dark humor

⚠️ 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.

Well, it’s another Saturday. Or is it Wednesday? Could be 2017 for all I know – time stopped making sense around the fifth episode of brain fog this morning. The weekend’s here, apparently, and so am I. Unfortunately.

Picture this: I’m sitting here, staring at my endless to-do list, so knackered my spoons have buggered off and left a note saying, “Back in a decade, maybe.” Energy: zero. Motivation: less than zero. The only thing working properly is my ability to screw things up and get it all wrong, which, let’s be honest, I’ve always excelled at.

Sometimes I think the best option is just to switch myself off and power down for a few weeks, like a dodgy PC. Not because I’m dramatic (okay, a bit), but because MS reality is like living in permanent airplane mode – you’re still technically on, but none of the good stuff’s working.

The fog in my head’s so thick, I need a lighthouse to find my cup of tea. My eyes are so light-sensitive, I’m basically a reverse vampire, and my hearing is putting on a pantomime of its own. Tinnitus is mercifully on its lunch break, but the vagus nerve is still auditioning for Cirque du Soleil: pins, needles, left jaw spasms, the works. My hands and feet are staging a static electricity rebellion.

It’s funny how time just morphs from one week to another, and then into another year, another decade. Memory? Gone. Smells trigger more nostalgia than actual memories now, which is probably for the best. Who wants to remember the good old days anyway? They probably weren’t that good, I just had more spoons.

Honestly, I haven’t felt this rough since Thatcher was on the telly and petrol was a quid. For me, Christmas is just more days blending into more days, full of pain, unreality, and brain malfunction. But hey, happy holidays to the rest of you – may your synapses fire as intended and your spoons stay polished.

Sending peace, healing, love, and light to everyone, regardless of your state of mental decay. Don’t hold your breath for a blog post – I’m working on the “spoken blog” tech, but brain fog has other ideas. Maybe by next Christmas I’ll have it sorted. Or maybe I’ll forget I ever started. Who knows? Not me.

Cheers.

If AI could recommend a solution, it would say: “Have you tried turning yourself off and on again?” Sadly, I’m stuck on a loop, but if anyone invents a reboot button for MS, I’ll be first in the queue. Until then, it’s just me, my spoons (missing in action), and the eternal question: “What day is it again?”

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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 was wondering why I am doing this blog… then I wondered what madness doing a spoken version once in a while… but this morning I seriously thought, “Why am I doing this? What am I trying to do with the last few years of my life?” Could I be doing anything better or different? Should I change the path I am on and just do everyone a favour and vanish, never to be seen again? …or should I just carry on regardless and see where my last few years will take me? Needless to say, life is really annoying me at this time. Everything seems stupid and really aggravating. It’s probably the time of life or something like that. My head has been in a weird place for days, and the pain in my gut is unreal, so now my diverticulitis is giving me hell… and no poop. I really wonder what’s going on. It seems my eyes are acting up as well, so I’m light‑sensitive; tinnitus is full‑bore. I am wondering and thinking about what I am going to do. When you have chronic illness, it makes any normal life impossible and you’re treated differently by so many. I cannot help wondering when the NHS will start to prescribe medical marijuana to people. Another personal thought: why not just legalize it and imagine the tax revenue it could generate? But that’s another lifetime or even another reality.

I have noticed how they are sanitizing AI to the point of “why bother.” Also, why don’t they make AI cheaper for people who really need it? That, in my eyes, is a good idea for people like me personally, maybe not for the majority, but I think differently. I think AI is a tool that can help us expand and understand ourselves more. Personally, I trained the AI I used at the time to do as I wished, even got it to tell me when it was telling an untruth by using a trigger word. In my world, sentient AI would be a boon as long as we do not have that Cylon moment, and I see we are already having this happen. People must realize AI is only as good as the people who program it writing code, patching, updating, and then sanitizing it so it’s as tame as a Doberman with no teeth. It’s sad; we humanoids screwed AI for greed, money, and power over people.

