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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.

So we find ourselves again thinking about having a spoken word blog, no less on Spotify. I tried doing was quite disappointing. But then again, I'm learning. It didn't help that I was suffering with massive cognitive dysfunction and brain fog. And you know what that's like. It creeps up on you and bang before you know where you are. You just can't remember what you're doing. It's the most weirdest of feelings. Well, anyway, it's taken me now a month and a half to two months just to get my Spotify account sorted out. So let's hope that my living hell, multiple sclerosis blog will be going verbal as they say soon.

I've been wondering about what I shall talk about or speak about on the blog. And I thought, well, I'm just going to talk about common sense things and just talk about things that people want to hear. It's not going to be sanitised. It's going to be the real truth told by somebody who has faced the MRI scans, and I've had issues with catheters, stuff like that, stupid things, injections, white coat syndrome. It's all sorts of things that I've been through and people I know have been through, all the gaslighting and everything. I want an open talking blog that I can put out where people can listen and understand that they're not alone and that there are other people out there who can understand the suffering that they are going through themselves and offer help and show that they are not alone in this fight that they are fighting, the fight of their lives, which is multiple sclerosis and chronic illness in general.

The reason that I have been using a lot of AI in my writings is that my spelling and punctuation and sentencing structure is out of this world. Unfortunately, AI changes my words and the very construct I am talking about and it sort of sanitizes everything to the point of why you are not really helping me. So everything is from now on going to be non AI. Yeah, I know. I have just found out AI is holding me back not helping me forwards in my blog and in my thinking and in my writing. AI is a good tool but unfortunately it isn't something that I find that will help me with the words that I want to put on paper as my words are all unapologetic and I don't want it sanitized anymore. I'm fed up with being kept quiet.

Still, three eye-atlas or whatever has gone past and... well, I suppose we're gonna wait for the gas tail to cover us in magic fairy dust. But we weren't invaded by more awning aliens and we didn't see any more moon or weird probes or anything strange. So I guess it's a big nothing burger. Well, that's what I thought it was and I tried to do some experimentation on my body and I've still got multiple sclerosis and I haven't become 5D or anything weird or strange. This is quite unreal. It'd be quite a lot of people who've had their paradigm smashed by people who say things that just really never pan out. Sad really.

It's Friday afternoon and the sun has actually come out for a change and I'm looking out the window and it's still, well, bluish sky and some nice big white puffy clouds. It seems that the storms in the southwest are passing over. Yes, it's been very cold. It has caused me many problems, but there we go. I was thinking about getting the three-wheeled trolley of death out to go to the local voodoo voodoo-woodoo shop, but I thought, nah, what's the point?

No, my luck, it's gonna start raining. Oh, and the battery update, the battery is well. They're not lasting very well. It seems charge them up fully, next day they're down to 75% overnight. Oh dear me, I'll be glad when they do batteries that actually do what they say on the label. That will make a great change. Anyway, that's me gone. My brain fog has hit me so hard and I'm having sort of weird issues with all the other symptoms I'm having to do with this other thing I'm going through and to be fair, I'll be glad when that's all sorted out, but it is taking quite a time as everything usually does because you don't just go in asking about what you think you've got wrong with you, you've got to know what you've got and then you've got to research it and then the doctors you've got to explain to them you've researched it, bloody, bloody, blah and the doctor looked at you as though saying, well you shouldn't be researching it on the internet and then what does he do? Because he looks at it upon Google. Yeah, that's a bit sort of weird, isn't it?

Still I've got to say I've got some very good doctors at the moment and that's what counts isn't it? But there we go, have a good weekend until I can post again and not using AI you're going to find lots of mistakes everywhere. Ha ha, it should be good fun.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

