Multiple sclerosis  is My Living Hell

Austin Princess

All posts tagged Austin Princess by Multiple sclerosis is My Living Hell
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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 help.

    Imagine, if you will, that Multiple Sclerosis wasn’t a neurological disease. No. Let’s say instead it was a car, a British car. From the 1970s. Built by British Leyland. Already, you should be hearing the distant sound of doom.

    We're not talking E-Type Jaguars or lovingly restored Triumphs here. No. MS is the Austin Princess. A car so catastrophically cursed it should come with a priest, not a warranty. A car that had style, yes—if by style you mean beige vinyl, flammable wiring, and the turning radius of a small aircraft carrier.

    Much like MS, it shows up when you least expect it. You’re cruising along the M-road of life, wind in your hair, dreams in the boot, and then—bang. Gearbox gone. Foot won’t respond. Vision doubles. You veer left without meaning to. And suddenly, you're parked on the hard shoulder of your own nervous system, smoke pouring from somewhere expensive.

    The garage (aka Neurology Dept.) says, “We’re not exactly sure what’s wrong. But here’s a new fluid. Try it for six months.” Great. Like pouring Redex into a petrol tank that’s already on fire.

    And just when you think it can’t get worse, the electrics fail. Again. The horn blasts randomly when you're trying to stay silent. The indicators blink out Morse code for “You're screwed, mate.” And you? You're still trying to drive this bastard machine down the A-road of everyday life while the engine stalls mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-shag.

    You try to keep it together. Duct tape your face. WD-40 your joints. But every fix is temporary. Every workaround has a workaround. And the passenger door won’t open unless it’s raining and you swear in three languages.

    Meanwhile, you’re now the sort of car people stare at in car parks and say, “How is that thing still going?”

    But you keep going. Of course you do. Because scrap's not an option. You’ve got Albertine in the passenger seat chain-smoking roll-ups and telling you, “I told you not to buy British.” And the cat's asleep on the dashboard. And you’ve got your own strange dignity—a rusted war machine with knackered brakes and a boot full of sarcasm.

    Yes, MS is a British Leyland car. And I am the bastard behind the wheel.

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

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