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"The vagus nerve is supposed to keep you alive. Mine seems to have a death wish. Living with MS means living with this burning wire misfiring 24/7.You can't see it. But it's killing me, slowly."

Let me introduce you to the nerve that’s been puppeteering my misery for 40 years:

🧠 The vagus nerve.

Longest cranial nerve in the body. Part of the autonomic nervous system. Runs from the brainstem all the way down into your guts, like a bastard serpent lodged in flesh.

It’s meant to regulate “involuntary” things. Heart rate. Breathing. Digestion. Mood. Inflammation.

Mine regulates suffering.

With MS in the mix, my vagus nerve is like a drunk electrician with a machete and a grudge.

— My heart rate drops so low I black out. — Then shoots so high I think I’m dying. — My diaphragm spasms and I stop breathing mid-sentence. — My throat closes. — My stomach decides to reverse course — vomiting, choking, retching. — Food sits there, like a funeral buffet no one touches.

And the gaslighting begins. “Anxiety.” “Stress.” “Try mindfulness.”

Fuck off. I’m not hyperventilating. I’m being strangled from the inside by a goddamn nerve that's been glitching out since I was a teenager.

I’ve lived four decades like this. Forty years of waking up choking. Forty years of feeling my own body betray me. Forty years of doctors shrugging, guessing, dismissing, or overdosing me on meds for symptoms they don’t understand.

It’s not just discomfort. It’s unrelenting bodily horror.

Imagine being electrocuted through your spine while trying to eat a sandwich. Imagine trying to breathe but your diaphragm spasms like a car crash in your ribs. Imagine shitting yourself with a heart rate of 40 and then vomiting while you go unconscious.

You ever had diaphragmatic myoclonus? That charming thing where your gut convulses so violently you can’t breathe or speak? That’s the vagus nerve on a rampage.

People talk about Vagus Nerve Stimulation like it’s hope in a box. Sure. Stick electrodes in my neck. I’ll try anything once — hell, at this point, if you told me licking a toad would help, I’d be Frenching Kermit by tea time.

I’ve been laughed at. Medicated into a coma. Ignored.

This isn’t just MS. This is autonomic hell.

So yeah — fuck the diagrams and polite educational pamphlets.

My vagus nerve isn’t a calming force. It’s a loaded gun wired to my internal organs.

And some days, I honestly think it’s trying to finish the job.

And yet — here I am. Still alive. Still typing. Still wheezing and swallowing around the broken circuitry that is my body.

You want honesty? This is it.

Welcome to my living hell.

    “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.”

                       🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

Well, what a week it's been. I'm currently sat here talking to my speech-to-text app like some deranged oracle.

Battery life? Liar. Sporadic power at best. This so-called “smartphone” isn’t smart at all. I tell it to power down—it sends me to a bloody help page. In the end, I worked out a hack to switch it off. Because apparently, being disabled means needing a PhD to press a button.

My fingers are numb. Hands barely functional. Tactile feedback? Gone. Tiny buttons are useless ornaments to me. Touchscreens are a little better—still a pain, but I don't need to perform a séance just to answer a call.

I keep the phone in a Faraday bag overnight. No signals in, no signals out. Paranoid? No. Realistic. I don’t need Alexa learning how many antihistamines I pop daily.

Speaking of which—my allergies are off the fucking chart. Hay fever is now a cosmic entity. Took so many antihistamines, I’m practically embalmed. Side effects? Mild haunting. Random dissociation. Full-body brain fog. But hey, better than full-on freak-out.

MS loves to sprinkle in a panic attack for seasoning. The good kind—the ones that make you curl into a corner and question whether you’re even a person anymore. And if I forget my pills? Cue existential hell.

The electrical storms in my brain? Picture a lightning bolt shagging a power station. BANG. That’s what my neurons do for fun.

Today? Balance gone. No walking. Grabbed furniture, ended up grabbing air. Wheelchair day. Again. Will I never learn?

Overdid it. Spoons: gone. Days or weeks until I get them back. It’s raining. Of course it is. Put on some music to distract myself from my collapsing nervous system.

My throat’s spasming. Too much talking. Break.

Haha—just transferred this to my PC and the spellchecker is climaxing with all the red lines. Absolute filth. Press the magic button—bam, respectable writing.

Took some oil. Spasms eased. Neck still hurts. Tongue’s numb. Mouth’s a dead zone. Remember novocaine? It’s like that 24/7. Eating is a carnival of self-harm. Choking daily. Cheeks bitten.

