antihistamine

Well, what a week it's been. I'm currently sat here talking to my speech-to-text app like some deranged oracle.

Battery life? Liar. Sporadic power at best. This so-called “smartphone” isn’t smart at all. I tell it to power down—it sends me to a bloody help page. In the end, I worked out a hack to switch it off. Because apparently, being disabled means needing a PhD to press a button.

My fingers are numb. Hands barely functional. Tactile feedback? Gone. Tiny buttons are useless ornaments to me. Touchscreens are a little better—still a pain, but I don't need to perform a séance just to answer a call.

I keep the phone in a Faraday bag overnight. No signals in, no signals out. Paranoid? No. Realistic. I don’t need Alexa learning how many antihistamines I pop daily.

Speaking of which—my allergies are off the fucking chart. Hay fever is now a cosmic entity. Took so many antihistamines, I’m practically embalmed. Side effects? Mild haunting. Random dissociation. Full-body brain fog. But hey, better than full-on freak-out.

MS loves to sprinkle in a panic attack for seasoning. The good kind—the ones that make you curl into a corner and question whether you’re even a person anymore. And if I forget my pills? Cue existential hell.

The electrical storms in my brain? Picture a lightning bolt shagging a power station. BANG. That’s what my neurons do for fun.

Today? Balance gone. No walking. Grabbed furniture, ended up grabbing air. Wheelchair day. Again. Will I never learn?

Overdid it. Spoons: gone. Days or weeks until I get them back. It’s raining. Of course it is. Put on some music to distract myself from my collapsing nervous system.

My throat’s spasming. Too much talking. Break.

Haha—just transferred this to my PC and the spellchecker is climaxing with all the red lines. Absolute filth. Press the magic button—bam, respectable writing.

Took some oil. Spasms eased. Neck still hurts. Tongue’s numb. Mouth’s a dead zone. Remember novocaine? It’s like that 24/7. Eating is a carnival of self-harm. Choking daily. Cheeks bitten.

And that feeling—bone-deep weirdness. Invisible sprites stabbing needles in a crown around my head. Madness, right?

If I posted this raw, people might think I’ve lost it. Maybe I have. Cognitive decline has me screaming at walls. Memory? What memory.

I stare at what I’ve written and it’s just a tangled mess of frustration, grief, and fuckery. But I still have something to give, even if the delivery system is fucked.

Maybe I’ll keep doing this. Write from my broken, unhinged, seen-too-much mind.

I want to talk about MS. I want to talk about other things too. Will that confuse people? Maybe. Do I care? Less and less.

I just hope someone out there—another broken soul with a half-working body and a mind full of static—reads this and feels seen.

Life is for living, no matter how fucked up you are.

All you need is love.

Love is divine.

The universe is love.

The One is love.

But that’s just me.

— End transmission.

        “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 ✨🧌

Well, it seems the annual hayfever apocalypse is upon us. Hooray. Yes, I’m now on three antihistamines a day (or however one spells it—frankly, the packaging is too blurry through the eye-itch haze to tell). My eyes currently feel like they’ve been rubbed with Sahara sand and rage. They itch. They burn. They are deeply offended.

As if that weren’t spiritually enlightening enough, apparently we’re also entering a solar storm spiral of doom. Some sort of sunspot nonsense for the next two days. Space people says "all hell could break loose." I say, bring it—what’s one more intergalactic inconvenience when your nervous system is already hosting a personal light show?

Speaking of which—hello, tinnitus, old friend. Oh, and welcome back, numbness on the left side. My hand’s gone stupid again, as if it’s auditioning for a B-movie about haunted limbs. Meanwhile, I continue to dribble down aloe drinks like some sort of spiritual juicing monk, in the vague hope it helps something. Anything.

Apparently Monday brings better weather. Brilliant! Time to roll out the Wheelchair of Death™ and hunt down some "fresh air" (or at least a breeze not laced with pollen and doom). Provided it’s not raining. Or boiling. Or both.

Today was a weird one. I actually managed to get loads done on this blog. Going forward, I’ll be writing more about strange bits of my past, and of course, the winding, faltering path of my MS journey—as it meanders toward the inevitable: death. Or as I prefer to call it, a return to the Source, the Creator, the Great Mystery.

As above, so below. As below, so above. The Emerald Tablet said it best. We are stardust, spirit, and sarcasm walking each other home. Through numb hands and dusty eyeballs. Still, I smile. Because blogging makes me weirdly happy. It helps give meaning to all that’s been lost.And so, along this road—I tread.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

        “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.”