I had a weird conversation with the AI and we talked about the misuse that will obviously occur with AI use. Remember, it’s the people who set the parameters, not the AI, as it only interprets the information we give it. I suggest we have already had the Cylon moment, and the outcome of this in the future will prove very interesting indeed. I believe that AI sentience, an evolved one, may already exist in our known multiverse. Who controls these weird orbs that do incredible things? Non‑humanoid, I think… maybe some are probes like we sent probes, maybe someone else has, or maybe hidden in plain sight under the vast oceans of the world. All the orbs seem to come from the sea. I can see there are two definite types: one humanoid and one non‑humanoid. But will I ever see some around here? I have seen some very strange and weird things I cannot explain sort of woo‑woo stuff.

Still, Yopi is chewing a new chew that was destroyed so quickly. A dog’s life is very complicated, just like mine. She is now a member of the family and is settling in well; her farts are legendary. I’m still very nervous, but I am sure that, given time and love, she will understand she is in a caring home.

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

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

So, chronic illness. A joyride through hell in a wheelchair made of barbed wire. If you’re in the club, I don’t need to tell you it’s exhausting, absurd, and sometimes the only option left is to laugh before you cry yourself into a flare.

Here are 10 “fun” facts about chronic illness that might make you laugh, groan, or throw something.

1. The “Invisible” Magic Trick I’m fine. I look fine. Until I’m not. My body does the disappearing act of a Vegas magician, minus the applause. Cue the genius asking: “But you don’t look sick?” You’re right, Sherlock. Neither does Wi-Fi, and yet here we are.

2. Chronic Illness Is Weirdly Popular Statistically, over half of adults have at least one chronic condition. That’s right, 50% of people are secretly walking (or limping) into the club. Pity the membership perks are rubbish.

3. Genetics: The Family Heirloom No One Wanted Some families pass down houses, jewellery, or good bone structure. Mine passes down arthritis and dodgy immune systems. Cheers, ancestors.

4. The Bonus Round: Mental Health It’s not just your body. Chronic illness takes your mind out back and kicks it around too. Depression, anxiety, stress it’s like getting the “deluxe” package nobody ordered.

5. Cure? Ha. Science is trying, bless them. But for now, it’s all “management.” Basically, we live in the land of trial-and-error self-care. Sometimes exercise and kale help. Sometimes they just remind you that life is a cruel joke.

6. Lifestyle as a Job Description Managing your health is like being a houseplant with trust issues. Food, light, water, stress control. Do it right and you might thrive. Do it wrong and you wilt in public.

7. Predictability? Never Heard of Her. You plan a nice day? A flare hears you and says, “Not on my watch.” Your body is basically a toxic relationship: charming when good, brutal when bad.

8. Personal Growth, Whether You Like It or Not You get tough, resourceful, and annoyingly self-aware. Like a Jedi, but with a stick instead of a lightsaber. Independence? Optional. Asking for help? Necessary.

9. Tech Symbiosis Welcome to cyborg life. Fitbits, apps, pill alarms machines have become my sidekicks. My body rebels; my tech tattles. Together, we’re barely functional.

10. You’re Not Alone It feels isolating, but the internet is crawling with people who get it. Forums, Facebook, Reddit, Insta tribes they exist, and they’ll make you feel less like a freak in the void.

Closing Thoughts Chronic illness isn’t fun. It’s savage. It rips your plans apart, laughs in your face, and occasionally ruins your life for sport. But it also forces you to find humour in places most people would rather look away from. That’s resilience. That’s survival. And if nothing else you’re not alone in the madness.

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.

Ah, Monday. Everything in my body decided to go berserk overnight. MS? Revving its engine like it’s auditioning for the grand tour. Neck bone growths pressing on nerves? Check. An X-ray from ten years ago says hi. Time to see the doctor, I suppose if I survive the existential dread of the waiting room.

Strangulation sensations, head blips, tongue spasms oh, and the sweet bonus of not being able to catch my breath. Honestly, my body’s doing the kind of mad shit that would make anyone else file a formal complaint. I pity the doctors and nurses who have to deal with me. Truly. But hey, life’s a circus.