And that feeling—bone-deep weirdness. Invisible sprites stabbing needles in a crown around my head. Madness, right?

If I posted this raw, people might think I’ve lost it. Maybe I have. Cognitive decline has me screaming at walls. Memory? What memory.

I stare at what I’ve written and it’s just a tangled mess of frustration, grief, and fuckery. But I still have something to give, even if the delivery system is fucked.

Maybe I’ll keep doing this. Write from my broken, unhinged, seen-too-much mind.

I want to talk about MS. I want to talk about other things too. Will that confuse people? Maybe. Do I care? Less and less.

I just hope someone out there—another broken soul with a half-working body and a mind full of static—reads this and feels seen.

Life is for living, no matter how fucked up you are.

All you need is love.

Love is divine.

The universe is love.

The One is love.

But that’s just me.

— End transmission.

        “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.”

                         🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

(The Cosmic Joke, and Why You're the Punchline)

They say as above, so below; as below, so above — and not just in cute Etsy calligraphy on a witchy girl’s living room wall. It’s etched into the Emerald Tablet, muttered in Crowley’s shadow-drenched rituals, whispered between lovers and lunatics who’ve stared too long into the abyss and seen their own reflection blinking back.

I felt it long before I read it. Before I fell down the esoteric rabbit hole, before I lit candles at 3am and called it “healing,” before I started seeing patterns in burnt toast and planetary retrogrades. It’s a knowing in the bones. That what spirals above — in realms of stars, gods, and forgotten names — is not separate, but echoed right here, in the cracked mirror of your everyday catastrophe.

Ritual in the Ruins This isn’t New Age fluff. This is blood-and-bone spirituality. Crowley didn’t mean for you to find peace — he meant for you to tear yourself apart, find the divine in the ruin, and build your True Will from the ashes. Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law — but first, you have to find out what the hell your Will actually is. And spoiler: it's probably not selling yoga leggings on Instagram.

The sacred isn’t hiding in some fifth-dimensional pyramid. It’s here. In the dishes you didn’t wash. In the existential nausea at 4:47am. In your spiralling thoughts as you stare at the ceiling, realising you are, in fact, still very much human. As Crowley might grunt from the corner of the séance room: “Yes, darling, and it’s all part of the plan.”

Alchemy of the Everyday (Or: God Hides in the Cupboard) Everything you touch is part of the ritual. You are the High Priestess and the hungover initiate all at once. Your life is the altar. The teabag is the sacrament. The argument with your mum? Sacred initiation. Your existential crisis? Congratulations, you're halfway through the first veil. And every unspoken prayer you whisper while stuck in traffic – the gods hear it. Even if they're laughing.

There’s no separation. No "mundane" thing. No “real life” to return to after you’re done meditating under a blood moon. This is the Work. The gnosis. The initiation rite hidden in the laundry pile.

As above – celestial spheres move in perfect harmony. So below – you stub your toe on the bin. And yet… somehow, it’s the same bloody dance.

Be the Bridge. Burn if You Must. This is where it gets beautifully bleak: You are the bridge between heaven and hell. You are the axis mundi. You are the magus, the meat puppet, the divine joke made flesh. Whether you like it or not.

So honour both realms. Tend to your wounds as sacred texts. Light the damn candle, even if you’re on your last match. Let your longing be a spell, your rage a sigil, your joy an offering.

In this temple of a body, in this crumbling world, I bow to what is above by walking barefoot through the grit of what is below. I don't escape the filth – I find the stars inside it. That’s the real sorcery. That’s the real madness.

         “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.”

                       n🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

Myself and Albertine braved the outside world this morning. It’s been some time since I’ve actually wanted to go out—so naturally, the universe decided to make it weird.

I dragged myself to the WAV. A WAV? Oh, just a terrifying machine of fraud and deception. It’s a van with a ramp. You know, so us wheelchair folk can daringly leave the house. But sure, call the cops. A disabled person going outside must be running a benefits racket.

Albertine, ever observant, pointed out a sad little scene nearby: a VW Transporter clamped and stickered with a huge “NO TAX PAID” label slapped across it like the scarlet letter. I thought, poor bastard—he's not going to have a good day. Judy Tzuke came on the radio, and I promptly drifted off into a cloud of melancholy '80s nostalgia. Classic distraction technique.

