s a demon, sometimes just a dickhead. Either way, balance like a drunk on ice. You get used to the absurdity. Sort of.

So here I am, hugging a pillow like a Victorian maiden with consumption, trying not to slip fully into the existential pit. The kind of void where your mind floats off and never bothers to send a postcard. Because this is life with multiple sclerosis: an unpredictable blend of horror, comedy, and tragedy, written by a drunk playwright who thinks misery is edgy.

Cheers to another night in paradise.This is life with multiple sclerosis.

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 ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

              “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                           By storm and silence, I survive.”

Well, the thunderstorm graced us with its presence this afternoon —cracked the sky like a B-movie god and passed over with all the drama of a diva refusing to perform. Barely a splash of rain, just a loud announcement that the heat would continue to cook us slowly like Sunday roasts forgotten in an oven from 1973.

We remain in Air Con Defcon Mode 1, curtains drawn like we're shielding secrets from MI5. The conservatory? Off-limits. It’s currently housing temperatures that only beings from another dimension—or possibly lizards wearing SPF 9000—could survive in. Over 100 degrees. That’s not weather, that’s a war crime.

Open the internal door and the resulting thermal whoosh might melt my magic wand—not a euphemism—just the last shred of my sanity.

Still, silver linings. I stumbled across a chilled flask of aloe vera juice, the one with the juicy bits like nature’s answer to bubble tea. Apparently, aloe’s benefits include:

Hydration (desperately needed)

Soothing inflammation (goodbye, burning skin)

Aiding digestion (because heat messes with everything)

Spiritual realignment with the moon goddess (or so the dodgy websites claim)

I’m here for all of it.

That is, assuming it makes it into my mouth. Currently sporting numb lips and a tongue like a rubber chicken, so drinking is a game of Russian roulette between hydration and bib-level dribble. Spoiler: it was both. Stay classy.

Magnet Fishing: Dreaming Canal Adventures from the Comfort of My Deathtrap Wheelchair On a brighter note, I’ve found purpose. Magnet fishing. Not in practice—my 3-wheeled chariot of doom (read: deathtrap wheelchair) isn’t canal-ready—but in spirit. I now live vicariously through Wim’s Treasure Adventures on YouTube with Wim and the Amsterdam crew.

They’re absolute legends. If you’ve never seen someone fish a rusty bike out of a canal while laughing like a maniac, you haven’t lived. Seriously—funny, wholesome, and weirdly profound at times. Like Bob Ross meets scrap metal.

Brain Fog Incoming — Time for the Magical Green Fix Now the brain fog has rolled in like a disappointed foghorn, and it’s time for my medicinal marijuana and THC-CBD oil combo. A touch of the cosmic green before I melt into my chair and pretend this is all a really weird fever dream.

Happy Solstice, my crispy friends. Stay chilled—both metaphorically and literally.

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 ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

           “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                    By storm and silence, I survive.”

Posted: 21/06/2025

Yes, it’s that time of year again. The Summer Solstice — or as I like to call it, “The Sun's passive-aggressive final warning before it starts buggering off again.”

Today, the Northern Hemisphere is bathed in the most daylight it will get all year. A magical time. A sacred moment. And, for those of us in the UK, probably overcast with a 60% chance of disappointment.

But what is the Summer Solstice actually about?

Let’s crack that open, shall we?

🔥 Solstice Origins (Before it was hijacked by Instagram hippies) The Summer Solstice has been celebrated for thousands of years by people who knew how to read stars and didn't rely on google to explain basic astronomical events. Celts, Druids, Norse pagans, and the odd Bronze Age bloke with a suspiciously advanced sundial all marked this day as sacred.

It’s the day the sun “stands still” — not literally (don’t panic, the Earth's still spinning, for now), but it’s when the sun reaches its highest point in the sky before it slowly begins its six-month descent into SAD lamps and existential dread.

Cue bonfires, rituals, and naked dancing in fields, which in modern terms means someone trying to charge their crystals next to a traffic cone at Glastonbury.

🧙‍♂️ What Do People Actually Do? Stonehenge gets mobbed by a mix of druids, goths, curious tourists, and at least one man dressed as a goat.

Wiccans mark Litha, the fire festival, which is basically a spiritual BBQ without the sausages.

The rest of us mutter “blimey, it’s hot” 48 times and try not to melt while complaining about hosepipe bans.

Instagram influencers light incense, post sun emojis, and forget what equinox even means.

🤔 What Should You Do? You can:

Honour the light.

Burn a symbolic herb.

Meditate under the sun like a reformed vampire.

