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⚠️ 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.

⚠️ 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 used to worship the sun. Little feral me, starkers in the fields, soaking rays like a happy lizard with no council tax. Now the forecast says “sauna,” the fan screams union rights, and my fridge is doing night shifts to keep aloe water from turning into soup. Character arc, darling.

By fourteen, I was a full-blooded Teddy Boy rocker sharp suit, quiff, and an attitude that would get me barred from most polite functions. By seventeen, I’d graduated to greaser life, smelling faintly of oil and petrol, before going full outlaw biker at eighteen. The road was freedom. The road was mine.

It crept up on me early, though. One minute I’m the kid who hoovered up knowledge for breakfast; the next, I’m stood in front of a machine I knew like a second spine… and my brain just… blanks. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just gone like a TV that’s on but nobody paid the licence. Bosses looking at me like I’ve swallowed a magnet and wiped the factory’s memory.

Years later, same story, new management. “He’s good,” they said. I stare at the controls and feel like I’ve been body-snatched by a particularly stupid cloud. Down the road I go. Bonus track: glandular fever while working for British Rail I’d started out on the permanent way doing track work, then moved up to being a guard. Job gone, cheers. Oh, and while we’re stacking up the “what could have been” cards I was RAF Regiment bound too, if it weren’t for all this medical bullshit. Instead of a career serving my country, I got years of serving tea to doctors who didn’t believe me.

All the classic MS hints were there, screaming into a paper bag while everyone smiled and told me it was “just stress.” Gaslight like a Victorian alleyway. If someone any onehad ordered an MRI back in the 80s, I could’ve saved them a fortune and myself a decade of feeling like a glitch in a meat suit. But here we are.

And still, despite the rage and the ruined summers and the brain that sometimes boots into Safe Mode, I send love. Peace to the neuros, the GPs, the nurses, the “have you tried mindfulness?” brigade. Whether you tried to heal me or hurl me, I’m choosing mercy. Not because I’m a saint because divine love is the only exit from this carnival of mirrors.

I forgive. I keep going. I fight. I laugh. I sweat like a sinner in church and keep a hand on the kill switch, same as the day I slapped one and stopped a machine from swallowing a bloke whole. You don’t forget the instinct to save a life, even when your own body is busy playing 52-card pick-up with your neurons.

So yeah. It’s Saturday. I feel like crap. Next week’s forecast is “slow roast.” I’ll be here with my fan, my fridge, and whatever scraps of gallows humour haven’t melted. Never give up hope. Fight smart. Rest when the beast demands tribute. And when you can, forgive if only to stop the past charging you rent.

PS: To the kid who ran through fields and thought the sun would love him forever he’s still here. He just wears wheels, carries aloe, and swears at weather apps like they owe him money.

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.

Let’s Drop the Embarrassment MS gate crashes your sex life like a drunk uncle at a wedding: uninvited, loud, and weirdly fixated on your nerves. The pamphlets say, “You may experience changes in sexual function.” Translation: “We’re too squeamish to say your bits and brain don’t always sync.” So we’re saying it. Straight. With humour. With dignity. And without the faux-clinical tap dance.

What MS Actually Does to Sex (Short Version) Wiring issues: numbness or oversensitivity, delayed orgasm, erectile changes, lubrication changes.

Body issues: fatigue, spasticity, pain, temperature sensitivity, bladder/bowel drama.

Brain issues: mood dips, anxiety, body-image wobble, brain fog murdering arousal mid-flow.

Relationship issues: feeling like a “patient,” awkward silence, mismatched desire.

None of this means “no sex.” It means different sex—sometimes better, because you stop faking and start designing.

The Detail (No Euphemisms) Sensation Chaos Numbness: direct touch may feel “off.” Work around the map: thighs, perineum, nipples, scalp, back, lips, ears. Pressure > light tickles.

Hypersensitivity: use fabric barriers (silk, cotton), hands over lube first, firm pressure instead of fluttery.

Orgasm & Arousal Takes longer / fizzles: slow build, rhythmic stimulation, patterned breath, edging.

After-tingle = hellfire: cool packs, fan, slow landing, avoid overheating (MS hates heat).

Mobility & Spasticity Warm up (literal warm compresses or shower).

Stretches you’d do before physio—hamstrings, hip flexors, adductors.

Positioning = everything (see cheat sheet below).

Bladder/Bowel Anxiety Pre-emptive loo runs, avoid trigger drinks/foods beforehand, keep towels handy, agree a “no shame” pact.

If urgency’s a beast: short sessions, build trust, try non-penetrative nights.

Meds & Mood (Plain English) Some meds blunt desire or erection, dry things out, or mess with timing.

Depression/anxiety = arousal killers. Treat them like medical problems, not moral failures.

If a drug wrecks sex, ask the prescriber about alternatives or timing tweaks.

Make It Work (Toolkit) Plan the window: your least-fatigued time. Morning sex is criminally underrated.

Lower effort, higher payoff: toys, pillows, wedges, chairs, harnesses.

Temperature control: fan on, room cool, breathable sheets.

Lube like you mean it: water- or silicone-based—reapply without guilt.

Communication: use explicit consent language (“Green/Yellow/Red” check-ins) so you can pivot without killing the mood.

Expand the definition: oral, hands, toys, mutual masturbation, sensual massage, kink-lite with safe words. Penetration is optional, intimacy isn’t.

