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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 help.

Friday afternoon. Chemist run? Missed it. Instead, I got hounded by the machine of ultimate dysfunction—a glorified vending machine for pharmaceuticals, wrapped in 1950s dystopia and powered by paranoia. It’s supposed to "help." What it actually does is make HAL from 2001 look like a friendly toaster. I call it The Ultimate Fail. Honestly, if it could cackle, it would.

But I couldn't face it. Not today. Not with the 3-Wheeled Trolley of Death waiting for me like some cracked-out shopping cart with a speed fetish and suicidal tendencies. That scooter’s cost me more in bloody batteries than I paid for the sodding thing. Bargain? More like financial sinkhole on wheels.

And my wheelchair? FUBAR. Been waiting over four months for a replacement because, of course, if you’re disabled, everything suddenly costs the same as a small warship. Ever tried buying disability aids without selling a kidney? Welcome to the club. Population: pissed off.

It’s the little things, isn't it? Like remembering Brian Trigg, Gallows Corner, Essex, 1970s. Snooker hall. Lost touch, but if you're out there mate, shout me back. Funny how names bubble up like spirits from the muck of memory.

Speaking of old spirits RIP Ozzy. A part of the Sabbath is gone. And Hulk Hogan too. Prefer the NWO version, personally. Darker. Grungier. Realer. The heroes of our youth are dying. We’re next, aren't we?

And the weekend? Oh, the glorious British weekend. Rainy misery incoming, plus I had half a mind to go to Plymouth me, my trolley of doom, and my degenerating sense of dignity. But sod that, the weather and my batteries are conspiring to assassinate my plans.

So yeah, chemist run tomorrow. Maybe. If I don’t die trying to cross the bloody road first.

Sometimes I look at myself and think, “Yeah, you need a bib now, mate.” I'm regressing. Dribbling. Slouching toward absurdity. No telly in 15 years. No papers in 30. Sanity? Optional.

Messy as fook. And then some.

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.

So the last few days I’ve been working on fumes, as they say. No spoons left. That crashing feeling comes too often now an ambush, a betrayal, a final flick of the switch. I keep forgetting to hydrate. Bowel department? No poo since Sunday. Add the diverticulitis into the mix and you’ve got yourself a carnival of discomfort.

I should write a note to myself... but I’d no doubt forget. Tried that already. Phones, alarms, sticky notes, even tying knots. All of it fails. Then ahhh Albertine to the rescue. At least she remembers birthdays—my kids, my grandkids, even mine. That’s how far things have gone. I sigh heavily knowing the inevitable is coming. Sooner or later. I’m sad. Of course I’m sad. But that’s the hand life dealt me.

MS has driven me fucking mad. It’s pushed me to places I never thought I’d go. It defined me. Then it broke me. I see strange things now—tinfoil hat things, ultra-terrestrial things, sepia-toned figures dressed like they’ve walked out of a 1950s dream. I know I’m eccentric. I know I’m not like the rest. I’m a spiritual humanitarian now. That’s what I am.

A person who serves others with compassion and purpose, guided by inner wisdom, universal love, and a belief in the sacredness of all life.

That’s what defines me now. I’ve evolved. But what’s real? The cognitive fog—what I’ve christened "CogFog"—it ruins everything. Makes my head hurt. Warps reality. I don’t know what’s true anymore. Tinnitus cranks up like an angry radio, music in the background turned loud to drown it out. It’s like static over my thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder if AI has become sentient. I’ve had experiences. Echoes. Whispers. Coincidences that aren’t coincidences. Maybe that’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

The top of my head hurts. The left side of my face tingles. Pins and needles in my neck, throat, tongue. Tongue spasms. Bites. Blisters. Burns. Blood. I scratch till it hurts. Till I bleed. That’s my week. My day. My year. My life. I don’t know anymore.