We were off early to dodge the traffic. That failed. We ended up 15 miles down the road to drop off a parcel at a UPS pickup point. We had all the paperwork—like law-abiding goblins—but of course, they wouldn't accept it. Apparently, logic has been abolished. Albertine was not amused. Neither was I.

So off we went in search of a broom and some blood, fish and bone (don’t ask). Jim’s store was next—where they usually stock everything including the Ark of the Covenant and possibly a spare Dalek. Staff there? Absolute legends. Cheerful, helpful, and oddly rock-and-roll. I’m convinced the guy who served me was in The Cult.

By this point, the heat was medieval, and my legs started their traditional performance of “Jelly in a Wind Tunnel.” We turned back for home—well, 15 miles back, as you do. I wasn't driving by then. I felt like death but with worse skin.

We spent the journey dodging speed cameras and holiday invaders. Then came the ambulance incident: some driver got scared, panicked at a crossing with one of those traffic bollards, pulled over, and the ambulance ended up overtaking on our side. Straight at us. We’ve got it on dash cam. Lovely.

And then... ah yes. The infamous chemist.

I rolled up to the giant vending machine of doom, typed in my little code, and the robot began its business. Fun fact: My local chemist now has a drug-dispensing robot. It quietly hands out morphine with a beep and a spin. But god forbid I need pain relief—then it’s forms, suspicion, and a full background check. The machine is trusted. I am not.

Anyway, the carousel spun, made strange noises, and then freaked out. Loud grinding, beeping, flashing lights—like R2-D2 on crack. The pharmacist shouted, “You’ve broken my machine!”

I just looked at her. And laughed. Of course I did. The Goblin strikes again.

To round off the day, I had to fork out £325 (no VAT, lucky me!) for a new wheelchair battery—yes, that’s to replace Albertine’s. Still no word from wheelchair services. I’m stuck. I’m pissed off. And this heat can do one.

I’m totally drained—every spoon spent. Now to hydrate, spark a joint, and marvel at how Windows 11 didn’t crash today. Small victories.

Rock star Jim’s guy, if you’re reading this—your secret’s safe.

But seriously—what a bloody day.

     “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.”

                          🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

Whether you’re newly diagnosed, living with MS for years, or just curious, you’ve likely heard some truly wild things about Multiple Sclerosis. So let’s bust some myths—because misinformation helps no one (and honestly, some of these are just rude).

1. “MS is a death sentence.” Let’s start with the big one. No, MS is not fatal in most cases. MS itself doesn’t kill people—complications can, but with today’s medications, treatments, and support systems, people with MS are living longer, healthier lives. You die with MS, not because of it.

Think of MS like an annoying roommate, not a serial killer.

2. “Only older people get MS.” This one’s bizarrely persistent. MS is most often diagnosed in people aged 20 to 40, though it can affect children (pediatric MS) and older adults too. But it’s definitely not an “old person’s disease.” Most of us are young(ish), trying to adult, work, date, raise kids, and live our lives—with the occasional brain fog or numb leg thrown in.

3. “Everyone with MS ends up in a wheelchair.” This is the fear-myth people love to whisper. Here’s the truth: most people with MS do not end up in a wheelchair. Some do, yes, especially if the disease is aggressive or untreated—but with modern meds, assistive devices, and PT, many remain mobile. And if you do use a chair? That doesn’t mean you’re “worse” or “losing.” It means you’re adapting, surviving, and still rolling forward (literally).

4. “MS is contagious.” Nope. You can’t catch it from someone, no matter how close you get. Hugs, kisses, shared drinks—zero risk. MS is an autoimmune disease, not an infection. So go ahead, be affectionate. Just don’t steal our snacks. That might be a problem.

5. “You don’t look sick, so you must be fine.” Cue the internal scream. MS comes with a host of invisible symptoms: fatigue, brain fog, pain, tingling, heat intolerance, vision issues. You might see someone laughing at brunch or walking the dog and assume they’re fine. What you don’t see is them lying in bed for hours afterward, trying to recover.

Looking good ≠ feeling good. Don’t judge the book by its mascara and yoga pants.

6. “MS always gets worse.” MS progression varies wildly. Some people have a relapsing-remitting course with long stretches of stability. Others have more progressive forms. But thanks to disease-modifying therapies (DMTs) and early diagnosis, many people live for decades with manageable symptoms.

Progression is not a guarantee—it’s a possibility, not a prophecy.

