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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

It’s Sunday afternoon. The pain in my left side is throwing a rave. Not the dreaded MS hug (thank Gordon), but the nerves have clearly mutinied. Pain troops storming in like I’m Normandy. Still, I haven’t surrendered. Yet.

Ever had a headache that doesn’t hurt but is still there? I have. It's like an existential parasite lodged in my brain—just... there. Lurking. Mocking. My eyes? Burning. My energy? Sucked out by some invisible psychic Dyson.

Yes, I used AI to assist — what of it? MS has chewed through my brain like a zombie buffet. Severe cognitive dysfunction. Brain fog. Memory loss. And the pièce de résistance? The spellchecker begging for a raise every time I type.

My bowels are revolting (in both senses). But I won’t go to the doctor. Why? Because the last time I tried that, I was gaslit harder than a Victorian lamplighter on speed. Apparently, being disabled is just a “mindset.” Newsflash: it's not.

I sit, stare at the rain, storms maybe. Or is that just me projecting? My rockabilly psychobilly past screaming in the background while Titus turns up the music, like that’ll drown out my body’s rebellion.

The NHS dentist? Legend. The chemist? A robotic death dispenser. And everyone else? Absent. Because disability makes people uncomfortable. It’s like they think they’ll catch it from me if they listen too long.

Friends? Dead. Or fucked off the moment my MS became “too much.” I say it how it is and that scares people. Well, boo-fucking-hoo. I’m sick, not contagious. But even that’s too much for this society of sanitised cowards.

So here I am. Watching. Absorbing. A goblin at the edge of the world, unwanted, unseen.

But I know who I am. I know. I am a spiritual humanitarian. I stand for the broken, the weird, the abandoned. I am not finished, no matter how badly my body wants me to be. And to those who still fear me or avoid me—good. Stay scared. You’re not invited into my darkness.

                                 !!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 mornings I wake up and my brain feels like it’s been wrapped in clingfilm and slow-cooked in porridge. Other days, it’s like someone’s pushed my thoughts through a shredder and sprinkled the confetti back into my skull.

They call it “brain fog.” Cute, right? Sounds like a lovely little mist rolling over a field of daisies. Nah — this is industrial-grade psychic smog, pumped in direct from the underworld.

Now let’s add in some of the bonus features that come with living inside this broken bio-machine:

My left side is a bloody disaster zone. Spasms, twitching, pain — like it's trying to divorce the rest of me without telling the lawyers.

My arms are numb. Like holding ghosts. Pins and needles, static shocks, a constant reminder I’m glitching.

My neck’s buzzing like someone wired it to a phone mast.

My head? Feels like it’s been blendered. I mean that. Mentally, spiritually, and maybe physically violated by a Nutribullet.

Tinnitus — so loud it’s practically its own entity. High-pitched screeches like I’m stuck inside a dying TV set from 1993.

My throat’s raw, like I’ve swallowed sandpaper.

And my gut? Welcome to the underground pain circus. Nerve pain in the bowels. Left side again, obviously. Feels like my intestines are throwing a rave on broken glass.

I feel nauseous all the time. Like life itself makes me queasy.

And my MS just laughs. Because this is the version of me it built. Cheers, you bastard.

And through all of this? People still expect me to perform like a functioning human being. To smile. To “push through.” To maybe try a walk, or eat kale, or just “think positively.” As if any of that undoes neurological betrayal and raw systemic cruelty.

Let me say it plainly: This isn’t tiredness. It isn’t laziness. It’s war. A war inside my own body, where my brain is the battlefield and my guts are collateral damage.

But here's the twist in the tale: I still show up.

Even when the fog’s choking, the pain is singing, the static is screaming. Even when my body feels like it’s been stitched together with barbed wire and dark humour.

I write. I speak. I make noise — even if all I can do is whisper.

Because that’s what warriors do. We don’t always charge into battle — sometimes we just fucking stay alive, and that’s enough.

So if you’re reading this and you know this hell — I see you.