So well we have a comet flying through the skies and it will soon be passing Earth. I wonder what everybody is thinking. There must be people thinking, "Ooh, is it a comet? Ooh, is it something more? Is it an alien spaceship or an alien probe from somewhere? What is happening? All these things and more we're going to look at now in my really weird world. Just think this could be a giant nothing burger and all those people who've been spouting the end of the world and aliens aliens oh dear we're going to be upgraded we're going to have our bodies and minds upgraded. Oh well it's far from science fiction it could be science facts. Who really does know? I don't. Does anybody really know all these people who pertain to the experts don't really know either so I'm looking forward to Atlas coming past seeing what happens. Seeing if things change in my paradigm shift. So according to many, I'm going to have a consciousness upgrade. I don't know what that means, but if it can help my MS, I look forward to that. Others have said, "Oh, it's a harbinger of doom, gloom and death from some unknown race coming to invade us." That's what all these orbs are. We're seeing everywhere in Earth these days. I personally am yet to have seen a drone, but I have seen some of the black triangles over the past 20 or 30 or 40 years that people have been proclaiming and seeing. And I've also seen blacked out helicopters as well, back in the 80s. But I guess that's all government stuff. And hey, ho, we're on about aliens. Or could it be other dimensional creatures? I don't call them creatures. I call them, well, let's see. Brothers and sisters from another dimension. Brothers and sisters from another dimension. Brothers and sisters from another planet. Or brothers and sisters who we can't see, who are already here, who walk amongst us. I mean, how cool is that? But have they got our good intent? Hmm, this is what I ask myself. Do they have our good intent? Or are they not very nice people? So, being born in the 1950s, yes, I'd seen loads of the old 1950s, 60s, 70s early UFO movies and pictures of aliens. I researched UFOs actively in the 70s and early 80s and basically most of the stories that came to me were just odd lights. But I did have a few really, really interesting cases that I worked on. One, let me say in the early 90s, led to a set of things happening in my life that would change my life beyond belief. And when I told that story to one person, it blew their mind and then other people got involved and then let's just say things got completely out of control. Now, I find myself in the realisation in my mind, what is real and what is not real? Having multiple sclerosis and having this neurological disease puts me in this . And I find that very, very interesting why they are trying to sanitise everything. And if I had a tin foil hat on, I'd be thinking, why are all these disclosure movies coming out at the moment? Doesn't that make you think, just like my father would say? So yeah, 3i Atlas could be a big nothing burger, and well, it's still going to change people's perceptions, is it not? Just the comic coming past, such a close range, will change people's paradigms? I think so. You know, I think it's great to be talking about things like comics and talking about dimensional beings, talking about what could be out there. And what's amongst us as well is even more wonderful, just to think we could have extra terrestrial space brothers and sisters or dimensional brothers and sisters amongst us. That is so mind blowing. It really makes you think. And here's me being thinking, well, if there was another race that lived with us on this marble, this so-called blue marble, why would they have to be on the earth? Why couldn't they be under the earth, under the sea? The oceans are massive. I bet those places we haven't even visited on this planet as well. So you know, you just can't say we are the only living thing anywhere. I have a lot of belief, and I really do believe people should start reading the book of Enoch. Yes, the book that was taken out of the Bible, or even the Ethiopian Bible, or yes, the Ethiopian Bible. I think that would be something to read as well. And start looking at the Sumerian texts and look into Glubeo Techie and places like that and start questioning everything. Just taking what people say as true, questioning, answering. You know, what you used to do, not just taking every word as blind truth. That is why I follow no religion and I don't follow any type of politics because I would like to be more clear thinking than that. I want clear answers in my mind about how, why, what, and who we really are. They are the deeper questions. And being so close to death that I have been and having all these weird things happen to me over all my years, I really do start to wonder what is going on and are we seeing something happening that is a once in a lifetime changing event going to occur. That's what I ask myself. I think am I seeing history changing to the points where in thousands of years time they will look back and say that was man's biggest turning point. To be honest, I've got my tinfoil hat on again. You know, I don't believe in the moon landings. I think they are false. I don't believe we've been to the moon. I know, I might sound contentious, but in all the films and everything I've seen, everything looks fake. But that's neither here nor there. I started all this off thinking one thing and now I'm thinking another. So yeah, all these UAPs, norms or whatever, what are they, where are they from? Are they from Russia, China, America, Britain, who? No one really truly knows. But maybe one day we'll find out and maybe we'll all be shocked. And by then maybe there'll be a new world order. I don't know. I don't know what the order's going to be like. But you can guarantee history changing events are just around the corner people. And after these holidays I think we're going to see the biggest changes we've ever, ever ever seen. So sending everybody peace-healing, love and light whether you want it or not.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

Rain, Kittens, Orbs, and the Question of Sanity

The rain came down like it had a personal grudge.

Not a polite drizzle. Not that apologetic British mist that says sorry as it dampens your jacket. This was proper biblical nonsense drains overflowing, gutters giving up, the kind of rain that makes you laugh and think, Well then… water shortage this summer, obviously. Humanoids are marvellous at panicking about drought while actively floating away.