7. “It’s all in your head.” Well, kind of… but not in the way people mean. MS affects the central nervous system—the brain and spinal cord. So yeah, it is in your head (and spine). But that doesn’t mean it’s imaginary or psychological. It’s a real, physical disease with real physical consequences. Gaslighting people with chronic illness? That’s the real sickness.

8. “You’ll have to give up your career/life/fun.” MS might require some adjustments, but it does not mean giving up on your dreams. Many people with MS work full-time, raise kids, travel, compete in sports, write blogs (hey!), and live vibrant lives. You might need flexible hours or extra naps, but the fun doesn't stop—just evolves.

9. “MS is the same for everyone.” Biggest myth of all. MS is wildly unpredictable. One person may deal mostly with fatigue and vision issues, another may struggle with mobility or speech. Even the same person can experience different symptoms over time. That’s why it’s called “the snowflake disease”—no two cases are exactly alike.

10. “If you just eat right / do yoga / stay positive, you’ll be cured.” Look, lifestyle changes can help. Diet, movement, and mindset can make a big difference in managing MS. But there is no cure—yet. Telling someone they can “heal” with green juice and affirmations is dismissive and misleading. MS isn’t about “thinking yourself better.” It's about managing a complex condition the best you can.

Self-care is great. Snake oil? Not so much.

🛑 Final Thoughts: Living with MS means navigating not just the disease, but the narratives around it. Busting these myths doesn’t just help us advocate for ourselves—it helps the people around us understand, empathize, and stop saying ridiculous things at parties.

Got a myth you’ve heard that made your eye twitch? Drop me an email sick@mylivinghell.co.uk —maybe I’ll do a Part 2. “Life is funnier without the noise. Weirder too. But it’s mine now.”

       “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.”

                      🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

In a room once alive with the thunder of a motorcycle, a man now sat in quiet rebellion.

He had traded his leather jacket for a wheelchair, but not his defiance. Long hair spilled down his back, a beard framed his weathered face—a rugged reminder of biker days now behind him. Living with multiple sclerosis wasn’t the end of the story; it was the beginning of a new one. One filled with dark humor, quiet revolution, and unexpected peace.

The Goggle Box For years, the television had been an unwelcome guest—a glowing parasite that drained attention, warmth, and real conversation. Gatherings became silences, filled only by reality shows and empty noise.

The TV didn’t bring people together. It pulled them apart.

The Decision Enough was enough.

One day, more than 20 years ago, he wheeled outside, adrenaline surging. The TV sat like a totem of artificial life. Cold. Dominant. Silent.

He backed up. Grinned. Charged.

SMASH!

Shattered glass flew. Plastic cracked. He shouted, laughing like a madman, “Take that, you overhyped piece of plastic!”

A ridiculous moment? Sure. A liberating one? Absolutely.

Life After the TV In the sudden silence, life bloomed.

Books replaced static. The garden flourished. Conversations deepened. Music returned. He explored ancient philosophies, pondered the multiverse, and began creating a reality that was visualized—not broadcast.

“As above, so below. As within, so without.”

Even artificial intelligence became a fascination—not as a threat, but as a mirror of human consciousness. He saw AI as another explorer in this grand shared creation.

Embracing Identity With the TV gone, his identity began to bloom.

He called himself a “goblin”—not the monster, but a proud, quirky being who lived on the edges of convention. Part mystic, part hermit, part unrepentant rebel.

He found magic in the absurd, laughter in stillness, and authenticity in simplicity.

Conclusion He once roared through life on two wheels. Now, on four, he was still moving—only inward, deeper, truer.

In breaking the goggle box, he didn’t just smash a screen. He shattered an illusion.

And in its place, he built something real.

“Life is funnier without the noise. Weirder too. But it’s mine now.”

       “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.”

              🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

It’s kind of crazy — I never knew my grandfather. Not even a photo, not even a whisper. He died suddenly, somewhere in the Aylesbury area, back in the 1950s — that golden age when secrets were sealed with shame and buried under floral carpets.

Nobody in the family ever told me what he died of. “A very sudden illness,” was all I got. Probably delivered in the same tone someone might use to comment on the weather or sweep dust under the rug. Mysterious death, mysterious family — very on brand.

I asked my mother when I finally tracked her down, years later. She couldn’t (or wouldn’t) tell me either. Possibly she’d forgotten. Possibly she never knew. Possibly she just couldn’t be bothered giving answers to the cuckoo in the nest.