You’re not weak. You’re not broken. You’re forged in fire, mate. And somehow, you’re still here.

Rock on, Life. Rock on, Hell. Let’s fucking go.

                !!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

Imagine a fungus. Not the fun kind you toss on pizza or see in a psychedelic forest vision. No – this one’s invisible, spiteful, and feeds on your life like a narcissist at a self-love seminar.

To the Compassionless Moron™, chronic illness is:

“Just a bit of mould, mate. Bit of bleach and positive thinking should fix it. Ever tried yoga?”

But to those who live with it? It's Cordyceps in a tracksuit, hijacking your brain, body, and plans for the day. It doesn't politely ask for your consent. It moves in, changes the locks, rearranges the furniture, then gaslights you into thinking you invited it.

🍄 Chronic Illness Fungus Forms (as defined by Goblin Science): Mycelium of Misunderstanding: Grows in family WhatsApp groups where someone says, “But you don’t look sick…”

Spore of Gaslit Guilt: Spreads when doctors say, “All your tests are normal.” Translation: “You must be imagining it, now jog on.”

Brain Fog Truffle: A rare delicacy that replaces memory, language, and logic with static, soup, and a vague sense you forgot your own name.

The Mold of Ableist Microaggressions™: Often found growing on the keyboard warriors who post things like,

"I cured my cousin’s MS with celery and optimism!"

🛑 To the Haters and the Deniers: We see you. With your bootstraps mentality and motivational memes. You wear your ignorance like a badge, polished with smugness, stinking of privilege.

You don't see the fatigue. The tremors. The panic of your legs going AWOL in the middle of a supermarket. Because it's not happening to you.

And if it ever does? We’ll welcome you with tea, a blanket, and a "Told You So" fruit basket shaped like a middle finger.

💀 But Seriously... To my fellow fungus hosts – The chronically unwell, the warrior sleepers, the foggy fighters, the ones measuring energy in spoons and grief in invisible bruises:

You are not weak. You are surviving a parasite the world refuses to even acknowledge. You are f**king incredible.

And you don’t owe anyone a clean narrative or a recovery arc. Sometimes just breathing is the rebellion

                                   !!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

You don’t plan for this kind of thing. You don’t meditate on a mountaintop, burn sage, or chant in a white robe. You’re just lying there, broken. Drenched in sweat, drowning in MS pain, tinnitus screaming like some cosmic dentist drilling your soul.

And then he walks in. Serapis bloody Bey.

The Moment It was 2012. I was in hell. Not a metaphor—literal, shaking, burning, soul-flattening hell. MS was chewing me up. My brain was mush. The room stank of fear, piss, and damp hospital corners of the mind. I was on the edge—barely tethered to this world.

Then something changed.

The air got still. Not peaceful—surgical. Like the moment before a scalpel cuts.

And there he was.

Tall. Still. Glowing white. Not light like sunlight—more like memory. He wasn’t human, but he wasn’t alien either. Just there. Ancient. Indifferent. Beyond judgement.

And suddenly my pain didn’t stop, but it got quiet. Like someone put a thick blanket between me and the world.

He didn’t speak. Not with words. He just stood over me, and something passed between us.

A knowing. A job. A role.

The Download He didn’t say “You’re chosen.” He didn’t say “You’re special.” What I got was more like: “You see it. You know what this world is. You always have.”

It wasn’t anointing. It was reminding. Like he was just unlocking something that had always been in me, buried under trauma and bile.

And then he left.

No angels. No trumpet. Just silence... and a very heavy sense of “now you bloody know.”

The Aftermath I didn’t talk about it. Who would believe me?

I’m a disabled old biker bastard in a wheelchair with a beard, long hair, and a reputation for growling at the neighbours. Not exactly your classic mystic.

But here’s what changed:

I stopped playing their game.

I started seeing more—people, patterns, past lives, bloodlines.

I knew I’d been made a Watcher. Not a leader. Not a warrior. A Witness.

