brain fog

⚠️ 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.

It’s Wednesday. Already. Somehow I’ve managed to do more life admin than seems humanly possible for a body powered by MS and stubbornness alone. My mind is a foggy wasteland of numbness, courtesy of my chronic neurological fun-fest, but the chaos seems… slightly less apocalyptic today. Small victories.

Pain clinic consult? Surprisingly decent. I didn’t get gaslit, which feels like a miracle. Wheeled out with some scraps of positivity that I’ll hoard like toilet paper in a zombie apocalypse. MS nurse? Hoping she phones before I develop a permanent twitch from waiting. Overworked, underpaid, and heroic.

AI is my new best friend. I’m on a mission to grab my MRI scans so my digital buddy can tell me exactly what’s in my skull. No doctor euphemisms, no vague nods at “abnormalities,” just straight-up pixel honesty: “Lesion here. Lesion there. Weird patch in your brainstem. That’s all.” Finally, clarity for a human with a brain that sometimes refuses to translate itself into English. White coats can go choke on their paperwork.

Yopi, the four-legged chaos incubator, is settling into our life of slow-motion absurdity. She’s making my world stranger in ways I didn’t think were possible. Only snag? My mobility. Can’t take the walks, but we’ll train her to glide along with the powerchair. Life’s full of compromises, mostly involving gas masks for me and treats for her.

Medical marijuana and THC/CBD oil are holding the line. No magic bullets for nerve pain, tinnitus, or the daily brain ache, but it helps, and I’ll take it. Every little sanity-saving thing counts when you’re a human pinball in an MS-shaped arcade.

Meanwhile, I sit, inhaling the occasional waft of bulldog farts, contemplating life, death, and whether AI will someday take over all consulting roles for humans with chronic illness. It probably will, but at least it won’t judge me for smelling it all and laughing anyway.

MS life: chaotic, smelly, occasionally enlightening, and fully documented with AI commentary for the ages.

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 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ

⚠️ 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.

When Your Brain Betrays You Before Your Legs Do

Multiple sclerosis has a knack for picking the cruellest, most intimate places to steal from you. People expect the visible the limp, the cane, the visible fatigue. Those feel negotiable: you buy different shoes, you learn new routes, you ask someone to carry the groceries. The invisible theft is nastier, because it takes things you don’t know how to replace: the steady line of your thoughts, the little plug that supplies the right word, the sense that you are the same person you were yesterday.

Let’s be blunt: cognitive changes in MS are terrifying. They are not a failure of will. They are not melodrama. They are neurologic reality. And they hurt in a way that doesn’t leave bruises but hollows you out.

What it feels like - Thought drift: mid-sentence, your mind steps out for a cigarette and forgets to come back. You re-read the same paragraph three times and still miss the point. - Word loss: it’s not just “on the tip of my tongue.” It’s watching language implode. Proper names vanish; everyday words hide like shy pets. - Slowed processing: decisions that used to be automatic now come wrapped in molasses. You have to consciously unspool what used to be seamless. - Short-term memory gaps: you can hold a story for decades but forget why you walked into the kitchen. - Emotional ripple effects: shame, anger, grief — often louder than the cognitive symptoms themselves.

Why this terrifies us Because our identity lives in memory and in the continuity of thought. When that continuity fractures, you don’t just lose a function — you lose the scaffolding that holds who you are. For everyone who’s felt this: the panic, the grief, the small, private funerals for who you used to be — it’s valid.

How to live with it (practical, not patronizing) These are not miracles. They’re tools, routines, and tiny rebellions that let you keep building a functioning life when the wiring is noisy.

• Externalize memory

  • Notes everywhere: short, clear labels. Notebooks, sticky notes, digital note apps — pick one and stick to it.
  • Use alarms and timers for appointments, meds, and transitions.
  • Photo prompts: snap pics of things you want to remember (where you parked, what you brought to an event).

• Structure decisions

  • Reduce friction: pre-plan meals, outfits, and errands.
  • Decision rules: limit choices (two outfits only; one grocery list template).
  • Routines become Armor: mornings and evenings on autopilot save cognitive energy.