Positions That Work (MS-Friendly, Wheelchair-Friendly)

1) Royal Spoon (Side-Lying)

Why: minimal effort, easy hip/leg support, great if heat/fatigue spike.

How: pillows between knees and behind back. Angle hips slightly forward for access.

2) Throne Room (Seated)

Why: chair/wheelchair does the stabilising.

How: giver seated; receiver straddles or sits facing/away. Use armrests, lap belt (optional), cushions behind lower back.

3) Modified Missionary (Support Stack)

Why: familiar but doable.

How: wedge under hips, pillows under knees. Giver on forearms or kneeling. Pace slow; micro-movements beat piston nonsense.

4) Over-Bed Table / Edge Assist

Why: takes weight off arms/hips.

How: receiver bends slightly over padded surface; giver stands/kneels. Great for external stimulation too.

5) Yab-Yum Lite (Supported Lap)

Why: connection, eye contact, shallow thrusts.

How: giver seated against wall/headboard; receiver sits on lap. Pillows behind lumbar; wrap a blanket round hips for stability.

6) Starfish Massage (No-Goal Night)

Why: zero performance pressure, rediscover erogenous map.

How: oil/lotion massage, breath sync, optional toys. If arousal arrives—great. If not—also great.

Symptom → Try This (Quick Map) Fatigue: morning window, side-lying/seated, short “sets” with breaks, breathable room.

Spasticity: warm shower, gentle stretches, fixed positions with props, slower rhythm.

Numbness: pressure-based touch, wider body map, vibrators with steady patterns.

Hypersensitivity: fabric barrier, firm—not flicky—touch; pause if burning/zinging starts.

Bladder urgency: bathroom first, towels down, agree it’s okay if accidents happen.

Erection issues: longer runway, ring (if safe), pump (if advised), PDE5 meds discussion with GP/neuro.

Dryness: quality lube, longer warmup, avoid foaming soaps pre-sex.

Scripts for Real Humans

Starting the convo: “I love you and I miss us. MS changed what my body can do. Can we experiment and design sex that suits both of us now?”

In the moment: “Yellow—hip cramp. Stay where you are, just slower pressure.”

After a wobble: “That was frustrating. You didn’t do anything wrong. Let’s try the chair setup next time and keep the fan on.”

This is lived reality + practical tactics. Not medical advice. If a med or symptom is wrecking your sex life, that’s a clinical problem—take it to the Doctor without shame.

Resources Pelvic floor physiotherapy – Ask your GP or neurologist for a referral; can improve bladder control, orgasm strength, and pelvic stability.

Sex therapy / psychosexual services – Available via NHS in some areas; ask your GP for a referral or search for accredited private practitioners.

Disability-inclusive sex shops – Look for suppliers that offer accessible toy designs, discreet packaging, and a no-hassle returns policy.

Community groups for MS + sexuality – Peer support means practical tips from people living it; search MS Society forums, Facebook groups, or local meet-ups.

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.

It’s one of those delightful mornings where you wake up and think,

“Oh good, I’m dying again.”

Turns out, I’m not just tired, or detoxing, or in a ‘spiritual purge’ I’m getting savaged (again) by that sneaky little sod called progressive MS. Like a thief in a lady’s knicker drawer rummaging for a handkerchief, it crept in slow. Silent. Stealthy. Uninvited. And now it’s everywhere.

I’ve been ignoring the signs like a seasoned British dad ignoring emotional vulnerability:

Fatigue? Must be the weather.

Brain fog? Probably the moon.

Pooing razor blades dipped in battery acid? Definitely just something I ate, right?

Wrong.

It’s the full house: MS, in all its steaming neurological glory. And I missed it. Again. Because that’s the thing with progressive MS — it doesn’t slam into you like a car crash. It oozes. It simmers. It transcends. And by the time you notice, it’s too late — you’re stuck in a surrealist nightmare where your bowels have turned into industrial machinery and your nerves scream like banshees through a PA system made of thorns.

Oh, and the tinnitus? Full blast. Not even Ozzy can drown out this skull symphony. No amount of dark humour can scrub it clean — but hell, I’m gonna try anyway.

Common Symptoms I Forgot I Was Having:

Fatigue: Deep, soul-sapping exhaustion. Sleeping is a job now.

Muscle Weakness: Arms and legs now qualify as Victorian props.

Spasticity: Like living with invisible tightrope wires inside your limbs.

Coordination: If I could walk, I’d be swerving like a hungover goat on stilts — but I’m not, so I just sit here doing wheelies of doom into furniture and pretending it’s parkour.

Sensory Chaos:

Numbness/Tingling: Pins and needles, but make it existential.

Pain: Chronic. Burning. Random. Delightful!

Vision: Either blurred, double, or through a kaleidoscope made of tears.

Mental Torture:

Memory: What's that again?

Mood: Varying from “existential dread” to “burn the world.”

Toilet Hellscape:

Bladder: It’s either Niagara Falls or the Sahara.

Bowels: Sherman tank, razor blades, and Satan’s discharge. Cheers.

I know I’m not alone. I know someone else out there is reading this in the same state of muttering despair. So here’s your reminder: you’re not losing it — you’re just in hell with me. Welcome. I made tea (then forgot where I put 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.