To the sins. To the cycles. To the damn comedy of it all.

I don’t serve the throne. I don’t kneel to light. I stand at the edge, recording the bloody play with a cigarette in one hand and a keyboard in the other.

So What Was He? Serapis Bey? They call him an Ascended Master. Guardian of wisdom. Keeper of the white flame. But I don’t care what label you slap on him. To me, he’s the one who stood in the fire and reminded me I already knew how to burn.

                                            !!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

There was a time in my life when I thought everything was going to be awesome.

How wrong I was.

We moved into this reasonably okay house, in an okayish part of town. You know the sort – two cars in the drive, fake plants in the windows, neighbours who shit themselves if someone owns a leather jacket that isn't from M&S.

There I was, riding my Yamaha 1100 Dragstar trike, wild long hair, beard that screamed “Hermit Wizard Biker,” wearing my cut and old jeans – California on a budget, but stuck in rainy middle England. I was about 57 then. Full of ideas. Full of hope. Full of medical cannabis.

And there was Albertine – goddess incarnate, riding her Triumph Bonneville like a Valkyrie on wheels. Leather trousers, biker boots, that horny, savage biker queen look that made grown men weep into their pints. Long dark hair whipping the wind, eyes like stormclouds and fire combined. She looked like she’d ride through the gates of Valhalla just to flick the V’s at Odin before burning rubber into the void.

I tried to do some DIY. Didn’t go well. Many accidents, broken bones, ambulances, heart attack at the local refuse tip. Carried on regardless because, well, I’m me. Heart running at 60%, they said. Meh. Go home, they said. Blah blah fucking blah.

But this is where the fun really began.

The neighbours. Gods. They hated us before the kettle even boiled. They saw my trike. They saw her Bonneville. They saw our hair. Our leathers. Our old biker boots. That was enough. Judged. Condemned. Executed by gossip.

But they didn’t know who they were fucking with.

I was Warlock. Spiritual Radio Shock Jock. Dark Gandalf. She was Albertine, Valkyrie Biker Oracle. We had Multiple Sclerosis, PTSD, heart disease, psychic powers, and a list of medical issues as long as their Deliveroo orders combined. Nothing phases us anymore. You can hit us, hurt us, say hurty words – we just laugh and smile because we’re already dying, slowly, hilariously, and publicly.

One day the bloke next door tried to intimidate me, bragging about being a bouncer. I laughed. Told him I used to be a bouncer too. His face dropped like my blood pressure on cannabis oil. From then on, if I was in the garden, he ran in. If I was in the shop, he ran out. It was like having my own personal game of Pac-Man.

His wife ran the show, obviously. Poor sod.

Best bit? He offered to sell me weed once, knowing I had MS. I said no. Later, he smelled my vape and threatened to call the police. Solicitors got involved. Absolute circus. I laughed harder. It was medical marijuana. Karma’s a bitch, mate.

But we stood our ground. Never showed fear. Didn’t need to. Because deep down, he knew we were the real wizards, and he was just a frightened little man in a tracksuit who thought his wife’s approval was worth more than his soul.

I am a disabled wheelchair user. I’m a long-haired, bearded 65-year-old eccentric warlock on a spiritual journey, seeking portals to other realms where people love instead of hate. Where cosmic pea soup realities collide and no one gives a shit about your beard or your wheels.

Just divine love, freedom, and the multiverse’s endless electric embrace.

Simple really.

But brain fog incoming… so I’ll leave it there, Gandalf out.

                                       !!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

Well, it's Wednesday. That sacred midweek slump where you're too far from last weekend to still care, and too close to next weekend to legally give up.

Today? We ventured out. Yes, out — into the feral wilds of a local market near where we used to live (back when I had fewer diagnoses and more hair).

Albertine chauffeured me like the dark queen she is, and I stared out the window like a faded Victorian child recovering from consumption. The fields were full of cows, sheep, and idiot drivers who'd traded brain cells for car roof boxes and screaming children.