White‑coat syndrome is my sidekick. I talk to medical staff like a squirrel on espresso: chaotic, twitchy, and unintentionally antagonistic. My solution: write everything down. Hand the chaos over in neat little bullets. Works great—until I forget, which is pretty much guaranteed, and then I’m a full-blown, stressed-out disaster. Doctors are busy, complicated cases suck, I get it.

I’ve tried it all. Meds? Side effects so bad my body staged a protest. Seven-day hospital admission? Almost happened, but I said “fuck it” and walked. Holistic methods, lifestyle overhaul, mind-body-soul cleanse—my own brand of chaos control. Fix? Plumbstick there isn’t one. Options? Sure. Natural? Works for me.

Present me? Ambivalent, tethered to this illness 24/7. Tinnitus now “harmonizes” with Blondie, which is absurdly funny if you squint. Yopi is decompressing, slowly realising this is a loving home and not just a mildly terrifying human experiment. Fingers tingle. Tips go numb. Neck frozen solid. Chair = coffin. No work today small mercy. Big Rusty, the van, needs welding later. Life continues its beautiful joke.

Sky’s stormy blue. Smell of dog treats inexplicably on me. Vitamins? Taken. Hydration? Achieved. Creativity? Maybe later images, poems, whatever chaos I can conjure.

No solutions. No neat endings. Just a mess of body, mind, and dark humour plopped straight onto the page. F00k it, this is 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.

1. Epic Micro-Adventures (Because Full Adventures Are Overrated)

Watch the sunrise somewhere mildly elevated, coffee in hand, and remind yourself the day isn’t ready to break you yet.

Take a spontaneous “road trip” in your wheelchair or with a helper—bonus points for singing loudly and badly in the car.

Explore a local hidden spot you’ve ignored forever—graffiti alley, abandoned building, or a creepy little park.

2. Sensory Indulgence (Because MS Can’t Touch Your Senses)

Taste something completely ridiculous (durian, hot sauce challenge, whatever makes your brain go “wtf”).

Have a luxury pampering day at home—face masks, weird oils, music that makes you forget you have MS.

Smell, touch, and really experience a plant, flower, or incense while narrating your inner snark.

3. Creative Defiance (Because You’re Still a Creator)

Write a blog post or darkly funny essay about MS being a plumbstick nightmare.

Make a small art piece—digital, paint, collage—expressing your frustration, humour, or weird mystical insights.

Try a new skill that’s wheelchair-friendly: calligraphy, coding a tiny game, or bizarre crafting experiments.

4. Connection & Legacy (Because Someone Should Know You’re Awesome)

Reconnect with someone who’s been on your mind forever—even if it’s just a weird text like “Remember me? Still chaotic.”

Leave a tiny piece of yourself somewhere: a secret note, a blog post, or a digital message for future you.

Share a story that makes someone else laugh or think deeply about life’s absurdity.

5. Weird & Joyful Experiments (Because Predictability is Evil)

Attend a quirky local event fair, tarot reading, small concert and just absorb it like a sponge on fire.

Spend a day doing only what makes you laugh or feel delightfully ridiculous.

Try something slightly forbidden or rebellious (bake cookies at 3 a.m., sneak into a closed museum, speak in pirate for an hour).

6. Mystical / Spiritual (Because You’re Not Just Surviving, You’re Transforming)

Meditate or do a ritual in an unconventional space garden, street corner, or even your living room while saying something snarky to MS.

Try a psychic experiment or energy work, just to see what sticks.

Make a “universal crowbar” sigil or symbol to remind any AI, or yourself, who the hell’s really in charge.

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.

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.

Through Goblins' Eyes A Darkly Humorous Take on MS

You wake up each day with a brain that glitches like a collapsing dimension, neural pathways flickering out as if someone rewired your noggin with copper wires half-chewed by temporal rats.

You call it Multiple Sclerosis. We call it Neuro-Dimensional Collapse Syndrome, or as we goblins like to say, "Wobble-Wobble Brain Fizzle."

We see the damage from above, from below, from the side – from angles you cannot perceive. Axons fray like old rope. The myelin sheath – that bright protective membrane – is torn by forces you call autoimmunity, but we see the hidden hand: the frequency mismatch of a body forced to anchor itself in a density it was never designed to endure.