Or, more realistically, sit indoors behind blackout curtains because the sun gives you a headache and your upstairs neighbour is using the solstice to summon a TikTok demon.

Whatever works.

🌞 Final Thought: The Summer Solstice reminds us that time is an illusion, the seasons are cycles, and no matter how much spiritual growth you do — Mercury will still go retrograde and ruin everything next month.

So happy Solstice, weirdos. Burn something (safely). Celebrate the light. Then return to the shadows where it’s cooler and no one asks about your star sign.

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 ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

           “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                    By storm and silence, I survive.”

Back in the unholy decade known as the 90s—when mobile phones were bricks, the Spice Girls ruled the Earth, and computers made sounds like dying demons—I found myself on a local radio show. Nothing fancy. Just me, a microphone, and a dangerously open mind talking about the occult, Wicca, conspiracy theories, and tech so unstable it practically invited demonic possession.

The kind of stuff that made the station manager sweat and the church ladies clutch their pearls.

Then, weirdly—but not unexpectedly—I got a call from the station. Someone had been listening. Not just passively absorbing the chaos, but really listening. A bloke named Mick. From Coventry, of all places (which feels entirely correct—Coventry has always had a whiff of the uncanny). He was on holiday nearby, heard me rambling through the radio fog, and felt compelled to make contact.

Naturally.

We met—him, his girlfriend, and me: three misfits in a café that probably served lukewarm tea and existential dread. Mick was the real deal. A tech sorcerer. Way ahead of his time. While I was still sacrificing floppy disks under the full moon, he was probably running Linux builds on possessed hardware.

He worked for Evesham Computers (RIP) and was nicknamed: “The Wraith.” Because of course he was. You don’t get a name like that by accident. You earn it by writing code that shouldn't work, by summoning forgotten machines back from the dead, and by casually explaining occult correspondences like they’re patch notes.

Mick gave me something rare: a weird, eerie kind of kinship. The kind you don’t forget. He believed in the mystical and the mechanical. He showed me that being a bit strange didn’t mean being lost. Just... operating on a different frequency.

So now, years later, I’m sending a digital flare into the void: Mick “The Wraith” Smart, if you’re out there—still whispering to dead servers, still sipping tea over sigils, still fixing BIOS issues with your mind—drop me a line.

📧 sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

And to the rest of you digital voyeurs: if you know a Mick Smart from Coventry who once haunted Evesham Computers and may or may not be a tech-witch, tell him he’s remembered. He’s missed. And someone still wants to talk about ghosts in the machine and why printer errors are probably a form of psychic attack.

With love, chaos, and a faint scent of burning sage, Warlock

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 ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

                “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                           By storm and silence, I survive.”

🌀 Welcome to the scorched mindscape of a British misfit with MS, a dodgy air-con, and absolutely no time for your telly addiction. Expect sarcasm, storms, and suspicious noises from the fridge. 420, 27 Degrees, and the Wheelchair of Death

It’s 4:20 in the afternoon — and I am, in every possible sense, well and truly baked. The sun’s decided to cosplay as Satan’s armpit, cranking the heat to a ripe 27°C. Not hot, you say? Try sitting in a disabled body that handles heat about as well as a vampire handles sunlight, and we’ll see how long before you start hallucinating the Ice Cream Man as your personal messiah.

Blessed Be the Demon Weed Wacker Today’s miracle? The Demon Weed Wacker — a neighbour, friend, or possibly summoned entity — dug my old air-con unit out of the crypt I call a shed. The fact it actually works is a minor act of divine intervention, akin to Jesus showing up just to top off my water bottle and stick it in the freezer.

Until then, I’d been sitting in front of the fridge. Not even for food — which is all poison anyway, thanks to the MS-induced digestive roulette — but for survival. I was bonding with the butter, staring at a melon like it owed me an explanation for my existence.

Ever sat on the toilet projectile vomiting while simultaneously exploding out the other end, wondering if your intestines are trying to escape your body to start a new life? Add pain in certain areas that shall remain unnamed (but rhymes with "soul-destroying abyss") and you’ve got yourself a medical-themed horror short.

Wheelchair of Death™ and the Conservatory Mistake I considered venturing outside, strapping into the Wheelchair of Death™, that faithful chariot of chaos and squeaky regret. But no. One foot outside and the sun said, “Ah yes, rotisserie human,” and I was done. I staggered into the conservatory like some sweaty Victorian ghost and instantly regretted it. Over 100°F in there. I could’ve slow-cooked a lamb shank in my lap.