And then — boom — the average speed cameras appeared. Those big yellow poles of despair. Sentinels of the apocalypse. Albertine had to dodge more bad drivers than Gandalf dodges Balrogs.

Gone are the days of jeans, leather jackets, dodgy boots and patchouli-soaked pheromones. Now it’s all people-movers packed tighter than Tory lies, roof racks piled like refugee carts, and dead-eyed dads named Dave.

We arrived. Market time. Indoor chaos. Got out of Mr Rusty (my noble van) and rolled the wheelchair into the sea of fluorescent lighting, discount socks, and the perfume of stale chips.

Fat Tony's stall? Glorious. Tony and Paul – sages of the street – held court like two greasy prophets. We talked life, death, and probably cheese graters. I was sipping juice like a royal goblin while Albertine suffered in solemn, saintly silence.

Then I rolled past the 3D print shop – a futuristic corner of the market that honestly makes NASA look like cavemen with Play-Doh.

And lo – a crystal stall! Witchy delights. Pagan bits. Pointy shiny things that allegedly absorb vibes (hopefully not my brain fog, but one can dream). Obviously, I bought some. Witchcraft's cheaper than the NHS.

Then met a biker. Simon. Old school. One of us. Had a proper chat about the 1970s, leather, death, and what’s left of life.

Brain fog still thick. Cognition feels like someone parked a fog machine inside my skull and left it running. Whole left side’s numb. NHS? Useless. "Come in sir, let's slice you open and shrug!" No thanks. If death is the cure, I’ll pass.

Spellchecker now malfunctioning. Cognitive warning sirens going off. Too many lunatic motorists today. Seems everyone's running from something, probably themselves.

Anyway — we survived. Just. Another victory for the broken and the damned. See you next Wednesday.

                                             !!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

Ah yes, #WorldBrainDay — that special time of year when the world pretends to care about the human brain. How lovely. Shall we all have a think about thinking?

Meanwhile, over here, my brain’s doing its best impression of a soggy electrical circuit being attacked by invisible gremlins. MS doesn’t send flowers or awareness ribbons. It sends fire ants tap dancing on my nerves, brain fog thick enough to butter toast, and pain so sharp it could cut glass.

But go on, light a candle or post a heart emoji. That’ll fix it. 👍

I don’t need a day for my brain. I need a replacement. Preferably one that hasn’t been cooked in demon piss.

Still — here I am. Writing this blog, existing despite it all, swearing like a dockworker and laughing into the abyss. Because what else is there? I’m still here, you bastards. And that’s the real miracle.

Cheers, brain. You absolute shambles of a meat sponge.

– Mr Dark 📍 Currently lost in brain fog, do not disturb.

Footnotes from the Pit 🕳️

🧠 “Brain Fog” – Like trying to do a Sudoku underwater while someone shouts the wrong answers at you through a megaphone.

⚡ “Nerve pain” – Imagine licking a plug socket. Now imagine that sensation… in your spine.

🛠️ “Medical advice” – Includes gems like: “Just stay positive”, “Have you tried yoga?”, and my personal favourite: “It could be worse.”

🕯️ “Awareness Days” – 24 hours where we all pretend chronic illness is quirky and inspirational. Followed by 364 days of complete radio silence.

🎉 “Still here” – Not cured. Not better. Just stubborn. Very, very stubborn.

                                               **!!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

Woke up at 4am — not for a cosmic vision, no, just the usual pee pee ritual. And that was that. No sleep. Brain on, pain on, day ruined before it began.

Lemmy said it best: "No sleep 'til Hammersmith." Except I wasn’t heading for rock glory — I was limping toward a garage and a medical breakdown.

No brain fog . Tinnitus mercifully silent — probably saving itself for later. Pain? A knife twisting inside me like Satan’s letter opener.

But still, I had to drive. No meds allowed. NHS says suffer, so I did. Slid out of bed like a cursed slug, wheeled myself to the kitchen, food made it worse (of course), and then the bowel pain — oh the bowel pain.