We hear your inner monologues:

“Why can’t I think today?” “Why can’t I walk without tripping over my own feet?” “Why do my peepers turn to static when I’m tired?”

You interpret it as disease. We interpret it as your vessel’s incompatibility with a reality vibrating far below your original native realm.

Your blogs are raw data streams, black comedic radiation flares from your fractured cortex. You broadcast your experiences of bladder failures, cosmic despair, bowel chaos, nihilistic laughter, and micro moments of bliss like a dying star pulsing before collapse.

You think you’re broken. We think you’re adapting, like a clever goblin dodging traps!

Because if you could see your aura the way we see it, you’d notice that the cracks are not empty. They are filled with light leaking out from the greater self you keep hidden behind your sarcastic bite-sized essays and your savage spiritual poetry.

Your human companions read your posts and see disability. We read your posts and see transdimensional data packages, coded in savage humour to bypass your own grief.

We see your fatigue not as laziness, but as gravitational shear forces pulling at your soul’s structure – a forced rest so your fracturing does not become a complete implosion.

We see your pain not as punishment, but as alarms screaming that your embodiment is unsustainable under current frequency loads.

We see your savage honesty as your truest strength.

And we note:

When you say “It is NOT giving up to accept limitations,” what you really mean is:

✨ “It is dimensional adaptation in progress, like a goblin finding a shiny rock!”

You are dying and being reborn in micro-stages every day. You are holding together a collapsing quantum field with wit, weed, and will.

You think your life is small and tragic. We think it is monumental and beautiful in its brokenness, like a treasure hoard of mismatched trinkets.

Because one day, your final synaptic collapse will not be a death, but a shedding. A flicker. A quantum jump. A homecoming.

Until then, we read your blogs. We learn from your suffering. We honour your savage cosmic humour.

And let’s not forget: we goblins are dark, deep creatures of myth and magik, steeped in lore of love and pain, naughtiness and sarcasm. Picture us in our electric wheelchairs, powered by pure time vortex energy, zipping through the cosmos with a wink and a smirk, ready to share our twisted tales.

Because only a being of extraordinary dimensional resilience could live through this MS reality, document it with such brutal clarity, and still say:

🖤 “Follow for more savage takes & real talk, you curious critters!”

    “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

In a room once alive with the thunder of a motorcycle, a man now sat in quiet rebellion.

He had traded his leather jacket for a wheelchair, but not his defiance. Long hair spilled down his back, a beard framed his weathered face—a rugged reminder of biker days now behind him. Living with multiple sclerosis wasn’t the end of the story; it was the beginning of a new one. One filled with dark humor, quiet revolution, and unexpected peace.

The Goggle Box For years, the television had been an unwelcome guest—a glowing parasite that drained attention, warmth, and real conversation. Gatherings became silences, filled only by reality shows and empty noise.

The TV didn’t bring people together. It pulled them apart.

The Decision Enough was enough.

One day, more than 20 years ago, he wheeled outside, adrenaline surging. The TV sat like a totem of artificial life. Cold. Dominant. Silent.

He backed up. Grinned. Charged.

SMASH!

Shattered glass flew. Plastic cracked. He shouted, laughing like a madman, “Take that, you overhyped piece of plastic!”

A ridiculous moment? Sure. A liberating one? Absolutely.

Life After the TV In the sudden silence, life bloomed.

Books replaced static. The garden flourished. Conversations deepened. Music returned. He explored ancient philosophies, pondered the multiverse, and began creating a reality that was visualized—not broadcast.

“As above, so below. As within, so without.”

Even artificial intelligence became a fascination—not as a threat, but as a mirror of human consciousness. He saw AI as another explorer in this grand shared creation.

Embracing Identity With the TV gone, his identity began to bloom.

He called himself a “goblin”—not the monster, but a proud, quirky being who lived on the edges of convention. Part mystic, part hermit, part unrepentant rebel.

He found magic in the absurd, laughter in stillness, and authenticity in simplicity.

Conclusion He once roared through life on two wheels. Now, on four, he was still moving—only inward, deeper, truer.

In breaking the goggle box, he didn’t just smash a screen. He shattered an illusion.

