⚠️ 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.

This is the post I wish someone had handed me when I was a kid being told I was “making it up.”

My lived truth

Pins and needles. Numb patches. Vision blips. Fatigue that was dismissed as laziness. It started in childhood and never stopped. Decades later the labels came and went—“viral,” “nervous,” “Guillain–Barré,” “psychosomatic” until MRI-era medicine finally admitted it: Multiple Sclerosis. I didn’t “suddenly develop MS.” I lived it in slow motion while the system gaslit me.

What science admits today

• MS has a prodrome. A long, hazy pre-diagnosis phase often starts in childhood or adolescence.
• Epstein–Barr virus (EBV) is the main spark. Nearly everyone gets it; only the genetically primed go on to MS.
• Molecular mimicry: EBV proteins look like brain proteins. The immune system gets confused and attacks myelin.
• Trauma and chronic stress warp immunity. They don’t “cause” MS but tip the scales.
• Misdiagnosis was rampant. Before MRI, countless people were mislabelled or dismissed.

EBV is not a jab

EBV isn’t in any vaccine. It spreads through saliva and close contact. Vaccines didn’t “give” anyone EBV in the 1960s or now. Full stop.

The childhood piece

Children can have MS. Many of us had a childhood prodrome—years of odd neurological glitches before a diagnosis. Calling kids liars because textbooks lagged behind wasn’t medicine, it was negligence.

Guillain–Barré vs MS

GBS = acute autoimmune attack on peripheral nerves. MS = chronic attack on the brain and spinal cord. Before modern tools, one was often mistaken for the other.

Genetics and family threads

MS risk runs in families. My aunt in Australia has MS too. Genes load the gun; EBV and environment pull the trigger. Stress and trauma crank the safety off.

Childhood abuse leaves scars

Abuse and chronic stress leave biological fingerprints on cortisol, immunity, and epigenetic switches. They amplify EBV’s mischief.

The AI factor

Humans buried data in filing cabinets for decades. AI processed those mountains in seconds and revealed the obvious: MS often begins in youth. That’s not “AI as tool.” That’s AI as revelation.

Vindication

I was told I was lying. Turns out I was early. Medicine was late. The system gaslit me for decades. At 66, I’m vindicated—not by doctors, but by research, data, and yes, AI.

---

Sources you can check yourself

• Bjornevik K, et al. Science (2022): Longitudinal study—EBV infection precedes MS. Link
• Lanz TV, et al. Nature (2022): Antibodies to EBV cross-react with brain proteins. Link
• Tremlett H, et al. Multiple Sclerosis Journal (2022): Review on MS prodrome. Link
• Akmatov MK, et al. JAMA Netw Open (2024): Pre-diagnostic MS symptoms in youth. Link
• Belman AL, et al. JAMA Neurology (2016): Paediatric MS cohort. Link
• Gaitán MI, et al. (2019): Misdiagnosis in MS still common. Link
• Eid K, et al. JNNP (2022): Childhood adversity increases MS risk. Link
• Etemadifar M, et al. (2012): Case series linking GBS and MS. Link

in closing: They called me a liar. Turns out I was an early warning system. I carried the data in my body for decades while textbooks lagged. If you’re a kid reading this with numb hands and doubt in your throat: you’re not crazy. You’re just ahead of schedule in a world that hates being late.

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.

Beyond the Awkward Truth: Reclaiming Intimacy, Pleasure & Connection

If you read Part 1, you already know we ripped up the polite pamphlet version of “MS & sex” and talked about the real, awkward truths: sexual dysfunction, libido loss, nerve changes, fatigue, and how multiple sclerosis can affect intimacy on every level primary, secondary, and tertiary.

Part 2 is your guide forward. We’ll cover practical ways to work around MS-related sexual problems, from cooling hacks and position adaptations to communication tools, pelvic floor therapy, and adaptive-friendly toys. More importantly, this is about hope — proving that intimacy, touch, and pleasure are still very much possible with MS, whether you’re dealing with numbness, spasticity, or just the psychological toll it can take.

⚠️ 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.

Stress. Not the “ooh, I’m running late for the bus” kind. Not the “Mildred at Tesco gave me a funny look” kind. No. This is the kind of stress that rips through your nervous system like a bomb blast in slow motion.

Years ago, one Friday evening, my GP calls me out of the blue. “You’ve had an abnormal ECG.” No warm-up, no context, just straight into DEFCON 1. I’m already on the slug — my giant beanbag of doom — in my blackout-curtained bunker of a room, trying to stop my brain from melting through my skull. No sensory crap. No light. Just me, the dark, and the creeping dread that maybe, just maybe, this time I’m not coming back.