Now I’m left with a blinding headache, and the tinnitus is going off like Lemmy himself is playing a comeback gig in my skull. It’s like the gods of rock took personal offence to my brain and decided to hold a festival in my ear canal.

Let There Be Storms There’s a storm rolling in now — proper biblical one by the feel of it. Black clouds, sudden wind, the smell of distant lightning. I love storms. The chaos, the noise, the sky throwing an emotional tantrum. Thunder’s just the Earth screaming, and I get that. I feel seen.

20 Years Without the Idiot Box Random thought: I haven’t watched TV in over 20 years. People look at me like I’ve confessed to eating children. “But what do you do?” Well, for starters, not stare into a flickering box that vomits consumerism and stupidity at epileptic-inducing speed.

With MS, television isn’t “entertainment,” it’s visual torture with background laugh tracks. Give me a silent room, a thunderstorm, and the slow hum of the Wheelchair of Death™ plotting my demise in the hallway.

I’m off to lie in front of the air-con like a roadkill vampire, praying the power holds out. If not, you’ll find me back in the fridge, whispering to the yoghurt and preparing for the next exorcism session in the loo.

Stay baked, stay bitter, and remember — if the food’s poison and the sky’s on fire, it’s probably just another Thursday.

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 ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

        “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                 By storm and silence, I survive.”

⚡Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this, you probably need therapy — or a fan. Or both. Come back soon for more tales from the Wheelchair of Death™, the Digestive Apocalypse, and the Conservatory from Hell.

🛠️ Powered by sarcasm, swearing, and something that smells faintly of ozone.

"Darkly sarcastic dispatches from the NHS frontline."

"Humour, horror, and the occasional prescription error."

"Medical mayhem with a hint of THC and British grit."

📜 Scroll of Lineage and Legacy “By Order of the Chronicler of Slightly Questionable Nobility”

To Whom It May Concern (or Be Mildly Amused),

Be it known throughout the realms of Albion, Anjou, and assorted asylums, that the bearer of this parchment—one known most infamously as:

The Blog Goblin, Heir of Sarcasm, Keeper of the Scooter of Death, and First of Their Name

Is of noble and ancient blood, descending in unbroken (and occasionally scandalous) line from:

Fulk II “The Good”, Count of Anjou,

Henry I "Beauclerc", King of England,

And by some devilishly clever cousin-marriage twist,

Henry V, Holy Roman Emperor (via his wife's sister's 8-times-removed ferret-wrangler or thereabouts).

Through conquest, courtship, and the occasional clerical error, this bloodline survived plagues, pogroms, poor dentistry, and prescription mix-ups.

In the Year of our Lord Two Thousand and Twenty-Five, the lineage hath manifested once more in its most sarcastic form:

The Right Irreverent Blog Goblin of House d’Anjou Scribe of Blogs. Rider of Scooters. Vaper of the Sacred Herb.

Let none question their claim, lest ye wish to be verbally roasted, historically footnoted, and possibly run over by a mobility scooter going 8km/h.

Signed in wax, wit, and dubious Latin. – Archivarius Maximus de Medicae Bollockarum, 12th of June, 2025

🛡️ House Blog Goblin d’Anjou – Noble Crest Description Visual Elements: Shield Shape: Classic French heater shield

Background: Split diagonally — left half burnt parchment gold, right half medicated NHS blue

Top Symbol: A three-wheeled mobility scooter, rearing like a warhorse

Centre: A vape cloud curling into the shape of a goblin face

Lower Field: A scattering of glowing prescription pills, one clearly labeled “Carbamazepine”

Supporters:

Left: A lion wearing headphones (for the tinnitus)

Right: A badly drawn pharmacist fleeing in terror

Banner Text (Motto):

"Regnum per Sarcasmus" (“Rule by Sarcasm”)

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 ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

            “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                    By storm and silence, I survive.”

A very good morning from the slightly crispy edge of reality.

It’s early, the sun’s already threatening to scorch us into lizards, and I’m camped in front of the fridge like it’s a portal to Narnia—except Narnia’s got central air. The tinnitus is humming away like some deranged synthwave backing track, and I’m contemplating whether I dare mount my three-wheeled Scooter of Death for the weekly pilgrimage to the chemist.

Yes, the chemist. That temple of modern medicine where, thanks to the miracle of automation, I once again got someone else’s prescription. I swear, it’s like a game show:

“Step right up and spin the magical dispensing machine! Today’s lucky contestant wins… Sertraline!”

Antidepressants. Brilliant. Just what someone with multiple sclerosis needs to top off the cocktail. Meanwhile, someone out there is probably wondering what the hell carbamazepine is and why their depression suddenly feels like a seizure.