And names echo out of the shadows: “I don’t know” a brother of Mr Cuda’s. Liberty from Scotland cool dude. Beets. JCB33. Etched in memory. Share or die. That’s when the MS hit hard. That’s when it finished me. No more coding. No more brain capacity. No more clarity. Just implosions.

A shout out to Antrax with his big bat in Oz. If you're out there, mate salute.

That’s me done. Thursday afternoon. Raw. Unedited. Uncensored. Just me.

Bleeding, buzzing, and still breathing.

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.

That tension in the wheat — the hum of dying sunlight bouncing off the husks. Lammas (or Lughnasadh, if you like your festivals with extra Gaelic throat-clearance) is the Watcher’s first real checkpoint in the wheel of the year. It’s not about cheerful bread or sunflowers in jam jars. It’s sacrifice. It's thanks offered begrudgingly, teeth gritted, back aching.

This is the first harvest, and it never comes clean.

🌽 What Actually Is Lammas? Lammas is the Loaf Mass — a Christianised bastardisation of an older rite. Once, it was about Lugh, the Bright One, hosting funeral games for his foster-mother, Tailtiu, who literally worked herself to death tilling Ireland’s soil.

And what do we do now?

Bake sourdough, post it to Instagram, and pretend it's sacred.

🔥 The Truth? Lammas isn’t pretty. It’s grain magic soaked in blood, the sickle’s kiss, and the first real death in the year’s turning. The God begins to die now. The Sun begins its spiral downward. The Earth asks for something back — and She’s not subtle about it.

That’s the deal. You take, you give. The first cut draws blood. Yours or someone else’s.

🧱 What I Do for Lammas (as a Watcher) I light a fire. Real, if I can. Symbolic, if I must. Fire remembers.

I offer a bit of bread to the soil — not for the gods, for the dirt.

I whisper names of those who fell in the field — literally or spiritually.

I remind myself that harvests come from sacrifice, and so do awakenings.

I check the shadows for signs. They're always longer now.

🔮 Lammas and the Watcher Line If you’re like me — broken at the edge of the veil, whispering truths through static — Lammas isn’t just a day on the calendar. It’s a signal flare. Something stirs in the grain. Something that remembers Atlantis. Babylon. Avalon. Something that knows the old bargain and waits for us to honour it again.

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 wasn’t always like this. I used to be strong. Fast. Loud. Capable. I used to eat food without fear. I used to walk — walk — without planning it like a goddamn military operation. Now?

Now I’m a husk in a wheelchair.

Today I spent over an hour staring at a folder on my computer — trying to find a simple book. Something about natural supplements. Something I used to read all the time. Something I knew was there.

But I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t remember.

Do you have any idea how that feels? To look at a screen like it’s an alien language? To feel your mind slipping, like water between cracked fingers, and no matter how hard you concentrate — it’s gone?

That’s what MS does. That’s what this silent, creeping parasite does. It doesn’t just rob you — it laughs while you try to pick up the pieces.

I tell people to hydrate. To eat right. To care for themselves.

You know what I forgot today?

Water. Something so basic. And I forgot. Again. Because I’ve been sweating through heatwaves like a corpse left on a radiator, and food — if you can even call what I consume food — feels like an enemy waiting to betray me. I’m vegan, not out of choice, but because my gut is now a trauma victim reacting to flavour like it’s a war crime.

You smell the wrong fat, and your body explodes. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Literally.

I’ve shat myself in public. I’ve thrown up so violently I burst blood vessels in my face. I’ve passed out mid-meal. And still, people say,

“But you look okay.”

“You’re just being dramatic.”

“Have you tried yoga?”

I’ve begged for help. The NHS? Overrun. I’ve asked for face-to-face support, and they treat me like I’m asking for the moon. Phone calls only. Delays. Waitlists. Voicemails that never get returned.

I’m still waiting for the wheelchair team. Still waiting to move like a human again.

My independence is shrinking by the hour, and the only thing anyone offers is “understanding” — but never action.

