chronic pain

⚠️ 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.

Ah yes, #WorldBrainDay — that special time of year when the world pretends to care about the human brain. How lovely. Shall we all have a think about thinking?

Meanwhile, over here, my brain’s doing its best impression of a soggy electrical circuit being attacked by invisible gremlins. MS doesn’t send flowers or awareness ribbons. It sends fire ants tap dancing on my nerves, brain fog thick enough to butter toast, and pain so sharp it could cut glass.

But go on, light a candle or post a heart emoji. That’ll fix it. 👍

I don’t need a day for my brain. I need a replacement. Preferably one that hasn’t been cooked in demon piss.

Still — here I am. Writing this blog, existing despite it all, swearing like a dockworker and laughing into the abyss. Because what else is there? I’m still here, you bastards. And that’s the real miracle.

Cheers, brain. You absolute shambles of a meat sponge.

– Mr Dark 📍 Currently lost in brain fog, do not disturb.

Footnotes from the Pit 🕳️

🧠 “Brain Fog” – Like trying to do a Sudoku underwater while someone shouts the wrong answers at you through a megaphone.

⚡ “Nerve pain” – Imagine licking a plug socket. Now imagine that sensation… in your spine.

🛠️ “Medical advice” – Includes gems like: “Just stay positive”, “Have you tried yoga?”, and my personal favourite: “It could be worse.”

🕯️ “Awareness Days” – 24 hours where we all pretend chronic illness is quirky and inspirational. Followed by 364 days of complete radio silence.

🎉 “Still here” – Not cured. Not better. Just stubborn. Very, very stubborn.

                                               **!!DISCLAIMER !!**

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

                             “The views in this post are based on my personal    
                                experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

                        “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                                      By storm and silence, I survive.”

                              @goblinbloggeruk  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

Woke up at 4am — not for a cosmic vision, no, just the usual pee pee ritual. And that was that. No sleep. Brain on, pain on, day ruined before it began.

Lemmy said it best: "No sleep 'til Hammersmith." Except I wasn’t heading for rock glory — I was limping toward a garage and a medical breakdown.

No brain fog . Tinnitus mercifully silent — probably saving itself for later. Pain? A knife twisting inside me like Satan’s letter opener.

But still, I had to drive. No meds allowed. NHS says suffer, so I did. Slid out of bed like a cursed slug, wheeled myself to the kitchen, food made it worse (of course), and then the bowel pain — oh the bowel pain.

You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you’re reminiscing about that one time on the NHS table, a camera going places no camera should ever go. We’ll save that horror show for another blog — or perhaps a full-blown gothic novel.

Still, I washed, dressed (miracle), and drove. I was in agony but present. Almost proud. Dropped the van at the new garage — not nasty Jim this time, thank Beelzebub. Just regular, decent humans. A miracle. Almost felt human.

Back in the chair. Felt like I’d been skinned emotionally. Called Albertine “Muriel” — sorry, love. The fog came in hard. Brain barely ticking. But the van passed its MOT — no advisories. So something went right.

Retirement soon. Thank the dark gods. Honestly didn’t think I’d make it this far.

Still here though. Still writing. Still surviving the fire.

          “The views in this post are based on my personal      
            experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

                     “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                               By storm and silence, I survive.”