Dr. Fist and the Dental Apocalypse

As if that weren’t enough chaos for one day, I got a call from my dentist—well, former dentist. He’s out of action with a broken fist. Yes, a broken fist. I didn’t ask. I daren’t ask. My imagination’s already taken that one to some very questionable places. Possibly involving a disgruntled patient or a bar stool.

So now I’m off to meet a new dentist. Let’s hope I don’t draw Dr. Pain, DDS from the horror movie extras department. Probably someone who sharpens their tools on wrought iron fences and thinks anesthesia is for the weak.

Which is a shame, really, because Dr. Fist (I’m afraid he’ll always be “Dr. Fist” now) was actually the best dentist I’ve ever had. Gentle, non-threatening, and didn’t treat my jaw like a door hinge in need of WD-40. I wish him a speedy recovery—and maybe a good pair of gloves.

The NHS, Surprisingly… Not Awful?

In a refreshing twist of fate, I had my first appointment with the new NHS health centre today. Braced myself for the usual bureaucratic disaster—but shocker: the doctor was great.

Listened. Advised. Seemed human. When you’ve got full-blown White Coat Syndrome, that’s a miracle. For the uninitiated:

White Coat Syndrome: When your blood pressure hits Olympic pole-vaulting levels simply because you walked into a room with someone in a lab coat. It’s not illness—it’s sheer, uncut medical anxiety.™

So, small miracle there. I might actually trust this new place. That's not a sentence I say lightly.

Vape, Clouds, and the Eternal Wait for Sanity Back to the window—clouds are looming, the heat’s easing, and it’s time for my medical cannabis vape and a bit of THC oil. Helps with the pain and the spasms. And also with the absurdity of life, which seems to be running at full volume today.

Anyway, that’s enough rambling for one morning. If you made it this far, you officially qualify for a biscuit. Possibly two. Rich Tea if you’re feeling ironic.

Thanks for dropping by.

Until next time, stay cool, stay sarcastic, and for heaven’s sake—check your meds before you leave the chemist. You never know what flavour of mental health you might accidentally walk out with. Cheers, stay cool, and remember: if the prescription machine gives you methadone next week, try not to start a jazz band.

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 ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

              “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                     By storm and silence, I survive.”

🕯️ About Me Old soul. Frayed nerves. Unapologetically alive.

I am not here to soothe you.

I write from the edge of something — something most people spend their lives running from. Illness. Silence. Being forgotten. The parts of life that don’t make polite conversation.

I live with Multiple Sclerosis, but MS is just the symptom. The real story is what it strips away — comfort, time, patience, pretence — until all that’s left is you. And then what do you do with that raw truth?

You write. You cast. You curse a little, love a little, and sit with things others fear. You feel people’s hearts before they speak. You laugh darkly at the ones who don't believe you’re really ill, and bless the ones who show up anyway.

I’ve got one foot in the mundane world and one in something stranger — older. I read people. I hear what they don’t say. I know when a storm is coming before the clouds break. And I’ve learned that the truth — however cracked, however strange — is worth writing down.

🌑 Welcome to My Living Hell Where the lights flicker, the truth slips out, and the fridge is always humming.

This blog is part journal, part ritual, part middle finger to a world that tries to polish pain into something palatable.

I don’t do toxic positivity. I do real. I do heatstroke visions in the conservatory. Conversations with the fridge. Ghosts of family past. Wheelchairs with homicidal tendencies. And moments of stillness so sharp they cut through the noise.

There’s love in here — somewhere beneath the salt and ash. But you’ll have to sit with the dark to find it. That’s the deal.

So if you’ve ever been made to feel like you were “too much,” “too complicated,” or “not enough” — come closer. But gently. The veil’s thin here. And I see straight through.

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 ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

          “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                   By storm and silence, I survive.”

My Living Hell

One man’s journey through chronic illness, broken systems, and uncooperative furniture — with swearing, sarcasm, and an unhealthy relationship with the freezer section.

Today, I nearly married the fridge. 26 degrees. Feels like 46. Conservatory? A balmy 102°F — or as we call it here in Britain, hell’s greenhouse. I’ve got sweat in places I didn’t know had sweat glands. The fridge freezer doors are wide open and I’m contemplating whether it’s physically possible to live in the salad drawer.

Breathing feels like trying to inhale through a wet sock. My throat’s gone numb, hands tingling, lips buzzing like I’ve been snogging a faulty toaster. Blood pressure’s fine, which is amazing considering I feel like a Victorian widow with the vapours. There’s that heaviness in the air too — that classic “a storm is coming” feeling. Which I love, obviously. Thunderstorms are my favourite. There's something deeply comforting about watching the sky lose its temper when you're already halfway there yourself.