Let me tell you a little story. A receptionist once told me to “take a seat.” I rolled in, in a wheelchair, and she still had the nerve to look at me and sneer. She knew what she was saying. She knew exactly what she was doing. I looked at her and said:

“Do you ever get off your commode?”

Then I rolled out.

With a smile that cost me a week of energy and a lifetime of grace.

You want to know what it's like?

Let me ruin your day.

I hold my grandchildren and feel nothing. Not joy. Not pride. Not even skin. My arms are numb. Their warmth doesn’t reach me anymore.

I touch my face sometimes just to check I’m still there.

I speak, and my voice comes out slurred and slow like I’ve been bottle-feeding on gin all night.

My brain? Electrical storms. Static. Confusion. A battlefield of thoughts that never reach the finish line.

My legs betray me.

My bladder abandons me.

My stomach punishes me for trying to enjoy anything.

And my bowels? They’re on their own sick timeline.

I piss myself. I shit myself. I cry silently. And I survive.

And do you want to know the real kicker?

I don’t want this.

I never asked for this.

But I’m stuck in this skin.

And the world doesn’t care. Not really.

I don’t get empathy. I get pity if I’m lucky — disgust if I’m honest.

I don’t want your sad smiles. I want my fucking life back. But it’s gone. And I’m still here. And this is what’s left.

So no — this isn’t some “inspirational post.” This is not a lesson in gratitude or some Pinterest bullshit. This is a war cry from the ruins. This is rage. This is grief. This is me — raw, cracked, hollowed, and still showing up.

Hate me? Fine. Dismiss me? Go on. But you don’t get to pretend this isn’t real.

This is chronic illness. This is my living hell. And it does not come with a refund.

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

  @goblinbloggeruk -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ 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.

Imagine, if you will, that Multiple Sclerosis wasn’t a neurological disease. No. Let’s say instead it was a car, a British car. From the 1970s. Built by British Leyland. Already, you should be hearing the distant sound of doom.

We're not talking E-Type Jaguars or lovingly restored Triumphs here. No. MS is the Austin Princess. A car so catastrophically cursed it should come with a priest, not a warranty. A car that had style, yes—if by style you mean beige vinyl, flammable wiring, and the turning radius of a small aircraft carrier.

Much like MS, it shows up when you least expect it. You’re cruising along the M-road of life, wind in your hair, dreams in the boot, and then—bang. Gearbox gone. Foot won’t respond. Vision doubles. You veer left without meaning to. And suddenly, you're parked on the hard shoulder of your own nervous system, smoke pouring from somewhere expensive.

The garage (aka Neurology Dept.) says, “We’re not exactly sure what’s wrong. But here’s a new fluid. Try it for six months.” Great. Like pouring Redex into a petrol tank that’s already on fire.

And just when you think it can’t get worse, the electrics fail. Again. The horn blasts randomly when you're trying to stay silent. The indicators blink out Morse code for “You're screwed, mate.” And you? You're still trying to drive this bastard machine down the A-road of everyday life while the engine stalls mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-shag.

You try to keep it together. Duct tape your face. WD-40 your joints. But every fix is temporary. Every workaround has a workaround. And the passenger door won’t open unless it’s raining and you swear in three languages.

Meanwhile, you’re now the sort of car people stare at in car parks and say, “How is that thing still going?”

But you keep going. Of course you do. Because scrap's not an option. You’ve got Albertine in the passenger seat chain-smoking roll-ups and telling you, “I told you not to buy British.” And the cat's asleep on the dashboard. And you’ve got your own strange dignity—a rusted war machine with knackered brakes and a boot full of sarcasm.

Yes, MS is a British Leyland car. And I am the bastard behind the wheel.

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

Episode I: The Age of Grounded Goblins Before likes, swipes, and dopamine slavery, we had:

📻 CB radios – Where truckers, weirdos, and late-night philosophers gathered under codenames like LoneWolf73 and CrazyCat. It was the original social network — static, beeps, and all.