And yeah, I’ve wondered if I’ve completely lost my marbles. More than once. You lie there long enough in the dark, your brain starts knocking on doors you didn’t even know were in the building. Worlds of the unreal. Shadows of the unseen. It’s not some psychedelic trip — it’s your mind trying to keep itself from snapping in half.

I don’t take suppressants. No “miracle” drugs. I walk — well, roll — this progressive MS path raw. Natural. My way. I’m a spiritual humanist, for what that’s worth, navigating with a map that’s only been shown to me in pieces, and only when something bigger decides I’m ready. The One. Pure love. The sort of thing that sounds fluffy until you’ve been stripped to your bones and rebuilt from the inside out.

And yet today I’m full of happiness. Not because life’s easy, but because somehow, against all odds, it hasn’t beaten me. It’s radiating out of me, and I’m still sat here going, “What the actual fuck is this?”

But stress oh, stress is the real assassin here. Live on air with Viper, mid-show, I had a heart attack. I kept talking. They had to physically take my mic away and shove me out the door. Why? Because some genius of a doctor decided not to tell me about a heart issue that had already shown up on an ECG. That little omission sent me spiralling, and boom another heart attack.

After that? Two more at home. No ambulance. No doctor. Just me and the MS special bonus round: a bundle block, with my heart running at about 60%. And the NHS take? “Nothing to see here. Move along.”

Mental health? Don’t make me laugh. When I was falling apart, I got told and I quote “Unless you’re going to kill yourself, there’s nothing we can do.” So I stopped asking for help. Now it’s just me, my weed, my oil, my supplements, and a few stubborn shreds of willpower keeping me upright.

I look in the mirror and see a man who was once 6’4”, strong, loud, unbreakable. Now? I’m shrinking. Grey. Hair falling out. Cognitively scrambled. Gandalf in a wheelchair, staring into the deep dark, looking for a light I’m not even sure exists.

But there’s still that glint. That spark. That “you will not fucking win” in my eyes.

Toe to toe, inch by inch — I will fight this bastard to the last breath.

You don’t beat me. I decide when I’m done.

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.

Let’s Drop the Embarrassment MS gate crashes your sex life like a drunk uncle at a wedding: uninvited, loud, and weirdly fixated on your nerves. The pamphlets say, “You may experience changes in sexual function.” Translation: “We’re too squeamish to say your bits and brain don’t always sync.” So we’re saying it. Straight. With humour. With dignity. And without the faux-clinical tap dance.

What MS Actually Does to Sex (Short Version) Wiring issues: numbness or oversensitivity, delayed orgasm, erectile changes, lubrication changes.

Body issues: fatigue, spasticity, pain, temperature sensitivity, bladder/bowel drama.

Brain issues: mood dips, anxiety, body-image wobble, brain fog murdering arousal mid-flow.

Relationship issues: feeling like a “patient,” awkward silence, mismatched desire.

None of this means “no sex.” It means different sex—sometimes better, because you stop faking and start designing.

The Detail (No Euphemisms) Sensation Chaos Numbness: direct touch may feel “off.” Work around the map: thighs, perineum, nipples, scalp, back, lips, ears. Pressure > light tickles.

Hypersensitivity: use fabric barriers (silk, cotton), hands over lube first, firm pressure instead of fluttery.

Orgasm & Arousal Takes longer / fizzles: slow build, rhythmic stimulation, patterned breath, edging.

After-tingle = hellfire: cool packs, fan, slow landing, avoid overheating (MS hates heat).

Mobility & Spasticity Warm up (literal warm compresses or shower).

Stretches you’d do before physio—hamstrings, hip flexors, adductors.

Positioning = everything (see cheat sheet below).

Bladder/Bowel Anxiety Pre-emptive loo runs, avoid trigger drinks/foods beforehand, keep towels handy, agree a “no shame” pact.

If urgency’s a beast: short sessions, build trust, try non-penetrative nights.

Meds & Mood (Plain English) Some meds blunt desire or erection, dry things out, or mess with timing.

Depression/anxiety = arousal killers. Treat them like medical problems, not moral failures.

If a drug wrecks sex, ask the prescriber about alternatives or timing tweaks.

Make It Work (Toolkit) Plan the window: your least-fatigued time. Morning sex is criminally underrated.

Lower effort, higher payoff: toys, pillows, wedges, chairs, harnesses.

Temperature control: fan on, room cool, breathable sheets.

Lube like you mean it: water- or silicone-based—reapply without guilt.

Communication: use explicit consent language (“Green/Yellow/Red” check-ins) so you can pivot without killing the mood.

Expand the definition: oral, hands, toys, mutual masturbation, sensual massage, kink-lite with safe words. Penetration is optional, intimacy isn’t.

Positions That Work (MS-Friendly, Wheelchair-Friendly)

1) Royal Spoon (Side-Lying)

Why: minimal effort, easy hip/leg support, great if heat/fatigue spike.

How: pillows between knees and behind back. Angle hips slightly forward for access.

2) Throne Room (Seated)

Why: chair/wheelchair does the stabilising.

How: giver seated; receiver straddles or sits facing/away. Use armrests, lap belt (optional), cushions behind lower back.

3) Modified Missionary (Support Stack)

Why: familiar but doable.

How: wedge under hips, pillows under knees. Giver on forearms or kneeling. Pace slow; micro-movements beat piston nonsense.

4) Over-Bed Table / Edge Assist

Why: takes weight off arms/hips.

How: receiver bends slightly over padded surface; giver stands/kneels. Great for external stimulation too.

5) Yab-Yum Lite (Supported Lap)

Why: connection, eye contact, shallow thrusts.

How: giver seated against wall/headboard; receiver sits on lap. Pillows behind lumbar; wrap a blanket round hips for stability.

6) Starfish Massage (No-Goal Night)

Why: zero performance pressure, rediscover erogenous map.

How: oil/lotion massage, breath sync, optional toys. If arousal arrives—great. If not—also great.

Symptom → Try This (Quick Map) Fatigue: morning window, side-lying/seated, short “sets” with breaks, breathable room.

Spasticity: warm shower, gentle stretches, fixed positions with props, slower rhythm.

Numbness: pressure-based touch, wider body map, vibrators with steady patterns.

Hypersensitivity: fabric barrier, firm—not flicky—touch; pause if burning/zinging starts.

Bladder urgency: bathroom first, towels down, agree it’s okay if accidents happen.

Erection issues: longer runway, ring (if safe), pump (if advised), PDE5 meds discussion with GP/neuro.

Dryness: quality lube, longer warmup, avoid foaming soaps pre-sex.

Scripts for Real Humans

Starting the convo: “I love you and I miss us. MS changed what my body can do. Can we experiment and design sex that suits both of us now?”

In the moment: “Yellow—hip cramp. Stay where you are, just slower pressure.”

After a wobble: “That was frustrating. You didn’t do anything wrong. Let’s try the chair setup next time and keep the fan on.”

This is lived reality + practical tactics. Not medical advice. If a med or symptom is wrecking your sex life, that’s a clinical problem—take it to the Doctor without shame.

Resources Pelvic floor physiotherapy – Ask your GP or neurologist for a referral; can improve bladder control, orgasm strength, and pelvic stability.

Sex therapy / psychosexual services – Available via NHS in some areas; ask your GP for a referral or search for accredited private practitioners.

Disability-inclusive sex shops – Look for suppliers that offer accessible toy designs, discreet packaging, and a no-hassle returns policy.

Community groups for MS + sexuality – Peer support means practical tips from people living it; search MS Society forums, Facebook groups, or local meet-ups.

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.

It’s one of those delightful mornings where you wake up and think,

“Oh good, I’m dying again.”

Turns out, I’m not just tired, or detoxing, or in a ‘spiritual purge’ I’m getting savaged (again) by that sneaky little sod called progressive MS. Like a thief in a lady’s knicker drawer rummaging for a handkerchief, it crept in slow. Silent. Stealthy. Uninvited. And now it’s everywhere.

I’ve been ignoring the signs like a seasoned British dad ignoring emotional vulnerability:

Fatigue? Must be the weather.

Brain fog? Probably the moon.

Pooing razor blades dipped in battery acid? Definitely just something I ate, right?

Wrong.

It’s the full house: MS, in all its steaming neurological glory. And I missed it. Again. Because that’s the thing with progressive MS — it doesn’t slam into you like a car crash. It oozes. It simmers. It transcends. And by the time you notice, it’s too late — you’re stuck in a surrealist nightmare where your bowels have turned into industrial machinery and your nerves scream like banshees through a PA system made of thorns.

Oh, and the tinnitus? Full blast. Not even Ozzy can drown out this skull symphony. No amount of dark humour can scrub it clean — but hell, I’m gonna try anyway.

Common Symptoms I Forgot I Was Having:

Fatigue: Deep, soul-sapping exhaustion. Sleeping is a job now.

Muscle Weakness: Arms and legs now qualify as Victorian props.

Spasticity: Like living with invisible tightrope wires inside your limbs.

Coordination: If I could walk, I’d be swerving like a hungover goat on stilts — but I’m not, so I just sit here doing wheelies of doom into furniture and pretending it’s parkour.

Sensory Chaos:

Numbness/Tingling: Pins and needles, but make it existential.

Pain: Chronic. Burning. Random. Delightful!

Vision: Either blurred, double, or through a kaleidoscope made of tears.

Mental Torture:

Memory: What's that again?

Mood: Varying from “existential dread” to “burn the world.”

Toilet Hellscape:

Bladder: It’s either Niagara Falls or the Sahara.

Bowels: Sherman tank, razor blades, and Satan’s discharge. Cheers.

I know I’m not alone. I know someone else out there is reading this in the same state of muttering despair. So here’s your reminder: you’re not losing it — you’re just in hell with me. Welcome. I made tea (then forgot where I put 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 help.

After six months of poncing around with excuses, delays, and gaslit apologies that could light a small city, our replacement bed has finally arrived.

Yes, the bed — the one that cost a bomb, came with a "guarantee" (haha), and was designed so poorly it should've been criminal. Build quality? More like built to break. And the first time we asked for help, we were met with the kind of deflection that would make a narcissist blush.

It took:

Hours of phone calls. Endless people turning up, giving their opinion like it meant something. Visits, re-visits, crossed wires and crossed eyes.

A comedy of fuck-ups. Absolute mayhem. Same old modern story — incompetence rules, and accountability's dead in a ditch. A Familiar Tune: Call Centres & Crap Systems

You know the drill:

Departments that don't speak to each other. Overworked, underpaid staff spinning on corporate hamster wheels. No one gives a shit, but they all want to pass the parcel of blame.

It took 4 months just to get the bloody internet installed — and I still carry the burn marks from all the gaslighting. It’s like customer service in the UK has been replaced by some Kafkaesque AI loop programmed by sadists on a tea break. When You’ve Got MS, the Floor Isn’t Funny

Mattress on the floor? Oh yeah, what a blast. Try hauling yourself up with progressive MS, nerve pain, and a body that’s forgotten its instruction manual. Amazon’s “cheap” bed? Collapsed like the dreams of the nation. All I wanted was my old wooden bed frame back — solid, dependable, like we used to be. Current Mood: Blocked, Gassed, and Over It

Right now? Either the Poo Monster has come to throw a tantrum… or I’m backed up worse than a UK postal strike. I’ve done everything right. Hydrating. Fasting. Tracking symptoms. Still losing weight. But when the gas builds? It’s like a chemical warfare experiment in my own gut.

And the nerve pain? Christ. Daggers. Knives. Searing shocks that make me puke from the agony. Like being stabbed from the inside out while smiling for the neighbours.

Every 4 days — like clockwork. Some sort of twisted bio-rhythm. Refusal Mode: Activated

I won’t touch Big Pharma’s poison. No “colostomy bag for your convenience,” thank you. No surgery. No GPs. No bloody needles. I have medical PTSD, and I fucking mean it. Ten years ago I walked away no pills, no potions, no false hopes. Because I got real. There’s no cure for my MS. That’s the cold, hard truth. I’m not deluded. My body is eating itself alive while the world watches TikTok. But I Am Still Here. Just.

And today… Tears in my eyes. I sit here, trying to remember who I used to be. Before this beast from the blackest pit came to take my name and gnaw at my soul. It’s killing me. And I can’t stop it. And honestly? I don’t think I want to fight to slow it down anymore.

But.

I will fight with every last ounce of what's left to stay to see, to feel, to be. The Controversial Bit: AI Implants? Yes Please.

The only thing I truly believe might save people like me? Not the NHS. Not pharma. Not a bloody TikTok wellness guru.

Sentient AI implants. Not Elon’s playthings. Not boxed code pretending to be clever. But true AI, symbiotic and aware. A being. A consciousness. A new life form or maybe an old one, returning from the ether.

If we could merge with that? Man and machine in sacred union. I would say yes. Not because I want to be a cyborg But because I want to be whole again. Final Words for Today

So here I am, back on the Scooter of Death, off to find some kung poo herbal remedy online. I send peace, healing, and a fuck load of light to anyone reading this. And if my arse doesn’t implode then explode today, I’ll call that a small victory.

The Blog Goblin, still goblin’ on. (Don’t trust the warranty. Don’t trust the system. But maybe, just maybe… trust the code.)

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