MS and heat are mortal enemies. I say enemies, but it’s more like they’re in a toxic relationship and I’m the child stuck in the middle. My body treats summer like a personal insult. I melt, I twitch, and at some point I lose the ability to speak without sounding like a cursed Victorian ghost whispering through a tin can.

Then there’s the wheelchair situation. My old chair went to that great battery charger in the sky, so I’m currently using a three-wheeled death trap that turns every trip to the shop into a scene from Wacky Races: Disability Edition. What I need is a Q100. What I have is a self-aware mobility device with a thirst for chaos. Honestly, it’s like trying to pilot a shopping trolley with a grudge.

Meanwhile, my fridge — bless it — is wheezing under the pressure, valiantly trying to keep my frozen peas solid while I slap a bag of veg on my forehead like it’s the world’s saddest spa day. Ice packs? Nah. I’m straight-up cuddling frozen chips now. Dignity left the building sometime around 11am.

Music's blasting — something mellow, dark and floaty. MDB. Morcheeba. That hazy, dreamlike soundtrack to heat-induced madness. I’m sipping Disprin like it’s vintage whisky and popping antihistamines like I’m playing pharmaceutical roulette. Every med I take gives me a new side effect, like it’s trying to outdo the MS in the 'who can ruin today more' competition.

Still. Back into the kitchen I go, seeking solace in the fridge’s loving embrace. If you don’t hear from me again, I’ve either passed out next to the frozen fish fingers or ascended to a higher plane of chilled existence.

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 ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

         “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                  By storm and silence, I survive.”

Let’s talk about the big, festering elephant in the room: Multiple Sclerosis. Or, as I prefer to call it, the silent puppeteer of mental mayhem. For anyone not familiar — congratulations, enjoy your blissful ignorance. For those of us who are intimately acquainted, we know it doesn’t just nibble at your nervous system like a shy woodland creature. No — MS kicks down the door, flips your brain inside out, and installs a disco ball of chaos where your personality used to be.

I used to be fairly calm. Normal, even. Then MS came along like an uninvited houseguest who never leaves — and suddenly I’m starring in my own Jekyll and Hyde horror flick. No polite build-up. Just creeping dread followed by a full-throttle freak-out. I’m talking foaming at the mouth, incoherent screaming, full-blown berserker mode. Try hiding that from your partner. Try pretending it’s just “a bad day.”

It’s like watching yourself unravel while screaming internally, “WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?!” And the more you try to stop it, the worse it gets. Panic mode? Engaged. Solutions? None. At some point, I ended up on the floor semi-conscious after headbutting a wall, hoping it would jolt my brain back to factory settings.

So now I live by one simple rule: avoid stress like it’s a plague-carrying rat. Because stress isn’t just bad for MS — it’s the bloody ignition key to the meltdown machine. Let’s not forget the heart attack. That little bonus prize from the MS gift basket. 60% heart function now, apparently. What a treat.

Oh, and my voice? Occasionally checks out completely. Just ups and leaves. One minute I’m fine, next minute I’m miming like a drunk Marcel Marceau. People don’t get it. They assume you’re just ignoring them, or being lazy. I once sent my mother a long, heartfelt email explaining it all. Her response? Silence. Well, no — before the silence she asked my partner if I “really” had MS. That was the final curtain on that relationship.

She died a year ago. I wasn’t invited to the funeral. Not told, not asked. Just gone. Eleven years of silence because everyone was “too busy with their lives,” and I was, frankly, the cuckoo in the nest. Never fit in with my birth mother’s life, nor my adopted mother’s. Just the family subplot no one talks about.

That said, meeting my half-siblings was a strange and wonderful thing. I’m sure they found it weird too. “Surprise, here’s your brother you never knew about, also adopted, and he comes with emotional baggage and inappropriate sarcasm.” Meeting my birth mother was like attending a surreal theatre performance. At the time, she was dating a bloke younger than me. Classy.

She lied about my father. Even got her sister involved. One day, she phoned me crying, saying my dad had died in a motorbike crash. I didn’t buy it. I could feel he was still alive — don’t ask me how. I just knew. I sat with Albertine and we asked the Universe for help (as you do when reality fails you), and lo and behold — we found him. In New Zealand, of all places. And guess what? I had a full sister, also adopted.

Turns out all the lies, secrets and cover-ups were just damage control for decisions made in the 1950s — that golden era of social shame, polished smiles, and secrets buried under six feet of denial.

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 ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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