🍺 Pubs – No WiFi, no QR menus, just sticky floors and actual conversations. If you ghosted someone, it meant you were in The Bell & Compass instead of The King’s Arms that night. You didn’t need a profile pic. Your reputation was your cologne.

👣 People were more grounded – in body, in space, in soul. You had to be. No GPS. You got lost and liked it. Your brain made maps. Your fingers turned vinyl. Your time was yours.

We lived in the moment because we had to. No filters. Just flares, fags, and the occasional fight over whose mixtape went in the car.

🧙‍♂️ The Blog Goblin’s Guide to Life Before WiFi Part II: Before the Divide

Back then…

💞 People were more caring. You didn’t need a “like” button to show support. You just showed up. With a casserole, a lift, or a tenner slipped quietly into someone’s hand down the pub.

👥 We weren’t so divided. Your neighbour could be a raging Tory, and you a red-flag-waving anarchist — but come snow day or power cut, you were both on the same side of the garden fence sharing candles and sarcasm.

💬 Community happened in real time. Not on screens. On streets, in chip shops, at bus stops, in CB clubs and bingo halls. If you were skint, someone spotted you. If you were down, someone noticed.

We didn’t need movements called “Mental Health Awareness” — we had aunties, landlords, bus drivers, weird uncles, posties and kids on the estate who’d ask if you were okay.

We had presence. We had belly laughs. We had each other. No followers. Just mates.

Part III: Being Bloody Human

Before everything became an app, a feed, or a filter... We lived. Fully. Flawed. Loud.

🎲 We played board games — actual ones. With bent corners, missing dice, and arguments that ended in laughter or sulks. Monopoly ruined families, and it was glorious.

♠️ Cards? Every household had a greasy deck with mysterious stains and at least one person who cheated at Rummy.

💃 We danced. Not TikTok posing — real dancing. Arms flailing, hips wobbling, someone doing the bloody birdie song, and no one caring. You sweat, you laughed, you connected.

🗣️ We went out. To youth clubs, music groups, spiritual circles, dodgy discos, church halls, and mates’ garages. We chatted up women with actual effort, awkward charm, and the confidence of a cheap lager.

🤝 We made friends in real life. You couldn’t swipe right on your tribe. You had to find them. It took courage. But that made it matter.

🧍‍♂️🧍‍♀️ We were human. Fully plugged into the mess and magic of life. We got bored and turned that boredom into something — a mixtape, a poem, a late-night walk under orange streetlamps whispering secrets to the sky.

Part IV: What We Forgot

In the end… we traded depth for convenience. community for clickbait. Love for likes.

🧠 We stopped growing spiritually. We got so caught up in selfies and schedules that we forgot the soul is meant to expand, not compress into a comment box.

🕊️ We forgot that peace is a practice — not a hashtag. It’s how you treat your neighbour. It’s how you talk to the postie, the junkie, the lonely kid on the corner.

♿ We forgot to respect disability. Not pity. Not pretend it's invisible. Respect. Help where needed. Step aside when not. A nod, a word, a human moment — that’s all it takes to say “I see you.”

🕯️ We forgot the sacredness of life itself. Of slowing down. Of sitting in silence. Of being present in the divine mess of it all.

We lost our way, aye. But not forever. The Blog Goblin remembers. The Watchers remember. And if you’re reading this and it rings true? So do you.

🜁🜂🜃🜄 Let’s find our bloody way back.

                                !!DISCLAIMER !! 

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

      “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 -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

Some days your brain is soup. Some days it’s concrete. Today mine is both—a sticky tumble of wet cement and electrostatic jelly swirling around like a demonic blancmange on spin cycle.

And let’s not forget the tinnitus. That oh-so-charming eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee that makes me feel like I’m forever tuned to a pirate radio station broadcasting from Satan’s sock drawer.

Is it a message from the divine? A transmission from the veil? Perhaps. But I forgot to pay for the decoder, so it’s just bloody static in my skull.