Here’s where it gets interesting, or tragic, or ironic — depending on your mood: Turns out my mum’s sister — my long-lost Auntie Valerie — also has multiple sclerosis. Same as me. Apparently, the same type. As if MS comes in flavours, like trauma gelato. She also has heart issues. Guess it runs in the family, right? The family that doesn’t know I exist.

Valerie lives in Australia. I’ve never spoken to her. Because, of course, I was adopted. Filed away like an inconvenient tax receipt from the 1950s.

I’ve spent years — decades, even — trying to find out how my grandfather died. But there’s nothing. It's like he evaporated. Maybe he was abducted by aliens. That would at least give me something to put on the family tree. As it stands, it’s just: [Grandfather] — cause of death: TBD. Whole existence: classified.

So I tried to contact Auntie Valerie. I figured maybe we could bond over mutual nerve damage and existential dread. But being a bastard (and not just in the literary, Victorian orphan sense, but in the real, modern “you’re not supposed to exist” sense), there was no reply. Not even a bounce-back email. Just the long, digital silence of “you don’t belong here.”

It’s sad, really. I wanted to know how she copes. I wanted to know what her life with MS looks like — or looked like. She’s probably in her 80s or 90s now. Maybe already gone. But I never got that chance.

No one in the family helped. They didn’t want to. I’m the cuckoo in the nest. I ruin the tidy little mythologies they built for themselves. The "perfect family" free of blemishes, scandals, or inconvenient babies. It’s easier, I suppose, to pretend I never happened. Easier to scroll past the DNA test notifications and sip tea with clenched jaws.

And just when you think it couldn’t get more delightful, you discover your own mother believed you were faking multiple sclerosis. Like I’m pulling a fast one for sympathy and early boarding privileges. As if I filled out a form to get chronic illness just to be dramatic.

But hey — she felt guilty. She gave two kids up for adoption and never told anyone. Probably thought she’d be judged. I mean, yeah, it was the 1950s — women were practically burned at the stake for sneezing out of wedlock. I get it. Sort of. Still, honesty would’ve been cheaper than all this generational denial.

Maybe one day, one of Valerie’s kids will spit in a tube, upload their DNA, and stumble across me. Maybe they’ll be curious. Maybe they’ll click “connect.” Maybe we’ll have one awkward, meaningful email exchange about shared symptoms and shattered mugs.

Speaking of which — Albertine just broke my Bob Lazar mug. Snapped the handle clean off. We got that thing 20 years ago at a Richard D. Hall show. Back when I still thought conspiracy theories were fun, not autobiographical. That mug had survived four moves, three breakups, and countless microwaved teas. And now? One slippery hand and it’s history. Just like my connection to my real family.

Let’s be real: I probably won’t get to meet Auntie Val. Or her kids. Or get that WhatsApp message that says, “Hey, turns out we’re related, and wow, MS sucks.” I’m the embarrassment. The smudge on the family photo. The ghost in the family machine.

I am the that which is not spoken of. The pecadillo best left in the footnotes of someone else’s better story. The unwanted chapter. The child made of shame and secrets.

But I’m still here. Drinking tea from a cracked cup. Waiting. Maybe for an email. Maybe for a match. Or maybe just for someone, somewhere, to admit I existed.

           “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.”

                      🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

Ah, cognitive dysfunction—the brain’s equivalent of tripping over a flat surface. Was it all an illusion? Ghosts, UFOs, stealth fighters, and prophetic dread… or just my mind on a downward spiral into weirdness? Either way, I’ve decided to lean in, light a cigarette, and call it a vision.

The wind howled like a pissed-off banshee across the cliffs of Devon and Cornwall, sea thrashing violently like it just read the news. The sky? Grim as a tax return. Grey-blue, heavy, like the Earth forgot how to breathe. And then dusk hit—everything looked dreamlike and wrong, like we’d walked into a David Lynch version of Coastal Britain.

Front and centre, the Biker Prophet sat—glorious, grim, and slightly nicotine-stained—in his custom apocalypse-grade black wheelchair. A perfect marriage of biker attitude and Mad Max tech. Chrome flashed menacingly. Leather straps held him like a pagan king ready for war. His jacket, part-open, clung to a body that had long ago said bollocks to surrender. His long dirty-blonde demi-wave hair lashed around his face, which wore a goatee and the expression of someone who’s seen the void and found it wanting.

