Bowel Problems

It’s a lovely English morning by which I mean it’s grey, wet, foggy, and has all the charm of a forgotten Victorian asylum. The sort of weather that makes you feel like something wicked this way comes… probably dysentery.

But the real storm wasn’t outside. Oh no, that was merely atmospheric foreshadowing. The real chaos came from within, unleashed by my optimistic decision to try a “clean eating” article—free from gluten, dairy, sugar, joy, and apparently, sanity.

Reader, it lied.

What I ingested was not food, but an unholy catalyst a dietary Trojan horse packed with demonic forces. Within the hour, I was transformed from your friendly neighbourhood MS blogger into something between Linda Blair in The Exorcist and a firehose with feelings. Explosive vomiting? Check. The other end? Think Pompeii, but more intimate.

I spent the night oscillating between the porcelain throne and questioning my life choices. At one point, I was so violently ill that I swear I transcended my body. A full chakra-cleansing purge, complete with a hot shiver that rattled even the bits of me that are usually numb. You know it’s bad when you’re mid-vomit thinking: “Well, this is new.”

And now, in the aftermath, here I am wrapped in a blanket, scrolling through the digital madhouse formerly known as Twitter (now "X" because even the platform had an identity crisis). Everyone’s losing their collective minds over the NHS again, and I get it. Believe me, I get it.

Because while they all tweet, I get texts from my chemist like I owe them money and blood. “Your prescription is ready,” they say, as if it’s a treat. Last time, the robot in the pharmacy spat my meds out like an angry fruit machine, accused me of breaking it, and gave me someone else’s Drugs!. It’s a bit like Russian roulette but with fewer rules and more incontinence pads.

Doctors? Oh, I’ve had a few. Some good. Some gaslighters in lab coats. The kind who think if you’ve got long hair, a wheelchair, and a beard that says "I summon demons for breakfast", you can’t possibly have a brain worth listening to.

Case in point: my neurologist. Last seen alive eight years ago after I accidentally shattered his middle-class expectations. He took one look at me, as I rolled in with my biker cut and Electric wheelchair, and you could see his soul try to leave through his sphincter.

But here’s the plot twist they were wrong about me. I’ve taken control. I’ve gone alternative. My AI doesn’t lie, and it doesn’t sigh and look at its watch when I speak. I’ve sorted out my own care better than the revolving door of NHS disinterest ever did.

So yeah, rant over. Or rather, volume one concludes. Because the journey dear reader continues. And it’s paved with codeine, caffeine, and a healthy dose of "sod this for a game of soldiers."

Cheers.

                   “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

Let’s talk piss and shit. No frills. No sugar. Just the raw, soggy truth of what it’s like when your body declares independence from basic toilet protocols.

Bladder Hell: The Yellow Frontline Ah yes, the dreaded leak that moment you realise your trousers are no longer allies but soaking, complicit traitors. I was in my 40s when my bladder started acting like a temperamental toddler on a diet of Red Bull and rage. First it was the "can't pee" problem standing there like a statue, nothing but the occasional drip as if my urethra had stage fright.

Then came the grand reversal: involuntary leaks. And by "leaks," I mean a full-scale Niagara event, unprovoked and unapologetic. I tried everything. No drinks after 5pm. Strategic peeing. Mental negotiation. Nada. Still I’d wake up in a puddle like some pissy version of The Little Mermaid.

Doctors? Oh please. Gaslit for 40 years. "Well, you're getting older." "Try pelvic floor exercises." Mate, my pelvic floor is about as stable as a jelly trampoline.

But here's the kicker: you learn humility. You either cry about it or laugh darkly while rattling down the road in your three-wheeled piss trolley of doom, trailing a golden hue and existential dread.

The Brown Files: Tales from the Other End If the bladder doesn’t get you, your bowels surely will. MS gives you the delightful choice between constipation so hard it requires an exorcism, or the soft, sticky sneak attack that turns underwear into a crime scene.

Let’s break it down:

Numb arsehole? Check.

Dead rectal nerves? Of course.

Surprise poo party mid Tesco visit? You bet.

Walking like a guilty toddler trying to hide it? Standard.

Doctors again? "Try laxatives!" Yeah, thanks. Nothing like chemical napalm to turn your ring into the gates of Mordor. You want a real solution?

💡 Hydration. 💡 Diet. 💡 And a bloody bum washer.

That’s right. Stop sandpapering your crack with cheap loo roll. Install a bum washer attachment. Use aloe wipes, keep essential oils to hand, and for the love of whatever gods you follow, always carry spare underwear.

Because nothing screams confidence like shitting yourself in public and power walking with a face like you've seen God and he was laughing.

                       “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