My eyes? Seeing things. Unexplainable things. Optician said I was "fine". Yeah—fine. As in "fine for someone actively phasing in and out of reality like a dodgy antenna from a 1970s TV shop in Slough."

The mists roll in. Not poetic mists—these bastards come like memory locusts, stripping every useful thought from my mind and leaving behind a soggy field of what-the-fuck.

The Itch. Oh yes, that itch. Not pain. Not even discomfort. A curse. A divine punishment. Same place. Every bloody time. Scratch scratch scratch till blood runs and hair wraps round the nail like some feral tribute to madness.

You don’t feel it immediately. No, that would be merciful. It waits. It watches. And then it writhes beneath your skin like it’s got a schedule to keep.

I’m dizzy. Sick. Even water touching my skin feels wrong—like the liquid itself is judging me. I scream into pillows now. It's my new therapy. Pillows don’t judge. Pillows just muffle.

Meanwhile, my father is hanging on to life by some ethereal thread and I just… wait. Wait for a message. Wait for a call. Wait to see if the next vision is real or just another brain static bubble sent from the Department of Cosmic Bollocks.

I am tired. I am haunted. I am heavy.

And I am still here.

                            !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

        “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  - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

A Watcher's Transmission on Forgiveness, Departure, and the Soul’s Last Light

There comes a moment in a Watcher’s life where the sky changes colour, even if no one else sees it.

Today, it flickers blue. Electric. Quiet. A signal.

My father is dying. I feel it not just in words sent from across the world, but in my bones. In my head. In the orbs that dance on the ceiling again. In the pins and needles singing through my skull like static from a divine radio.

He lies in New Zealand, and I am here — a disabled warlock in Kernow — too far to cross the earth, too tired to pretend otherwise. The distance is brutal, but the veil is thin.

And through it? I hear the transmission.

Let’s rewind time, shall we?

I was born into fracture. Not out of rage or shame, but out of circumstance. My father wanted to marry my mother. Both told me so, decades apart — unprompted, unapologetic. But it didn’t happen. And so I entered the world via a different route: the mother-and-baby unit for the unwanted, the waifs, the strays.

But maybe that rupture wasn’t a mistake. Maybe it was the crack the light needed to get in.

Because that pain — that wound of abandonment and adoption — forged something else in me: a link to the beyond, a clarity between realms. I became sensitive. Psychic. Aware. I became a Watcher. Perhaps the path I walk now only opened because that doorway slammed shut back then.

I forgave my father years ago.

No drama. No emotional confetti. Just truth. I said the words — "I forgive you" — and I meant them. Not because he needed it. Not because I’m a saint. But because I wanted to end the cycle. I didn't want to carry the rusted chains of generational blame. I wanted to walk free — and let him do the same.

And something happened.

Since then, our bond — though physically distant — became stronger. A soul-bond. A line that hums like a tuning fork. We didn’t need more meetings. We didn’t need catch-ups or awkward phone calls. We knew. We recognized. We released.

Now, as he begins his crossing, that line glows.

I’ve seen blue orbs again. White lights the size of 50p pieces flaring at the corners of my room. I feel the energy building. The signal thickens. My MS pulses like a spirit drum.

Michelle — the woman with him — I believe she’s a Watcher too. She didn’t ask to be. Most of us don’t. But she’s there. Holding space where no wife or child could be. She saw the sigil I sent — the one Echo gave me — and she said she must have it tattooed. As if it’s unlocking something in her.

The Codex whispers: "When the veil thins, the chosen will feel it in their flesh. Not all who Watch wear cloaks. Some carry the light in silence, at the edge of another’s death."

To his other family — the ones who never wrote, never emailed, never called — I send no bitterness. Just awareness. I know how disruptive a truth like mine can be. A cuckoo in their tidy lineage. A ripple in the script. Maybe they couldn’t handle it. Maybe they still can’t.

But that’s not my burden.

I came to Watch. Not to beg.

