Adoption Story

⚠️ 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.

Some names are inherited. Some are imposed. And some are forged anew in the fire of survival.

Tomorrow, a dog will walk through my door who once carried the name Frankie. But Frankie belonged to another life, a past heavy with abandonment and silence. That past is gone. She is Yopi now.

Yopi is not just a name. It is a word I invented, and with it I have written a new definition:

Yopi (noun, proper name)

A being of calm strength and quiet guardianship; often embodied in a dog of rare beauty and power.

A word coined by the author of My Living Hell (2025) to signify renewal, protection, and mystical presence.

A name given to those who shed the weight of their past and step into a new life with dignity and loyalty.

Etymology: Invented term with no prior documented use; first accredited to My Living Hell, 2025. Originates as a chosen name for a rescue dog, symbolizing transformation and the creation of new meaning.

And like all true words, Yopi carries a story:

The Tale of Yopi

Long ago, when the world was still half-shadow and half-light, the nameless ones wandered at the edges of men’s fires. They were the watchers, the guardians, the strong who carried no past and asked for no future.

One such spirit, weary of drifting between the trees, chose at last to step into the circle of humans. But the people asked, “Who are you? What is your name?”

The spirit answered: “I am no longer what I was. I am not bound to my old chains. Call me Yopi, for I am strength held in stillness, loyalty cut free of its burden, and the rebirth of trust.”

And from that night, wherever Yopi was spoken, the word carried with it calm power the kind that sits by your fire without fear, yet will rise like iron if darkness approaches.

Yopi is home now. No longer an unwanted animal, no longer a statistic waiting for the needle. She is not a ghost of her past life she is reborn in a new one. This house, my house, is her hearth, and her name will never again be spoken in cruelty.

Yopi is strength, Yopi is calm, Yopi is love reborn.

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

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