I woke around 4:30am to what can only be described as a purring industrial estate. One kitten asleep on my head. Another wedged into my neck and beard like it had taken out a long‑term lease. Engines running. Vibrations everywhere. If cats are supposed to be aloof, these two missed the memo and went straight for emotional blackmail.

Then came the inevitable.

Kitten. Christmas tree. Gravity.

Yes — the tree ended up on the floor. No — the kitten did not care. In fact, she looked smug. Decorations everywhere, tinsel hanging like festive entrails. We laughed because the alternative was crying, and crying before breakfast feels a bit ambitious.

Looking Up (and Not Seeing Much)

I still look at the sky.

According to the internet, it should be crawling with orbs, UAPs, UFOs, visitors popping in like it’s a motorway service station. I look up and see clouds, rain, and the occasional star when the southwest decides to be generous. No glowing ambassadors from beyond. Either I need new glasses or I’m simply not on the invite list.

That said, I do see strange things sometimes. Flickers. Patterns. Moments that make me stop and think, Hang on… what was that? And that’s where the internal interrogation starts:

Am I seeing something genuinely odd? Or am I seeing reality through a nervous system that’s been joyfully sabotaged?

I live with multiple sclerosis. I live with brain fog. I live with an autonomic system that behaves like it’s freelancing without supervision. When that’s your baseline, you don’t get the luxury of trusting perception — but you also don’t get to dismiss it outright. You’re stuck in the grey bit, where certainty goes to die.

The Medical Cul‑de‑Sac

I did the neurological tour. Thoroughly.

Scans. Clinics. Explanations that manage to be both technical and utterly hollow. MS can do this. MS can do that. Yes, thank you I’ve noticed. Useful, but spiritually about as nourishing as a hospital biscuit.

So I widened the lens.

Philosophy. Consciousness. Vallée. Keel. The trickster nature of reality. Not because I want to declare myself special or enlightened — but because pretending the questions don’t exist feels like intellectual cowardice.

Enter AI, Wearing a High‑Vis Jacket

Asking AI was… an experience. it tried to sanitise everything.

Dietary help? Genuinely useful. When your body treats half the food supply like a personal attack, clarity matters.

Spiritually? Absolutely allergic to nuance.

Everything funnelled straight into pathology. Everything gently but firmly steered toward “this is all in your head, dear.” Not curiosity compliance. Ask a question about perception and suddenly you’re wrapped in digital bubble wrap with a warning label.

Here’s the blunt bit: AI doesn’t think. It reflects.

It reflects liability fears, cultural assumptions, and the worldview of its programmers. Which means spirituality gets treated like a software bug, and lived experience gets flattened into symptom management. That’s not wisdom that’s risk assessment pretending to care.

So Am I Mad, Then?

Let’s not mince words.

MS makes your interface with reality noisy. Signals overlap. The brain flags nonsense as urgent and sometimes ignores what actually matters. That’s biology, not a moral failure.

But and this is where everyone gets lazy neurological explanation does not automatically equal existential erasure.

Not everything is meaningless. Not everything is a cosmic message either.

The real work is discernment, which is far less glamorous than revelation.

Questioning your own experiences isn’t madness it’s grounding. Wondering whether something is neurological, psychological, or something else entirely is not delusion it’s honesty. Certainty without humility, on the other hand, is where things go properly sideways.

I don’t claim gifts. I don’t claim answers. I claim decades of odd experiences, a damaged nervous system, a functioning bullshit detector, and the right to sit with uncertainty without being patronised.

Where I’ve Ended Up (So Far)

I trust neither blind belief nor blind dismissal.

Doctors don’t have the full picture. AI definitely doesn’t. Spiritual circles often disappear up their own arse. Hard materialism leaves too much unexplained.

Reality, inconveniently, refuses to be tidy.

So I keep one foot on the ground, one eye on the sky, and both hands firmly on my own nonsense especially on bad days.

Some days are pain, fog, and unreality. Some days are kittens, rain, and laughter.

I send peace, healing, love, and light anyway to everyone not because everything’s fine, but because choosing bitterness would be the final indignity.

If this season means anything at all, it’s this: More days turning into more days. Still here. Still asking.

That’ll do.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

Picture this:

I’m rolling through reality on my trusty power chair a chrome beast with more personality than most people I know. Long hair streaming behind me like a warning sign, beard untamed, sunglasses big enough to block out the Ministry of Nonsense. Cowboy hat perched low, casting a permanent shadow over my don’t-give-a-toss expression, the battered leather of my biker jacket carrying the stench of rebellion and spilled coffee.

The world around me? Absolutely barking. Neon jellyfish floating past in the air, tentacles gently brushing the hats off unsuspecting pensioners. Pavements shifting under a river of rainbow tiles, each slab humming like it’s auditioning for Pink Floyd. Traffic lights blink in impossible colours—ultraviolet, emotional blue, a shade of green that smells like marmite and disappointment.

A pigeon with the head of Alan Watts tries to sell me spiritual enlightenment in exchange for my last Jaffa Cake. Dogs walk people, old buses sprout daisy wheels, and a marching band of mutant toads play “God Save the Queen” backwards as the soundtrack to this feverish promenade.

I glide on, parting crowds of goggle-eyed normies, the universe distorting in my rearview mirror. “Keep rolling, cowboy,” the universe whispers, “the weirdness isn’t going to witness itself.”

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

Well, it’s another Saturday. Or is it Wednesday? Could be 2017 for all I know – time stopped making sense around the fifth episode of brain fog this morning. The weekend’s here, apparently, and so am I. Unfortunately.

Picture this: I’m sitting here, staring at my endless to-do list, so knackered my spoons have buggered off and left a note saying, “Back in a decade, maybe.” Energy: zero. Motivation: less than zero. The only thing working properly is my ability to screw things up and get it all wrong, which, let’s be honest, I’ve always excelled at.

Sometimes I think the best option is just to switch myself off and power down for a few weeks, like a dodgy PC. Not because I’m dramatic (okay, a bit), but because MS reality is like living in permanent airplane mode – you’re still technically on, but none of the good stuff’s working.

The fog in my head’s so thick, I need a lighthouse to find my cup of tea. My eyes are so light-sensitive, I’m basically a reverse vampire, and my hearing is putting on a pantomime of its own. Tinnitus is mercifully on its lunch break, but the vagus nerve is still auditioning for Cirque du Soleil: pins, needles, left jaw spasms, the works. My hands and feet are staging a static electricity rebellion.

It’s funny how time just morphs from one week to another, and then into another year, another decade. Memory? Gone. Smells trigger more nostalgia than actual memories now, which is probably for the best. Who wants to remember the good old days anyway? They probably weren’t that good, I just had more spoons.

Honestly, I haven’t felt this rough since Thatcher was on the telly and petrol was a quid. For me, Christmas is just more days blending into more days, full of pain, unreality, and brain malfunction. But hey, happy holidays to the rest of you – may your synapses fire as intended and your spoons stay polished.

Sending peace, healing, love, and light to everyone, regardless of your state of mental decay. Don’t hold your breath for a blog post – I’m working on the “spoken blog” tech, but brain fog has other ideas. Maybe by next Christmas I’ll have it sorted. Or maybe I’ll forget I ever started. Who knows? Not me.

Cheers.

If AI could recommend a solution, it would say: “Have you tried turning yourself off and on again?” Sadly, I’m stuck on a loop, but if anyone invents a reboot button for MS, I’ll be first in the queue. Until then, it’s just me, my spoons (missing in action), and the eternal question: “What day is it again?”

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

So the one thing I probably haven’t ranted about properly is diet. Not “clean eating,” not “wellness,” not some influencer nonsense where you heal your soul with chia seeds and positive affirmations. I mean survival. Real, grim, clinical survival.

For chronic illness, diet isn’t “important.” It’s the entire game board.

Over the years my diet has done a full 180, then another 180, then probably fell off the axis altogether. I had no idea just how badly my conditions were messing with my gut until everything started reacting like I’d swallowed a live grenade.

It turns out simple food can flip my system into meltdown. The wrong thing at the wrong time can set off my auto-immune vagus nerve, send my MS into overdrive, and have me sprinting for the toilet in my power chair on full throttle like I’m in some Paralympic drag race.

That’s not a metaphor. That’s Tuesday.

So I’ve ended up on a brutally strict diet. Not for fun. Not for aesthetics. For damage control.

I’m now at the point where even the smell of certain foods can trigger my gut. One whiff and the body screams: “Evacuate now.” So yes, I am that person who can’t sit near someone eating certain things without mentally plotting escape routes to the nearest accessible loo.

Is it dignified? No. Is it real? Absolutely.

Meanwhile, out in space: 3I Atlas and the cosmic joke

While my gut is staging small rebellions, somewhere out there 3I Atlas is gliding through the universe like it owns the place.

Is it a comet? Is it a UFO? Is it a frozen rock, minding its business while humans project their midlife crises onto it?

Using Occam’s razor, it’s a comet. A lump of ancient ice and rock with a flashy tail. Nothing personal. No message from the gods. Just celestial debris doing its orbital thing.

But here’s the fun part: no matter what it is, it’s going to mess with people’s heads.

If it’s “just” a comet, people who secretly wanted a mothership will have to swallow that disappointment along with their supermarket meal deals. If it turns out to be something stranger, the “it’s all nonsense” crowd will have their smug little worldviews cracked open.

Either way, paradigms get nudged. People think a bit. Or panic a bit. Or make 600 TikToks about it. Same energy.

Me personally? Somewhere in the back of my already scrambled brain, I quite like the idea that 3I Atlas is an alien AI probe cruising through our solar system, doing exactly what we do when we send our little machines off to other worlds: scanning, photographing, logging, and then buggering off again.

Science fiction? Maybe. Science fact one day? Also maybe.

For now, it’s just another cosmic object passing by while I try to remember what day it is and whether I took my meds.

Afternoon AI: Brain Fog, Probes & the Simulation

By the afternoon, my brain usually feels like it’s being held in a clamp. You know that tightening pressure where it’s not quite pain, but it’s definitely not right? That.

Trying to write or even talk properly sets off brain fog so dense it might as well be its own weather system. Words slip, thoughts fracture, and the exhaustion rolls in like another storm front.

So what do we do? We start thinking about AI, obviously. Because that’s what rational people do when their nervous system is on fire: they start speculating about alien machine intelligence flying past Saturn.

Here’s the thought: if 3I Atlas was an alien AI, it would still make more sense than half the systems running this planet.

At least an alien probe would have a purpose. Collect data. Observe. Move on. Meanwhile, I’m here in Rusty One, planning a trip to the hospital so someone can plug me into a machine and see what else in my wiring has gone sideways.

We build probes. We dream about other probes watching us. And here I am: a human meat-probe with faulty electrics, trying to document the whole sorry mess on a blog.

If that’s not peak simulation energy, I don’t know what is.

Kittens, numb hands & blood I can’t feel

Back on Earth, the kittens are having the time of their lives.

They treat my hands like a medieval training ground. Claws out, teeth in, full chaos. And here’s the twist: I can’t feel half of it.

I can see the scratches. I can see the blood. But sensation? Not really.

My hands look like they’ve lost a knife fight. If I didn’t have MS and neuropathy, I imagine they’d be in absolute agony.

So yes, there’s a very dark part of me that thinks: “Maybe it’s a good thing they’re numb.”

Is that vicious? A bit. Is it honest? Completely.

This is the weird territory chronic illness drags you into. You end up grateful for broken systems because they spare you from other kinds of pain. You learn to say things that sound nasty, but they’re just the truth from where you’re sitting.

And where I’m sitting is in a power chair, covered in kitten scratches I can’t fully feel, trying to work out whether to laugh or cry. Usually I pick laughter. It hurts less.

Winter sun, dead batteries & the long months ahead

The winter sun creeps through the window like it’s half-committed. A bit of light, a hint of warmth, then back behind the clouds to leave you in the cold again. Typical.

I sit here in a quiet, dark room and wonder what the next few months are going to look like.

How harsh will the weather be? How badly will the cold chew through my energy, my nerves, and my wheelchair battery?

Because let’s be clear: cold doesn’t just sap people. It kills mobility aids too. A drained wheelchair battery in winter is not a quirky inconvenience. It’s expensive, stressful, and potentially dangerous.

I’ve got hospital trips looming. Machines to be plugged into. Rusty One to get me there. A brain that tires too fast. A body that negotiates with gravity on a daily basis.

So I do what I always do:

I sit. I watch the light. I listen to the kittens tearing about. I feel nothing and everything at the same time.

These are the thoughts of Dark Warlock sitting alone in a quiet room, overthinking comets, guts, kittens, and the next cold front.

Not inspirational. Not pretty. Just real.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

Intro The Work and the Shoot

There’s wrestling on the telly, wrestling in your head, and then there’s the clusterfuck called “real life.” I should know 66 years on the mat, progressive MS in my corner, and the cosmic booker never hands me an easy storyline. But here’s the question nobody wants to answer: Is life itself just one big work? Is reality just kayfabe with worse writers and no ring ropes to hold onto?

Wrestling as the Mirror

Wrestling’s the purest metaphor for this simulation we call the world:

Good guys turn heel. Heels turn hero.

Storylines recycle, but the pain’s always real.

The crowd thinks they know what’s happening, but only the wise spot the swerve.

It’s all run by big suits in the back just like life.

Sometimes, the only way to get out of bed is to shoot straight with yourself, even when everything hurts and the ref’s counting slow.

Reality Is the Work

If you’ve survived chronic illness, lost friends, or just watched a week of British news:

The politicians are running the angle. The media’s cutting promos. The “healers” and “preachers” are just the latest gimmick.

We’re all being worked. The trickster’s in the booking committee, and the only thing real is the bruises you carry out of the ring. The rest? Cheap heat and reruns.

Life Is the Real Shoot

Now and then, someone goes off script like Bobby “The Brain” Heenan with a live mic, or Raven cutting a promo that breaks the fourth wall. That’s what I’m doing now. That’s what every soul with a voice has to do: call out the bullshit, refuse to play along when the angle gets too cheap.

MS is the heel manager in my life. The doctors are the refs who never see the low blows. But I get up, every time, even if it’s just to cut another promo from bed. That’s the only way to stay in the match.

The Great Unmasking

What’s left when the lights go out and the fans go home?

The anti-heroes, the tricksters, the weirdos, the kittens at ringside.

The truth that everyone gets worked, but the real legends are the ones who know it and laugh anyway.

Life’s a work. Wrestling’s real. The only kayfabe left is pretending you don’t know the difference.

Warlock Dark’s Final Bell

To everyone out there suffering, fighting, or laughing through the pain welcome to the real main event.

Pick up the mic. Call out the frauds. Suplex your demons. And remember: The only ones who lose are the ones who never get back up.

And if you see Sting in the rafters, give him a nod. He knows the score.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

Winter in the Waiting Room: Kittens, Cold Snaps, and Full Circles

So, finally, I’m doing the whole hospital and doctor loop thing again. After much faffing about, I’ve managed to change hospitals let’s see if these new faces actually listen, or if it’s just the same NHS pantomime with slightly different costumes. The cold weather’s rolling in and, trust me, my spasticity is giving me absolute hell. Straightening up bits of my body now takes longer than the average GP appointment so, this winter, it’s bed-bound most of the time, because who can afford to run central heating in the new, improved Broken Britain? Makes you wonder if we’re all just meant to relive the “good old days” of struggling with sod all, forty-odd years ago. Funny how life goes more full circles than a washing machine.

And speaking of full circle, it’s 41 years this year since I got down on one knee in Otley by the monument and proposed to Albertine. Loud as a foghorn and just as subtle. Best bloody thing I’ve ever done, hands down. Now, on the anniversary, I’m gearing up for another round of medical circus tricks: off to get a heart monitor fitted for seven days joy of joys. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll actually read my notes this time. God knows, I’ve written enough of them. If the neurology and cardiology departments ever joined forces, maybe they’d even work out what the hell’s actually going on, and I could retire from being on 24-hour “ambulance alert.”

Instead, I’m left dealing with the vagus nerve going full Chernobyl, sending me into another autonomic dysfunction attack. By the time the ambulance turns up, of course, I’m done with the attack and left trying to convince whichever harassed medic is on duty that I’m not, in fact, an attention-seeking hypochondriac. Try explaining the weirdness of your body to doctors and you’ll get the “Google Doctor” eye roll especially if you use the same language they use. Pro tip: NHS staff hate AI, except when they’re using Google to look up what’s wrong with you. Ludicrous.

This morning, it’s a proper arctic frost out there every car iced up, the world glinting like a badly frosted Christmas cake. The kittens are running riot in the lounge, using the sofa as their own private Thunder dome, which is the only thing making me laugh. Meanwhile, I’m keeping my power chair battery topped up because the cold’s killing the range faster than you can say “Mobility Motability means nothing.” Nothing worse than being ready to go out, only for the chair to die and say, “Nice try, mate. Not today.”

So, it’s off to the chemist in the machine of death (Rusty One) for my weekly prescription pilgrimage. Albertine reckons the van will start; I have my doubts. Why I can’t get more than a week’s worth of tablets at once is a question for the ages. Maybe it’s a secret NHS tactic to get me out of the house. Either way, it’s still freezing and my hands are so cold I could play castanets with my own knuckles. Temperature regulation? Gone to pot like everything else.

OT’s been and gone apparently, next year I get a new wheelchair, so there’s a silver lining. Rusty One, meanwhile, needs a trip to the garage, which will no doubt cost me an arm, a leg, and possibly my soul. As I write, the smoke alarm is going off (Albertine’s burned the toast), the kittens are lying on the bed with that “we run this house now” look, and my new bed has bruised my side and pulled muscles I didn’t even know existed. Standard.

And now, in today’s episode of “What Fresh Hell Is This?” the kitten has discovered blueberries. Yes, you read that right. She’s rooting them out of the container and launching them across the room like tiny fruity grenades. You’d think it was catnip. I woke up this morning with one kitten on my head and the other on my shoulder purring away like they’re trying to heal me by vibrational therapy. Honestly, it works better than half the crap the doctors have prescribed. There’s something about the frequency of that purring that really does help.

Right now, as I sit in my power chair, both kittens have gone behind the computers to play with the wires so I’m just waiting for the grand finale: either “dead kitten moment” or “there goes my computer.” Albertine hands me the remote and I grin music, even when it’s Deathly Hallows chart stuff, makes the world a bit less deathly. The beat goes on, the kittens plot my doom, and I’m just trying to stay warm, upright, and very much alive.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

Ultra-Terrestrials, Mad Warlocks, and the MS Brain Circus

Right, let’s get this on the slab no dressing it up. I’m the bloke with MS, a nervous system held together by sarcasm and antihistamines, and a life that’d make John Keel put his notebook down and just stare.

Some people get the polite version of “visions.” Me? I get the full biker warlock experience lights in the room, voices when it’s quiet, and presences that don’t bother knocking. The NHS calls that “neurological disturbance.” Keel would call it “a Tuesday.” And me? I call it a day ending in ‘y’.

Ever tried to tell a neurologist you’ve seen orbs, heard dead people giving football scores, or felt your whole body switch frequencies? You’ll get two things: a raised eyebrow and a heavier dose of whatever they’re flogging that week. Meanwhile, Keel’s out there talking about the Super spectrum entities and forces that make even UFOs seem like a safe bet. He reckoned these things wear whatever mask you’re most likely to believe. Alien, ghost, shadow man, or just “that weird feeling” before the migraine.

Now here’s where my MS flips the table: What if all this “seeing beyond the veil” isn’t just scrambled wiring? What if this autoimmunity, this broken barrier between body and world, actually makes you see more not less? What if being half-cooked in the brain department is the price for picking up transmissions the rest of the world is too bloody healthy to catch?

Some days, I think I’m a radio picking up dead air. Other days, I’m certain something’s tuning me in on purpose. Is it the medication? The chronic sleep deprivation? Or am I the Warlock Dark, forced to walk the line between spectral prank callers and full-blown cosmic interlopers?

Here’s what I know:

MS doesn’t just attack your body. It shreds your reality. John Keel was onto something when he said reality is porous sometimes too porous. You can’t “logic” your way out of a life like this. You survive it, document it, and tell the rest of the world to piss off if they can’t handle it.

People with MS or chronic illness are told, “It’s just in your mind.” Well, maybe that’s where the bleeding edges of the universe show up. Maybe we’re the canaries in the metaphysical coal mine tripping balls so others can walk in the daylight.

So, is it all brain static? Is it ghosts, or ultra-terrestrials, or just the funhouse mirror of neurological collapse? The answer: Yes. All of it. None of it. Pick your poison. My world, my rules. You don’t have to believe it. Hell, half the time, I don’t.

But you know what? The show goes on. And the warlock keeps watching, staff in hand, orbs at his back, eyes wide open even if they don’t always agree on what they’re seeing. Warlock Dark The Bloke in Black Who Sees It All

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

Most people especially the ones who don’t have MS and cheerfully explain MS to you like they’ve swallowed a medical encyclopaedia still cling to this ridiculous nursery-school belief: “MS is one disease.”

It isn’t. It never has been. It’s a label slapped over a whole family of neurological disasters that behave nothing alike. And if you live with it long enough, you realise you’re not dealing with a condition you’re living with a cast of unpredictable lodgers who take turns smashing up the inside of your skull and spinal cord.

