So Monday morning rolls in like a drunk ghost with a hangover. The plan was simple: limp the van to the garage, smile through the quote, and pretend life wasn’t an endless endurance test. Instead? I woke up feeling like absolute hell.
The tinnitus was howling in my right ear why the right? No bloody idea. Maybe it's trying to whisper cosmic truths from the land of the dying neurons. Or maybe my brain’s just bored and wants to recreate a factory floor soundtrack.
Then came the message. One of my dad’s friends. My father—aged 90, tough old bastard that he is—has had another fall. A serious one. Condition? Not good. I felt it. No, not in some woo-woo psychic TikTok way. Just that grim knowing. He’s nearing the end of his road. And I hate it.
Here’s the twist most folk don’t know:
I’ve only known him since 1999. That’s when I tracked him down in New Zealand, after decades of being the state’s little secret. Turns out I had siblings. More ghosts in the family cupboard. We Skyped until Skype did what all modern tech does it stopped working and caused chaos. He struggled with computers (who doesn’t at 90?), so we switched to WhatsApp.
We actually spoke last week he’d just had another heart attack and a previous fall. Still sharp. Still Dad. But I sensed the edge then. The slipping. And now it’s here.
The Origin Story? Grim as Fuck.
I was adopted at six weeks old, plucked from a “mother and baby unit” and handed to the new parents from hell. The sort of couple that make Dickens’ villains look like amateur dramatics. If you've read this blog, you’ve seen bits and pieces of that trauma circus already.
And today? Today the past and present just smashed together. The man who gave me half my DNA is slipping away, and I’m sitting here sweating like a water tap on steroids, tinnitus screaming, hugging a pillow like a lost child, and Ozzy’s voice clawing its way through the noise. When it gets worse? It’s Motörhead time.
I just want to ride hard again. To feel the wind rip through my hair. But instead, I’m stuck here in this twisted freakshow of cognition, fatigue, grief, and biological inheritance.
Still, what can you do? Welcome to my world of weirdness. Population: me, and maybe a couple of dead kings.
🚐 For Albertine
She’s the one who drives when my body won’t,
the one who holds the wheel when the road blurs,
and the one who doesn’t flinch when the darkness hits.
Without her, I wouldn’t get far
not to the garage, not through the grief, not through the noise.
Albertine: my co-pilot through this living hell.
And the reason I’m still in the fight.
Always.
“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