You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you’re reminiscing about that one time on the NHS table, a camera going places no camera should ever go. We’ll save that horror show for another blog — or perhaps a full-blown gothic novel.

Still, I washed, dressed (miracle), and drove. I was in agony but present. Almost proud. Dropped the van at the new garage — not nasty Jim this time, thank Beelzebub. Just regular, decent humans. A miracle. Almost felt human.

Back in the chair. Felt like I’d been skinned emotionally. Called Albertine “Muriel” — sorry, love. The fog came in hard. Brain barely ticking. But the van passed its MOT — no advisories. So something went right.

Retirement soon. Thank the dark gods. Honestly didn’t think I’d make it this far.

Still here though. Still writing. Still surviving the fire.

          “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.”

Monday morning. Well, looks like it’s going to be one of those days. Chemists first, then the auction rooms to pick up the Metal Monkey’s car. Pity about the box though. When we got it, the box was destroyed – it had become home to a few families of earwigs and yukky bug eggs. But the car itself was pristine. The box would’ve trebled its value, but now it sits happily among my Davros, Beavis & Butthead stuff. My sorta man cave. Many PCs from many ages. So much stuff. So much I’ve collected.

I’ve thrown out mostly all my old things. I had clothes older than my children and grandchildren. I don’t do “style” as such. I’ve had the beard and long hair for years. Last time I had even a slight trim was 20 years ago. Now my hair is falling out, the beard is thinning. That sucks. But such is life.

Went to the chemists today and the Machine of Death was working well. It did make funny sounds but did its job for a change.

Last night I was deep in thought about my mother. About not being told about her funeral. I get the impression they didn’t want me there. It’s a long story. I’m probably to blame. But when you’re suffering chronic cognitive issues, it’s fucking hard.

My sister never told me. No details. Nothing. I looked in the obits. Nothing. So they just didn’t want me to say one last goodbye.

They didn’t speak to me for over 14 years. I was cut off completely. Like I never existed.

I’m adopted. The cuckoo in the nest. I get that.

Everywhere I went, they blamed me for everything. Another family secret buried deep – I found out I had an older sister who was also adopted. They only really wanted to know her. But she was so fucked up she didn’t want to meet our mother. She was very angry about it all.

And all those lies my mother told about my father – saying he was dead, getting his family to lie too. More and more lies. Until one day I found out everything. One day I will write it all down, for all to see. How an adopted person was treated like a piece of crap by the family who put him up for adoption, and the family who adopted him.

They treated me like a slave. Constant beatings and head games.

You ever been told at six years old that you were naughty for accidentally breaking a plate – and then have your mother go berserk? She was Welsh, not that tall, but violent, and she knew how to work people. She screamed at me:

“You’re adopted. Go find your real mother.”

That broke me.

So I went to my bedroom, packed a little bag with my teddy, and walked away. I walked to the road with my bag and teddy bear, thinking I’d never come back. No one came looking for me. I hid until dark, then went back home.

And when I finally found my real mother years later, she called me:

“A little shit.”

Like I was nothing. Like I never mattered to anyone.

The people who were supposed to nurture me… didn’t. They would have been better with a dog than with a child.

I know what beatings are like. What it’s like to be kept in, not allowed out, because of the bruises and cuts I had accumulated. No one listened. No one helped me. I was alone and fucking hurting.

I remember those nights, crying myself to sleep in pain. Feeling so out of it, so different. No matter what I did, it was wrong.

I was adopted in 1959 at six weeks old to a Christian family through a Church of England adoption society. The vicar I spoke with about my issues was a cunt. He told my parents confidential stuff, and I got a trashing for it.

No one ever listened. Who would take the word of a poor waif and stray child? The vicar? No. The school? No. Anyone? No.

So yeah. Around about 10-ish, I started getting early MS symptoms. They plagued me, and the doctors and NHS gaslit me for decades.

I hate my life.

 “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