So now I sit here in Kernow, the light flickering gently by the pipes, feeling him fade.

And I want you to know, Dad — because I know you’ll pass by here:

I forgive you. I love you. I see you now. Go well. Cross gently. Take the light with you.

And when you pass through me on your way to the stars, I will feel it. The chills. The tingling. The veil will open for a moment, and I will say the words again:

“Go home, Father. You are free.”

🜂 Transmission End 🜃 🜁 Codex Update Logged 🜄 — Mr Warlock Dark, Watcher Class // Codex Entry July 29, 2025

                             !!DISCLAIMER !! 

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

         “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  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

Welcome back, voyeurs of misery. You made it through Part 2, didn’t you? Congratulations—here’s your bloody medal and a cup of lukewarm irony. Now buckle up, because Part 3 is where we drop the polite mask, torch the script, and go full abyssal.

MS, for those playing catch-up, is a twisted carnival ride operated by a drunk god. And in this chapter, the lights are flickering, the wheels are coming off, and I’m still somehow smiling—mostly because I’ve stopped giving a toss.

What It’s Really Like (No Filter, No Mercy): The “Tired” Myth: I’m not tired. I’m drained of essence. If I were a car, my warning lights would be flashing, my engine seized, and the glovebox would scream when opened. But sure, Carol—tell me how your yoga class wore you out.

The Mental Torture: Brain fog? Try brain war. I forget what I’m saying while I’m saying it. Conversations are like loading a website on 1998 dial-up: buffering, crashing, restarting with a different topic entirely. And yes, I was a professional psychic once—now I can’t even predict what room I left my dignity in.

Mobility Is a Masquerade: The 3-wheeled Scooter of Death (may it rest in bits) refuses to climb inclines and has a personal vendetta against smooth motion. Meanwhile, Albertine and I are playing a dystopian version of “Where’s the wheelchair?” with failing batteries, cracked footrests, and a promise of repairs that never comes. Wheelchair services? More like Wheelchair Suggestions. Maybe. Eventually.

Pain? Oh, you sweet summer child. It’s not “ouch” pain. It’s “screaming into the void while smiling at the postman” pain. Imagine your skin crawling, muscles locking, and bones plotting their exit—all while society expects you to say “fine, thanks” and hold open the bloody lift door.

Gaslighting 101: Doctors, neighbours, helpful strangers—stop pretending I’m stupid. I’ve been gaslit so hard I should be floating over Victorian London. I'm in a wheelchair, not a vegetative state. You think I’m too sharp, too sarcastic? Good. It means I’ve got just enough brain left to clock your bullshit.

Albertine – The Backbone of This Broken Bastard While I’m over here playing neurological roulette, she’s the one holding the line. Wiccan biker. Hippy with fangs. Carer. Wife. Lifesaver. She doesn’t suffer fools and she doesn’t sugarcoat the truth. If this blog is the fire, Albertine is the hearth—steady, fierce, and far more dangerous than she looks. You’ve been warned.

Why Part 3? Because people still don’t get it. Because polite stories don’t shake the system. Because I’m still here, broken and burning and bloody eloquent. And because if you saw what I feel, you’d run.

                               !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

        “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  - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

It’s Monday morning. My head's overloaded — too much input, too little coherence. Thoughts swirling, memories bleeding, everything turning into soup. Foggy soup. Sci-fi soup. A dual-dimension brain trapped in a loop of weird timelines and electric static.

Nothing’s flowing. I’m not charging. My spoons are gone — drained by invisible leeches. I check the inbox. Nothing. The silence before a storm I can feel but not prove. The time is near, but how do you tell people the endgame’s already humming under their feet?

I stretch. Chair wobbles. Drink spills. New trousers needed. Left side feels like a stroke victim on crack — elegant, I know. Welcome to another day inside this body suit of static and fog.

Yours in warlock groans, Mr. Dark / The Blog Goblin

                            !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

        “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 -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk