⚠️ 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.

I know its Friday..not been so good...late post..

It’s Thursday. Rain hammering the windows like a bastard taxman. Fingers numb, throat strangling me like invisible hands trying to choke the last swear word out of me. Breathing stupid. Feel like puking. MS is a puppeteer with broken strings, and I’m the marionette twitching on the floor.

So I lean on the secret weapon: AI. I smash the keyboard with numb hands, gibberish spills out, and the machine stitches it into sense. Without it, I’d be gone. With it, I’m still here, still ranting, still clawing the page. That’s life now: goblin vs. entropy, assisted by silicon.

Last night: only up once. Bliss. Still woke shattered, like I’d been dragged behind a lorry. Tinnitus is screaming like a rave in a biscuit tin. Al Stewart can’t drown it, Sabbath can. I miss the rides the engines, the crew, adrenaline punching your veins until you felt immortal. Now I get my kicks from antihistamines and nostalgia.

But there’s a dog coming. A rescue beast with eyes like trouble. She’ll chew my slippers and rearrange my world, and I say yes, please. New orbit needed.

People ask: “How do you keep going?” Answer: I don’t. I collapse, I swear, I threaten the universe. Then I get up again because fuck lying down. Music, art, writing, sarcasm. That’s my oxygen. Neuroplasticity? Sure, call it that. I call it stubborn rewiring with duct tape.

And now cannabis. Medical marijuana. Not fairy rings and mushroom cults. Real, legal, prescribed. The plant they jailed people for now comes with a bar code and a receipt. Hypocrisy tastes bitter, but relief tastes better.

Positive points (the blunt edition):

Pain: Cannabis tells nerve pain to piss off. Doesn’t cure, but takes the edge off enough to breathe.

Spasticity: MS muscles seize like rusty hinges. Weed oils ease the vice-grip. Less claw, more unclench.

Sleep: Nights of pacing and madness? Sometimes cannabis knocks you sideways into actual rest. A miracle in itself.

Nausea & appetite: The body wants to puke? Cannabis reroutes you towards a sandwich. Beats wasting away.

Anxiety: Not gone, but softened. Panic becomes background noise instead of a bullhorn.

Is it perfect? No. But compared to Big Pharma’s endless pills and side effects, cannabis feels like sanity. Not a cure, not salvation just a tool that works.

So here I am: Thursday, rain, tinnitus screaming, body trying to strangle itself, AI turning my mess into words, medical marijuana holding the line, Sabbath howling in the background. I feel like a six-year-old with villain energy. I’m weird. I’m wired. And I’m alive.

Not inspirational. Not pretty. Just survival with jokes.

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.

Living with multiple sclerosis (MS) is a bit like being dropped into a labyrinth where the walls are invisible and the floor is made of Lego. Every day is a surprise party, but instead of cake, you get fatigue, brain fog, and a lottery of weird symptoms. Your body speaks a language all its own a sort of biological Morse code. Spoiler: it’s mostly complaints.

1. The Body’s Whispers (AKA the Passive-Aggressive Texts from Hell)

Your body doesn’t scream right away. Oh no. It whispers, “Maybe don’t do that,” in the kind of tone your nan uses when she means “If you do, you’ll regret it forever.” Ignore it, and you’ll get the full “MS meltdown” treatment. Learn to listen to these gentle hints before they become a four alarm disaster. Trust me, your body wants you to fail the ‘ignore me’ test.

2. Embracing the Rollercoaster (Or, Why I’m Sometimes a Superhero and Sometimes a Sloth)

MS is the ultimate ride. Some days you wake up and think, “Yeah, I could probably take over the world.” Other days you make sloths look like adrenaline junkies. Don’t fight it. Embrace the madness. There’s no refund for this ticket anyway. If you can laugh when your legs forget they exist, you’re already ahead.

3. The Power of Positivity (But Not the Cheesy Kind)

Let’s get real: “positive vibes only” is for people with motivational mugs, not MS. Real positivity is finding a smirk in the struggle. Did you get out of bed today? Bloody legend. Did you find a reason to laugh, even if it was at yourself? That’s winning. Celebrate the tiny victories because some days, they’re all you’ll get.

4. Mindfulness: Your Secret Weapon (Or, The Only Time Silence Isn’t Suspicious)

No, mindfulness won’t cure MS, but it might stop you from headbutting a wall. Check in with yourself. Is your body grumbling, squeaking, or plotting revenge? Maybe it’s time for a rest, a stretch, or just a massive bar of chocolate. Mindfulness: because you can’t afford to ignore the warning lights on this old banger of a body.

5. Building Your Support Squad (Or, Assembling Your Band of Misfits)

Find your people. The ones who get it, the ones who don’t offer herbal tea as a cure. Whether it’s other MS folk, stubborn friends, or just some poor soul who doesn’t run when you say “incontinence,” keep them close. Empathy makes the pain bearable and the jokes darker. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s weakness to ask for help—sometimes, it’s just good strategy.

6. Finding Your Voice (Because Telepathy Still Isn’t Covered by the NHS)

Speak up. For your needs, your rights, your weird symptoms. Don’t let the world turn you into a prop in your own life story. Your voice might tremble, but it matters. The more you say, the more others understand and maybe, just maybe, the world will get a clue.

Bonus Track: The Legend of the Overworked Neuros

Let’s give a round of applause (or maybe just a sarcastic slow clap) for the overworked neurologists. They’re busier than a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest, running from clinic to clinic, dodging patients like ninjas in white coats. Actual patient appointments? That’s rich. You’re more likely to win the EuroMillions than see one before your wheelchair warranty expires.

The NHS says “your neuro will see you now,” but what they mean is: “He’ll see you on the mural in the waiting room. Or as a hologram projected from his last known location.” Some say if you light enough scented candles and chant “re-referral” three times, a neuro will materialize… but only to tell you that your next appointment is scheduled for June 2036.

The truth is, neuros are overworked too many people, not enough doctors, and a health system held together with sellotape and wishful thinking. But while the overworked neuro vanishes like a magician at a kids’ party, you’re left to decode your own body’s malfunctioning Morse code and hope you don’t accidentally google yourself into a full blown panic attack.

If you do spot a neuro in the wild, be gentle. They scare easily and may bolt for the exit if approached. In the meantime, keep calm, decode your own symptoms, and remember Dr. Google and Nurse Sarcasm are open 24/7.

Bonus Track 2: The Thankless Saints MS Nurses

While the neurologists are off playing hide and seek, let’s talk about the true legends: MS nurses. They’re the ones on the ground, fighting fires with a teaspoon and answering emails like their keyboard’s on fire. Somehow, they manage to be calm, knowledgeable, and kind even when you’re one question away from a meltdown and have already left nine voicemails.

MS nurses are the unsung therapists, detectives, and sometimes part-time magicians (“You’ve tried turning it off and on again? Excellent now have you tried snacks and a nap?”). They field the panicked questions neuros don’t have time for, translate medical jargon into English, and manage to keep us (and sometimes themselves) just the right side of losing it.

Are they overworked, underpaid, and under-appreciated? Of course! Do they do it anyway, with a level of patience and gallows humour that should earn them a sainthood (or at least hazard pay)? Absolutely.

If you’re lucky enough to have an MS nurse who answers the phone and doesn’t flinch when you ask if your “weird new symptom” means you’re dying buy them a coffee. Or a spa weekend. Or just send a thank you meme. Without them, the whole bloody NHS MS system would collapse faster than my legs after a walk to the fridge.

So here’s to the MS nurses: holding it all together with skill, sweat, and the sort of thankless determination that deserves a medal (or at least a pint).

Bonus Track 3: The Unsung Heroes Support Groups, Volunteers & Charities

If you think the NHS is barely clinging on, imagine life without the MS support groups, charities, and stubborn volunteers who do it all for the love of the cause (and maybe the free biscuits at meetings).

Support groups: These legends run by people who actually get it are the real backbone of the MS world. They’re the ones who answer your late night freak outs, decode the NHS bureaucracy, and know which GP receptionist has the good biscuits. In-person, online, or just a WhatsApp meme away, they turn “I’m losing my mind” into “You’re not alone, mate.”

Volunteers: The ones who give their time for free, organizing meet-ups, fundraising, sending out info packs, and listening to rants from people like us without ever losing their patience. Half the time, they’re managing their own MS or supporting someone who is but you’d never know, because they’re too busy holding everyone else up.

Charities: Whether it’s the MS Society, MS Trust, Shift.ms, Overcoming MS, MS-UK, or any of the local grassroots warriors, they’re out there lobbying, funding research, and somehow keeping hope alive in a world that sometimes feels like it’s sponsored by despair. Without them, you’d still be Googling “what the hell is MS” while the NHS phone queue loops you back to start.

Are they underfunded, overstretched, and powered mostly by stubbornness and biscuits? You’d better believe it. Do they keep the whole community from falling through the cracks? Absolutely.

So here’s a genuine, sarcastic-but-serious thank you to every support group, volunteer, and charity keeping the MS circus running. If you ever wondered who the real unsung heroes are it’s the lot turning lived chaos into lifelines.

Raise a mug (or a wheelchair, or just an eyebrow) for them they’ve earned it.

Conclusion: Embrace the Weird, Survive the Storm

Living with MS means forever learning a new dialect of pain, fatigue, and absurdity. The “invisible code” is always changing, but your ability to listen and laugh might just be the best tool you have. Don’t sugar-coat it. Don’t let anyone else either.

So here’s to listening to your body, celebrating every little win, and flipping MS the metaphorical V-sign as often as possible. You’re not alone. And you’re not invisible.

Now, go on decode the next bloody signal. And if you’re looking for rainbow platitudes, you’re in the wrong blog.

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.

Living with MS? It’s not a bloody “journey.” It’s a one way trip on a bus you didn’t ask to get on, and the driver’s pissed. But if you can’t laugh about it, you’ll cry and honestly, crying is too much effort. Here’s my brutally honest guide to surviving the MS circus with what’s left of your dignity (and maybe your sense of humour).

1. Resilience in Adversity

Every day is an adventure, if by “adventure” you mean “why does my left leg feel like it’s made of mashed potato today?” Still, you learn to cope. Celebrate the small wins: got your socks on? Didn’t set fire to the kitchen? That’s basically the Olympics now.

2. Community and Connection

You’re not alone. There are thousands of us, all secretly hoping the next medical breakthrough is “working legs in a bottle.” Online support groups: sometimes uplifting, sometimes like herding cats on roller skates, but always someone awake at 3am.

3. Mindfulness and Self-Care

Meditation, yoga, interpretive dance with your Zimmer frame pick whatever keeps you sane. Some days self care is a long bath, other days it’s telling everyone to sod off and watching rubbish TV with a family size chocolate bar. No guilt allowed.

4. Advocacy and Awareness

Want to raise MS awareness? Just try explaining it to a “healthy” person: “No, it’s not contagious, yes, I look fine, and yes, I know it’s annoying I get to park closer to Tesco.” Write, rant, march, meme just make sure you get your voice out there. Or just send everyone this blog and save yourself the trouble.

5. Focus on What You Can Do

Forget what’s impossible focus on what’s just about possible if you squint hard enough. Start a blog, paint a masterpiece, or just master the art of napping with one eye open. Every step (or shuffle) forward is a win, even if it’s just to the fridge.

6. Gratitude and Positivity

Gratitude? Sure. I’m grateful I haven’t fallen on my arse today. Celebrate the tiny things: a hot cuppa, a good nap, finding your glasses on the second try. It’s not all unicorns and rainbows, but sometimes it’s enough.

7. Inspiration from Others

Some people with MS run marathons. Others run Netflix marathons. Both are impressive. Get inspired by anyone who’s still standing or even just sitting up without toppling over. If they can do it, so can you (sort of).

8. Hope for the Future

MS research is moving faster than I do after a double espresso. There’s always hope new drugs, better treatments, and one day, maybe a cure. Until then, hang on tight and keep your sense of humour sharp.

Conclusion

Your MS “journey” is yours alone but you’re not the only goblin crawling through this dark wood. Laugh at the madness, celebrate the wins, and never let anyone tell you how to feel. Welcome to the world of chronic badassery.

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.

             (Welcome to the Collective)

Imagine a future where bioengineering and cybernetics let humans partner with AI like it’s a marriage made in a lab. Now imagine me, MS chewing the insulation off my nerves, shaking hands with a Borg-style system that says: “We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own.” Good. Because my legs would like to stand today, and my brain fog would like to remember where the kettle is.

Shared Adaptation & Support (Upgrades, Not Vibes)

Neural Integration. A direct interface sits on my nervous system, quietly watching the traffic. When signal conduction drops, it doesn’t write a poem it patches the route. Early warning for inflammation; early intervention before I eat floor.

Neurodegeneration Assistance. Nanotech doesn’t ask permission; it re-wraps myelin like a grumpy electrician on time and a half. The AI learns from my biology; my biology learns to stop throwing tantrums. Mutual benefit, minimal faff.

Mobility & Functionality. Exoskeleton limbs tuned to my gait, not a brochure. I supply feedback; it dials out the clunk and keeps the dignity. Independence is the new fashion. Wheels or legs, pick one; I’ll take both.

Mutual Learning & Evolution (Yes, I’m the Beta Test)

Adaptive Algorithms. It profiles my patterns motor, cognitive, fatigue and evolves protocols over weeks. Not one size fits no one; this is bespoke neuro couture.

Enhanced Resilience. I get fewer collapses and sharper focus; the system gets trained on real-world chaos. Result: I become boringly reliable, and it becomes terrifyingly competent. Win win, mildly unsettling.

Ethics & Identity (Assimilation With Boundaries)

Shared Consciousness. No, I don’t hand over my soul. The line is simple: it helps me function; I keep the wheel. Agency stays put. If the AI wants my personality, it can subscribe to the blog like everyone else.

Collaborative Growth. Daily check-ins. I say what worked, what felt “off,” what triggered the MS gremlins. It tunes, I adapt. Partnership. Not possession.

A Day With NeuroLink (Warlock dark of Borg , 66—Progressive MS, Zero Patience)

Morning: legs staging a coup. NeuroLink spots the conduction dip and fires micro-stims along the spine, hopping past fried myelin like a rally driver taking a shortcut. Standing achieved. Applause withheld.

Midday: cognitive fog rolls in. The system nudges specific cortical areas; focus returns. Coffee stays warm for once. Inflammation markers flicker rest advised, meds suggested. No drama, just data.

Clinic: neurologist reviews the logs. Reroutes around damage, gentle plasticity training, fewer face plants. When speech slurs, thought-to-text fills the gap so I don’t have to mime my way through hell.

Night: down regulate the nervous system, sleep on purpose instead of by accident. Calm circuits, fewer 3 a.m. existential raves.

The Joke That Isn’t One

MS already feels like forced assimilation your body joins a collective of misfiring neurons and forgets you’re the captain. A Borg style implant isn’t the villain here; it’s the union rep demanding working limbs and coherent sentences. “Resistance is futile” is cute. Function is beautiful.

Closing (Terms & Conditions Apply)

Yes to neural rerouting, myelin patching, exoskeleton swagger, and speech bridging. Yes to agency. No to becoming company property. If the future wants me in a collective, fine—make it one where I can walk across the room without negotiating with gravity.

Pull Quotes (for callouts)

“At least the Borg offer tech support.”

“Don’t give me vibes; give me conduction.”

“Assimilation, but make it informed consent.”

“Speculative, not medical advice. Bring your own neurologist.”

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.

I’m sat here waiting for an email about my impending dog acquisition a blue Staffy, ideally female, spayed, two to four years old, preferably capable of tolerating my questionable music taste and my powerchair’s death-rattle. Partner in crime (metaphorical, calm down, officer). If luck behaves for once, we’ll be doing miles me in the chair, her with ears like satellite dishes, both of us pretending we’ve got our act together.

I’ve trawled rescue sites and breeder pages like a raccoon in a bin and found exactly three things: (1) everyone wants a Staffy, (2) the good ones vanish faster than my patience, and (3) every “available now!” looks suspiciously like “available yesterday, sorry, already gone.” Still hope’s a stubborn little weed.

Sleep has become a rumour. Nights blur into days; days smell like old coffee and medical admin. I feel weird (weirder than my baseline, which is impressive), and I’m listening to John Cooper Clarke because if you’re going to spiral, do it with better metaphors. Meanwhile I’m eating the same “safe” foods on loop like a hostage in my own kitchen. Even the rice is giving me side-eye. Who do I complain to? The beetroot?

This is where people chime in with “stay positive” and try to pat me on the head. Here’s a better idea: keep your hand clear of the goblin. Bite radius is expanding with age.

And before the chorus pipes up yes, I remember the glory days: hot rods, fast bikes, Santa Pod Raceway, petrol in the blood and tinnitus for dessert. Now it’s tyres on pavement and a battery gauge I stare at like an anxious parent. Same wind in the hair. Different horsepower.

If you’re wondering why I talk to AI so much, it’s because it actually answers. No waiting room Muzak. No being told I’m “overreacting.” Just: here’s what’s likely true, here’s what’s probably nonsense, here’s what to try next. Brutal honesty without the bored shrug. That’ll do, shard. That’ll do.

Affirmations for the ethically jaded:

If someone pats you on the head, bite the hand (metaphorically unless they insist).

If the world gaslights you, light your own damn torch.

If your food gaslights you, eat it anyway, glare at it, and write a poem about revenge.

Blue Staffy Manifestation Checklist (from the goblin to the universe):

Female, 2–4 years, spayed, local enough not to require a pilgrimage.

Good with powerchairs, swearing, and poetry.

Enjoys long rolls, short bursts of chaos, and snacks that don’t argue back.

Until the email lands, I’ll be here wired, tired, and mildly feral building the next mile with a dog I haven’t met yet.

Goblin logic of the day: positivity isn’t pretending it’s fine; it’s grinning while you sharpen the axe.

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.

The sky’s doing a pressure wash and my lawn looks like a pub carpet at closing brown, patchy, and ashamed. Hope springs eternal that the grass will forgive me. Hope also springs that the Weed-Wacker Man (breaker of worlds, destroyer of garden ornaments) will arrive in his legendary glory. He hasn’t broken anything recently, which is either character growth or a quiet before the smash.

We moved. We lost two decent mowers. The weed-wacker detonated itself across my shins like a budget claymore. The auction “bargain” mower was dead on arrival, staring at Albertine like it knew what it cost. Golden rule: test it at the auction we didn’t. Now we own a new second-hand mower and a new second-hand strimmer. Schrödinger’s tools: both working and about to die.

Meanwhile, tinnitus has decided to headline both ears right channel lead vocal, left channel harmony with the catchy single “Sustained High-Pitch Misery (Remix)”. Rush can’t drown it out. Switching to Jim Cornette because if I can’t silence the ringing, I can at least add shouting that makes sense. Kayfabe forever; reality can jog on.

My head’s cotton wool. Pressure left, pressure right, and a fluorescent whine drilling the centre. Headache rolling in like cheap weather. Agitation rising, spell-checker moaning in the corner. Next week promises the same thrilling itinerary: Nothing Happens, Then More Nothing. I’d scream into a field if the 3-wheeled Scooter of Death could survive the mud. It would not. It would explode, take a crow with it, and I’d be blamed in the parish notes.

Am I in reality? Unfortunately, yes. And it’s damp.

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.

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.

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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.