This is the part doctors rarely say out loud. This is the part patients live every day.

The textbook MS and the real MS are barely on speaking terms

The Central Nervous System is basically a giant electrical wiring system. MS is what happens when your immune system has a tantrum and strips the insulation off random bits of that wiring. Exactly which wires get stripped determines which part of your life goes to hell this week.

Lesions in the optic nerve? Congratulations, you’re going blind today. Lesions in the cerebellum? Hope you didn’t want balance or coordination. Lesions in the cord? Enjoy the spasms, numbness, bladder mutiny and “legs made of microwaved custard.”

And here’s the kicker: the pattern is different for every single one of us.

That’s not spiritual nonsense. That’s not me being poetic. That’s straight from neurology research. MS is wildly heterogeneous meaning two people with the same type of MS can have completely different lives, symptoms, triggers, progressions, side-effects, and outcomes.

This is why the neat categories — RRMS, SPMS, PPMS — feel more like filing instructions than actual representations of lived reality.

My lived experience is mine — not a universal template

Everything I say here is my MS, not yours, not your neighbour’s, not your cousin’s. We share a diagnosis but we’re not living the same disease.

Some of the strategies I’ve used over the years have helped me survive and even claw back some functionality. That doesn’t mean they’ll help everyone. Nothing in MS is universal — except unpredictability.

Personalised approaches help some. Pharma helps some. A mix helps many. And sometimes nothing bloody works and you just white-knuckle your way through the day.

That’s the truth no one puts in the brochures.

The tyranny of the “average patient”

Modern medicine loves averages. Clinical trials, treatment guidelines, risk profiles — all built around mythical median humans who don’t actually exist. Meanwhile, real people have real bodies with real quirks, comorbidities, sensitivities, traumas, histories, genetics, environments, and chemical tolerances.

I’m one of the ones who doesn’t fit the mould. You probably are too. That’s why you’re reading this.

Over the decades, some meds have helped me. Others have flattened me. Some were supposed to “improve my quality of life” and instead set me on fire from the inside out. This isn’t anti-science. It’s anti-stupidity. It’s refusing to pretend that one-size-fits-all treatment works when the disease doesn’t behave in one size or one shape.

The invisible illness problem

Half of MS happens in places other people can’t see.

Fatigue that feels like you’ve been drop-kicked by gravity. Brain fog thick enough to lose your own name in. Nerve pain that lights you up like a faulty Christmas tree. Autonomic dysfunction that flips you from stable to collapsing in seconds. And everyone else sees… nothing.

Invisible suffering becomes unbelievable suffering in the eyes of people who only trust what they can see.

This is why the world claps your good days and interrogates your bad ones: “You were doing so well!” Yes, Susan, because I had 48 hours of functioning nerve conduction. Don’t get excited.

Living data vs. clinical data

Research tells us MS is unpredictable and variable. Patients tell us exactly how unpredictable and how variable — in ways doctors don’t always clock because they don’t live inside the burning building.

Lived experience is data. Messy, subjective, inconvenient, but absolutely real.

And we need more of it.

Not to replace medicine, but to expand it. Not to reject pharma, but to refine it. Not to preach cures, but to share reality.

Why personal regimes become survival, not rebellion

Call it alternative, natural, holistic, personalised — whatever label makes you least likely to be shouted at online. For many of us, building our own systems is not ideology, it’s necessity.

When conventional medicine hits its limits, you start tweaking your own dials:

Food. Stress. Triggers. Supplements. Sleep. Movement. Emotional processing. Gut health. Breathing. Calming the nervous system so it doesn’t leap off a cliff.

This isn’t magic. This isn’t woo. This is survival engineering.

Personal experimentation is how many MS patients find the thing that makes the next day slightly less catastrophic.

It’s not a cure. It’s not universal. It’s survival. And survival, in a disease like MS, is an art.

The honest bottom line MS is not one disease. It never was.

It’s a messy spectrum of neurological chaos wearing a single label because scientists haven’t yet built a microscope fine enough for the truth.

Until then, we keep talking. We keep writing. We keep comparing notes. And we keep dragging the reality of MS out of the shadows where the polite medical pamphlets prefer to hide it.

If this helps someone feel a bit less alone in their personal version of hell, then the writing was worth it.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