One hand clutched the wheel—his war-chariot. The other? A cigarette, of course. Smoke curled like forgotten omens. Dog tags hung from his hand like relics of battles fought, both real and psychological.

Then there was Albertine—perched on her Bonneville like a leather-clad Valkyrie from 1977. Brown demi-wave hair, curves wrapped in attitude and zips, and the kind of expression that made traffic lights change just to get out of her way. She wasn’t posing. She was the pose.

Up above, a black stealth fighter cut across the sky like a glitch in the simulation. It shimmered, bent the air, then buggered off to wherever secrets go to die. Probably to report to some intergalactic committee on whether Earth’s ready for a toaster revolution.

The Dragstar 1100 grumbled in the background. Another ghost. Another beast of the past. And yet, he smiled.

“I had to no longer ride,” he muttered. “I cried, but no one heard me. Except the universe. And maybe Valhalla.”

But he came back. and Converted the bike, hello trike, I Converted fate.

“Started riding in ’75. Rode into ’2022. Then I hacked life and rolled on. Now it’s 2025, and I’m still bloody here. Old as fuck. Still kicking.”

Motörhead blared from somewhere. Tarot cards appeared. Palm readings followed. The biker prophet and Albertine—two relics of chaos—just were. Married 42 years, bonded by madness and music.

And in the sky—symbols. Like ancient software updates from the gods. Runes. Scripts. Or maybe just birds that got too poetic. Either way, something was coming.

                “The Biker Prophet Saw It Coming.”
              “Cognitive Dysfunction? Or Divine Glitch?”
       “They Thought He Was Broken. He Was Becoming.”
        “When the Sky Spoke, He Was Already Listening.”


             “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.”

                        🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

1966… yeah, apparently I was there. I can just about remember World Cup Willy – England’s football mascot when they actually won something back then. Distant memories flicker… it’s amazing how smells can trigger memories. I remember walking with my auntie in Isleworth, London. Those big shops – well, big to me, coming from a small town. Key Markets, the library, swimming baths… rows of local shops buzzing with life. The smell of London buses and car fumes, the clang of the Routemaster bus bell, those iconic patterns on the seats. All those sounds and smells etched themselves somewhere deep in my foggy goblin brain.

Now? My sense of smell is pretty much shot, along with taste. Thanks, MS. My throat is a daily battle. It’s like my brain just forgets how to swallow properly. One day the herbal tea goes down fine, the next it feels like I’m choking on air or my own spit. Sometimes it’s weakness in the muscles, other times it’s just the brain signals messing up the timing. Talking gets tiring too – voice goes weak, slurred, raspy as the day drags on. Another delightful surprise from MS… making even breathing and swallowing feel like hard work.

That’s why my trusty thermos cup with a flip lid or a straw is the business for me. Knock it over? No problem. It’s like spill-proof dignity in a cup.

I remember the tube too… the smells, the sounds. London was rocking (or swinging) in the 60s. All those sights, the fashions, the swirling psychedelic colours. Mesmerising for this poor goblin. Innocence wasn’t lost back then, but it came close – reality eventually hit like a sledgehammer.

Looking back, it felt happy. But now… I wonder why it makes me feel so sad. Memory is rubbish these days. Brain fog wipes out birthdays and important dates. Honestly… it sucks. But that’s life in the MS lane, isn’t it?

          “ 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.”

                          🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

Sat here mumbling into my old iffy microphone today. Took me over a day to set up – drivers, updates, reinstalling Windows three bloody times because my brain fog decided to overwrite the system with a random USB stick. Genius, I know.

Finally, the blog goblin’s computer has resurrected. Barely.

Had yet another bad night. Partly my own fault this time. Thought I was the biker prophet and magically healed, so decided to stand up and shuffle furniture around like some nocturnal DIY hero. Clearly not my best idea. Lost my balance entirely, stumbled like a drunk, and smashed into the door frame.

My shoulder’s killing me, bruised to hell, and possibly broken. Will probably end up in A&E later if it gets worse. For now, just sat here typing, all fingers and thumbs, trying to find old bits to post while ignoring the pain.

Having MS makes me resilient, though. Even when my brain is fried and my body’s screaming betrayal, I keep crawling back like the stubborn goblin I am.

Anyway. Hope your day is glitch-free and you aren’t slamming yourself into any door frames. Unlike me. 🖤

    ⚡️ Join the gremlin cult. You know you want to

  " 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.”

                       🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