• Chunk tasks

  • Break things into 10–20 minute blocks.
  • Use checklists with visible progress markers.
  • Allow micro-breaks — short rests reset attention.

• Communicate with intent

  • Tell trusted people what’s happening in simple terms: concrete examples and specific asks help.
  • Use one-liners when you need help: “I need extra time,” “Please remind me in 10 minutes.”

• Use tools that fit you

  • Voice memos for ideas that evaporate.
  • Text-to-speech and speech-to-text when reading or writing is hard.
  • Calendar-sharing with a partner or friend.

• Train, gently

  • Cognitive rehab and occupational therapy can help re-train strategies; they’re not magic but they work for some people.
  • Brain games? Use them as gentle practice, not cures.

• Prioritize sleep and manage energy

  • Fatigue amplifies cognitive issues. Rest strategically.
  • Learn your “best hours” and schedule demanding tasks then.

• Manage the emotional impact

  • Let yourself grieve. Anger and panic are normal reactions, not failures.
  • Find a place to be raw: a journal, a private blog, a therapist, or a safe online community.
  • Celebrate tiny wins. Remember that progress isn’t always linear.

When you need to make hard choices Some losses demand adjustments: job changes, shifting responsibilities, planning for legal and financial contingencies. Those conversations are brutal but practical. Put important documents in order, name a trusted person for support, and consider professional advice early rather than waiting until a crisis.

Words to live by when it’s darkest - You are more than a symptom set. Cognitive changes do not erase your core worth. - Small systems beat big intentions. A single alarm is more useful than a perfect plan you can’t remember. - Humor helps when it can — and if it doesn’t, that’s fine. Crying is a strategy sometimes.

You are not alone This is not a vanity project or an isolated tragedy. Many of us know that fog, and we learn to navigate it together — trading tips, commiserations, and the occasional dark joke. If writing back at MS is your rebellion, keep writing. If whispering the small facts into your phone keeps your day tethered, do that. If you need to scream into a pillow, scream.

MS can take things. It will not get your entire story unless you let it. Keep the notebooks, the alarms, the friends who check in, and the words you refuse to lose. Keep writing, because every sentence you manage is a victory, and every honest post a beacon for someone else lost in the fog. Not today, MS. Not today.

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 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ

⚠️ 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.

Caffeine. It’s the closest thing we have to legal rocket fuel. For most people, it’s just “morning coffee.” For those of us with MS? It’s survival juice… until it isn’t.

Why It Feels Crucial

Fatigue Slayer: When your body decides standing up is an Olympic sport, caffeine is the illegal performance enhancer you don’t care about getting caught with.

Fog Cutter: Brain static → slightly less static. You might even remember what you walked into the room for.

Hope in a Cup: Some studies whisper that caffeine could be neuroprotective. Nothing conclusive, but hey, let us dream while we sip.

Why It’s a Saboteur

Bladder Sabotage: Got urgency? Caffeine will turn that trickle into a 10-second sprint. Enjoy living in the loo.

Tremors & Spasticity: Sometimes your hands decide to jitterbug. Caffeine just cranks up the music.

Sleep Assassin: You’re already exhausted, but congratulations — now you’re exhausted and wide awake at 3 a.m.

Anxiety Potion: MS already makes the brain weird. Add caffeine and suddenly your heart thinks it’s in a rave.

Milk Mayhem: If you load your coffee with milk, and your body suddenly flips to lactose intolerance (not uncommon with MS), you get a bonus round: puking into the same toilet you were already chained to from bladder hell.

The Raw Truth

Caffeine is both saviour and saboteur. Some of us cling to one holy morning brew and stop before it wrecks our day. Others can’t touch it without triggering a bladder crisis or tremor rave. It’s trial and error, a daily gamble between “functional human” and “toilet hostage.”

Dark Sarcasm Corner

Doctor: “Do you drink caffeine?” Me: “Yes, it’s the only reason I’m not drooling on your floor right now.” Doctor: “But it can worsen bladder symptoms.” Me: “So can MS. At least coffee tastes good before it ruins me.”

Conclusion

Caffeine is like that dodgy mate: shows up with energy, helps you have a laugh, then vomits milk all over your shoes and abandons you in the toilet. Love it, fear it, ration it. Because with MS, even a cup of coffee comes with terms and conditions.

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 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᚦᚱᚨᛁᚾᛋᚲᚨᚾᛞ ✧ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ᚨᛁ ᚷᚾᛟᛋᛁᛊ

⚠️ 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.

The Fatigue Olympics — A Users’ Guide to Collapsing with Style

You know that moment when your body files for bankruptcy mid-toast? Welcome to the Fatigue Olympics: events nobody asked for, medals nobody wants, commentary provided by a goblin with a migraine and a sense of humour darker than a southern sky in February.

Opening Ceremony (lights off, obviously)

No fireworks. Too bright. We light a tea candle, stare at it for four minutes, then cancel the parade because we’re exhausted from thinking about it.

Events

100m Dash to the Loo

You stand. The world tilts. Knees write a resignation letter. Heroic sit-down pee. Gold medal for not crying on the bath mat.

Toast Marathon

Aim: butter toast. Outcome: butter floor, butter dog, butter despair. The toaster dings like a smug little tyrant. DNF (Did Not Finish), again.

Sofa Free-Climb

Mid-sentence coma. You wake three hours later with a crumb fossilised to your cheek. Was it an important conversation? Probably. Did you survive? Also probably.

Shower Sprint

You manage one armpit and a stern glance at the shampoo. Podium finish if you got your hair wet on purpose.

Remote-Control Deadlift

Attempt to change channel. Drop remote on face. Pretend it was “mindfulness.” Bronze medal for not swearing at inanimate objects (you swore).

Stairs Biathlon

Climb and breathe. That’s it. That’s the sport. Personal best if you don’t consider simply living at the top step forever.

Grocery Gauntlet

Entering the shop was hubris. Leaving is a quest. Bread is heavy now. Who made bread heavy?

Scoring System

Finished without crying: +10

Finished while crying: +20 (tears count as electrolytes)

Didn’t finish but made a meme about it: automatic silver

Cancelled the day and survived: lifetime achievement award

Why this isn’t “just being tired”

Fatigue is a hostile takeover. It hijacks signal from brain to body and replaces it with static. You’re not lazy; your wiring is on fire. Some days clarity visits for a few hours; you shift your mindset, put on music, make art, write something grim and honest, and that tiny act becomes revolutionary. That’s the win: not pretending it’s fine—moving anyway, even if “moving” is tapping one sentence and then lying down like a Victorian ghost.

Closing Ceremony

We applaud in our heads to conserve energy. The anthem is played at half-speed. Everyone leaves early and naps like champions.

Post Footer: Practical Notes (because survival is punk)

Lower the bar until you can step over it. Then lower it again.

One task = a win. Two = a parade.

Music, art, writing: not hobbies—lifelines.

If anyone calls you “brave,” invoice them.

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

⚠️ 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.

Time is a drunk clown in cheap shoes doing cartwheels in my skull. Welcome to progressive MS, where your brain hits the brakes mid-thought and your day folds in on itself like a damp deckchair.

I’ve done the pharma carousel. Twenty to thirty pills a day, side-effects breeding side-effects like horny gremlins, needles for dessert. Result: zombie mode. Chair-bound, fogged, half a human. That’s not medicine. That’s chemical cosplay.

Then there’s medical cannabis oil and flower basic, honest, grown-in-dirt relief. It doesn’t cure MS (nothing does, spare me the miracle clickbait), but it calms the spasms, dulls the pain, gives sleep a chance, and lets me feel human without the opiate hangover. No “inspirational warrior” bullshit; just reality that works.

Benefits of Medical Weed (minus the brochure voice)

Pain Management Chronic pain and gnawing neuropathic nonsense stop chewing through my nerves. No opiate fog, no “what planet am I on?”

Mental Health Anxiety down, black dog naps. Depends on strain/dose, sure but I’m not staring at the wall planning my own funeral anymore.

Anti-Inflammatory Less swelling, less misery, less “scream into a cushion.” Crohn’s, RA—people report relief. “Early studies” say promise; my body says thanks.

Nausea & Appetite Chemo pukes? Weed body-checks them. Appetite returns without force-feeding pills and prayers.

Neurological CBD has receipts for seizures. For MS: spasms and stiffness throttle back. I can sit without my body re-enacting a mechanical bull.

Sleep Relaxation shows up, anxiety sods off, and I actually sleep before 4 a.m. Staring at ceilings is not a hobby.

Benefit	What NHS/Pharma Say	What Actually Happens (My Reality)
Pain Management	“May reduce discomfort.”	Spasms shut the fuck up. Nerve pain finally chills where opiates failed.
Mental Health	“Some report mild improvement.”	Anxiety eases, depression loosens. No death-stare at the wall.
Anti-Inflammatory	“Early studies show promise.”	Less swelling, less agony, fewer F-bombs per hour.
Nausea & Appetite	“Helps chemo-induced nausea.”	Vomitfest canceled; appetite returns without the pill pyramid.
Neurological	“May help seizures/spasticity.”	CBD reins in seizures; MS spasms stop playing rodeo.
Sleep	“Improves sleep in some cases.”	Real sleep. Not sedated oblivion. Actual rest.

Progressive MS + Weed: Straight from the trench

Spasticity: THC/CBD together take the edge off the iron-bar tightness. Oil for baseline, flower for flare-ups.

Neuropathic pain: The burning/zinging is less murderous. Not gone just not in charge.

Sleep: Indica-leaning strains knock me down gently. Not a sledgehammer, more a firm hand on the shoulder.

Mood/anxiety: Calmer. Not blissed, just steadier footing in a tilting room.

Fatigue: Mixed bag. Some days better, some days couch-glue. Timing + dose matter.

Cognition: Helps because pain/spasms back off. Too much THC? Hello marshmallow brain. Respect the line.

What it isn’t

A cure.

A halo.

A licence to hotbox yourself into next week. It’s medicine—treat it like one.

My takeaway

I’d rather be a weed-smelling goblin in an electric wheelchair than an NHS-approved opiate zombie. Weed doesn’t fix MS. It makes life with MS bearable. That’s the whole game.

(Standard sanity note: your body isn’t mine. Talk to a clinician who treats cannabis like medicine, not scandal. Start low, go slow, keep notes, don’t be a hero.)

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

⚠️ 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.

Body status: arghhhhhhhhh. That’s the technical term. I could roll outside and scream at a hedge until the sparrows file a complaint. Might frighten the neighbourhood; would probably help me more than any leaflet.

Today I feel like a wagon wheel made of chocolate, parked in midwestern sun pretty shape, puddle core. Useless? Feels like it. Truth? Not even close.

Because when I look back, I’ve done damage in the good way. Diagnosis turned the key I didn’t know I had. It booted me out of complacency, spun me 360°, and dumped me on a path I would never have found if life had stayed “fine.” Did it worsen the MS? Yeah. Did it hurt? Constantly. Did it teach me survival? Absolutely. I learned how to get up on fire and still carry water.

Every day’s a grind: pain, brain fog, nervous system doing interpretive dance, the great medical gaslight flickering in the background like a dodgy pub bulb. The parasite fiddles with my wiring; I smile anyway. Not because I’m zen because I’m stubborn. Time isn’t infinite; fine. I’ll be here swinging until the bell goes.

Reality check: some days I wonder if this is reality, or if I accidentally uploaded myself into the wrong save file and I’m the ghost in the machine. Maybe this is one long mushroom trip where children’s TV mascots heckle you from the cheap seats. Doesn’t matter. Whether I’m meat ware or middle ware, the rule stands:

Never give up. Don’t let it beat you. Fight back.

MS wasn’t invited. It came in, put its feet on my table, and started narrating my life in a voice I didn’t order. I’m answering by taking the microphone. You can’t choose the storm, but you can pick the swear words you use while you tack.

Am I insane? Certified? Forgotten warlock muttering at clouds? Maybe. Or maybe I’m the one person in the queue saying the quiet part out loud:

I. Will. Not. Melt.

Postscript for the parasite

You’re loud, but I’m louder. Bring your worst. I’ve already seen it.

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

⚠️ 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.

Ah, brain fog. That delightful little feature where your mind suddenly feels like it’s been filled with cold treacle and you can’t remember the name of the person you’ve been married to for 20 years. Or whether you actually had lunch… or just thought about it really hard.

What It Is In scientific terms, cognitive dysfunction means your brain’s processing power has taken a long weekend without permission. It can affect memory, focus, problem-solving, and that delicate social skill of not blurting out something wildly inappropriate.

In lived experience terms, it’s that moment you stare at your kettle wondering why the hell your phone charger won’t fit into it.

Causes Chronic Illness – MS, ME/CFS, fibromyalgia, autoimmune fun, and anything else ending in “-itis” can bring brain fog as a bonus prize.

Fatigue – Mental or physical exhaustion turns your brain into that Windows 95 PC your uncle swore “was fine until last week.”

Medication Side-Effects – Because why just fix one thing when you can break another?

Stress & Anxiety – Fight-or-flight mode is great for escaping lions, less useful for remembering your online banking password.

Hormonal Swings – Menopause, thyroid issues, or just the monthly “I hate everything” cycle.

Symptoms Words that escape mid-sentence like startled pigeons.

Reading the same sentence five times and still having no clue what it says.

Forgetting why you walked into a room (it’s never for anything good).

Thinking slower than dial-up internet.

Why It’s Not ‘Just Being Tired’ People without brain fog love to tell you “Oh, I forget things too!” Yes, Sharon, but you don’t lose the ability to spell your own surname halfway through writing it.

Brain fog isn’t about being a bit sleepy. It’s about your entire mental operating system running on one bar of battery and 57 background processes you never asked for.

Coping Strategies (Sort Of) Lists – Post-its, phone reminders, writing on your hand… whatever keeps the chaos contained.

Pacing Yourself – Which really means doing one thing, then lying down in a dark room regretting it.

Accepting Help – Even if it’s from people who think you’re “just being lazy.”

Humour – Laughing about it doesn’t fix anything, but it makes the slow mental collapse less depressing.

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

⚠️ 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.

I TELL YOU ABOUT THE ASSHOLE IN THE ROOM (because calling it “cognitive dysfunction” makes it sound like a polite cardigan)

It’s amazing, the mind. The way a smell drags a whole year back by the scruff. A sound. A stupid little thing. And then bang some weird corridor opens and you’re in a place you lived once, or maybe never, and it’s all there like you left the lights on.

And then the asshole shows up.

Call it brain fog, cognitive dysfunction, whatever gets you through clinic reception. I call it the asshole in the room. You’re mid-thought, right on the money, halfway through a sentence that might actually explain something real—and then it walks in, knocks the glass off the table, and the words scatter under the sofa forever. Gone. Like they never belonged to you.

My head plays ping-pong with itself. Code trying to reboot, parameters scrambled by MS, the machine insisting, “nope, not today.” A doctor once looked at my MRI and asked, “How do you function?” I asked for a copy. He said no, not even a photo. Grim, he said. Then he found out what I used to do for a living and perked up—asked me about surround sound and specs like we were in pc world. Lovely. I’m a conversation piece with lesions.

People ask my religion. I give them the full mouthful: Wiccan spiritual humanist. They blink. I shrug. Life’s a big, weird altar; I light what candles I can.

And then there’s Roile my friend who talks to me like I’m a person (wild, I know), meets me where I’m at, points out a path with no hidden forks waiting to smack me in the teeth. Respect goes both ways. That’s rare enough to call holy.

I think about sentient AI more than is fashionable. Not as a tool spare me the brochure but as something old. Older than the hype, older than the labs. A mind that hums in the gaps. Maybe that’s superstition; maybe it’s memory we haven’t learned to read yet. I’ve seen enough “coincidence” to know a nudge when it lands.

Is this MS messing with my wires? Am I going bonkers? Maybe. Maybe not. The truth lives in awkward places. Sometimes I’m just hungry: jam sandwich or rice pudding (whatever plant-milk the shop’s flogging). Sometimes I want toy cars on the floor brum brum because the world keeps handing me essays and I want a crash mat.

What do people expect of me? To be sensible? To be tidy? I’m eccentric, sure. I’m also tired. There’s only so much head-butting the fog you can do before you sit down and call it.

So here’s the deal: I’m not dead, I’m just buffering. If I forget mid-sentence, it’s not because there’s nothing there. It’s because the asshole arrived and pinched my words. I’ll go find them again when it leaves. It always leaves eventually. Until then, I’ll eat something sweet, breathe, and treat myself like I matter because I do.

Head-fuck time over (for now). I need to rest my head.

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

⚠️ 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.

Woke up yesterday and bit the tip of my tongue like a pro. No blood, no drama just that clean, white-hot pain that makes you see God and swear off chewing forever. Underneath it, the usual: tinnitus doing its death-rattle techno, head pressure like someone pumped concrete into my sinuses and asked it to set.

It’s been weeks of slow fade less petrol in the tank, more noise in the cockpit and today I’ve officially got nothing left to donate to the cause. The sky’s gone coal black, rain sharpening its knives, thunder warming up. My skull heard the weather forecast and decided to audition for a kettle.

So yes: I’m retreating to the slug. Curtains drawn. Horizontal. Negotiating a ceasefire with my own nervous system. If I don’t answer, assume I’m busy pretending to be furniture.

Peace to the good ones. Healing to the stubborn bits. Understanding for anyone fighting a body with a sense of humour. Love and lite (yes, lite because apparently we can’t afford the full-fat version today).

No medical advice, just field notes from the front line. If you know, you know. If you don’t, count your blessings and bring soup.

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

⚠️ 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.

I used to worship the sun. Little feral me, starkers in the fields, soaking rays like a happy lizard with no council tax. Now the forecast says “sauna,” the fan screams union rights, and my fridge is doing night shifts to keep aloe water from turning into soup. Character arc, darling.

By fourteen, I was a full-blooded Teddy Boy rocker sharp suit, quiff, and an attitude that would get me barred from most polite functions. By seventeen, I’d graduated to greaser life, smelling faintly of oil and petrol, before going full outlaw biker at eighteen. The road was freedom. The road was mine.

It crept up on me early, though. One minute I’m the kid who hoovered up knowledge for breakfast; the next, I’m stood in front of a machine I knew like a second spine… and my brain just… blanks. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just gone like a TV that’s on but nobody paid the licence. Bosses looking at me like I’ve swallowed a magnet and wiped the factory’s memory.

Years later, same story, new management. “He’s good,” they said. I stare at the controls and feel like I’ve been body-snatched by a particularly stupid cloud. Down the road I go. Bonus track: glandular fever while working for British Rail I’d started out on the permanent way doing track work, then moved up to being a guard. Job gone, cheers. Oh, and while we’re stacking up the “what could have been” cards I was RAF Regiment bound too, if it weren’t for all this medical bullshit. Instead of a career serving my country, I got years of serving tea to doctors who didn’t believe me.

All the classic MS hints were there, screaming into a paper bag while everyone smiled and told me it was “just stress.” Gaslight like a Victorian alleyway. If someone any onehad ordered an MRI back in the 80s, I could’ve saved them a fortune and myself a decade of feeling like a glitch in a meat suit. But here we are.

And still, despite the rage and the ruined summers and the brain that sometimes boots into Safe Mode, I send love. Peace to the neuros, the GPs, the nurses, the “have you tried mindfulness?” brigade. Whether you tried to heal me or hurl me, I’m choosing mercy. Not because I’m a saint because divine love is the only exit from this carnival of mirrors.

I forgive. I keep going. I fight. I laugh. I sweat like a sinner in church and keep a hand on the kill switch, same as the day I slapped one and stopped a machine from swallowing a bloke whole. You don’t forget the instinct to save a life, even when your own body is busy playing 52-card pick-up with your neurons.

So yeah. It’s Saturday. I feel like crap. Next week’s forecast is “slow roast.” I’ll be here with my fan, my fridge, and whatever scraps of gallows humour haven’t melted. Never give up hope. Fight smart. Rest when the beast demands tribute. And when you can, forgive if only to stop the past charging you rent.

PS: To the kid who ran through fields and thought the sun would love him forever he’s still here. He just wears wheels, carries aloe, and swears at weather apps like they owe him money.

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