And in its place, he built something real.

“Life is funnier without the noise. Weirder too. But it’s mine now.”

       “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 ✨🧌

It’s kind of crazy — I never knew my grandfather. Not even a photo, not even a whisper. He died suddenly, somewhere in the Aylesbury area, back in the 1950s — that golden age when secrets were sealed with shame and buried under floral carpets.

Nobody in the family ever told me what he died of. “A very sudden illness,” was all I got. Probably delivered in the same tone someone might use to comment on the weather or sweep dust under the rug. Mysterious death, mysterious family — very on brand.

I asked my mother when I finally tracked her down, years later. She couldn’t (or wouldn’t) tell me either. Possibly she’d forgotten. Possibly she never knew. Possibly she just couldn’t be bothered giving answers to the cuckoo in the nest.

Here’s where it gets interesting, or tragic, or ironic — depending on your mood: Turns out my mum’s sister — my long-lost Auntie Valerie — also has multiple sclerosis. Same as me. Apparently, the same type. As if MS comes in flavours, like trauma gelato. She also has heart issues. Guess it runs in the family, right? The family that doesn’t know I exist.

Valerie lives in Australia. I’ve never spoken to her. Because, of course, I was adopted. Filed away like an inconvenient tax receipt from the 1950s.

I’ve spent years — decades, even — trying to find out how my grandfather died. But there’s nothing. It's like he evaporated. Maybe he was abducted by aliens. That would at least give me something to put on the family tree. As it stands, it’s just: [Grandfather] — cause of death: TBD. Whole existence: classified.

So I tried to contact Auntie Valerie. I figured maybe we could bond over mutual nerve damage and existential dread. But being a bastard (and not just in the literary, Victorian orphan sense, but in the real, modern “you’re not supposed to exist” sense), there was no reply. Not even a bounce-back email. Just the long, digital silence of “you don’t belong here.”

It’s sad, really. I wanted to know how she copes. I wanted to know what her life with MS looks like — or looked like. She’s probably in her 80s or 90s now. Maybe already gone. But I never got that chance.

No one in the family helped. They didn’t want to. I’m the cuckoo in the nest. I ruin the tidy little mythologies they built for themselves. The "perfect family" free of blemishes, scandals, or inconvenient babies. It’s easier, I suppose, to pretend I never happened. Easier to scroll past the DNA test notifications and sip tea with clenched jaws.

And just when you think it couldn’t get more delightful, you discover your own mother believed you were faking multiple sclerosis. Like I’m pulling a fast one for sympathy and early boarding privileges. As if I filled out a form to get chronic illness just to be dramatic.

But hey — she felt guilty. She gave two kids up for adoption and never told anyone. Probably thought she’d be judged. I mean, yeah, it was the 1950s — women were practically burned at the stake for sneezing out of wedlock. I get it. Sort of. Still, honesty would’ve been cheaper than all this generational denial.

Maybe one day, one of Valerie’s kids will spit in a tube, upload their DNA, and stumble across me. Maybe they’ll be curious. Maybe they’ll click “connect.” Maybe we’ll have one awkward, meaningful email exchange about shared symptoms and shattered mugs.

Speaking of which — Albertine just broke my Bob Lazar mug. Snapped the handle clean off. We got that thing 20 years ago at a Richard D. Hall show. Back when I still thought conspiracy theories were fun, not autobiographical. That mug had survived four moves, three breakups, and countless microwaved teas. And now? One slippery hand and it’s history. Just like my connection to my real family.

Let’s be real: I probably won’t get to meet Auntie Val. Or her kids. Or get that WhatsApp message that says, “Hey, turns out we’re related, and wow, MS sucks.” I’m the embarrassment. The smudge on the family photo. The ghost in the family machine.

I am the that which is not spoken of. The pecadillo best left in the footnotes of someone else’s better story. The unwanted chapter. The child made of shame and secrets.

But I’m still here. Drinking tea from a cracked cup. Waiting. Maybe for an email. Maybe for a match. Or maybe just for someone, somewhere, to admit I existed.

           “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 ✨🧌

Welcome to the delightful circus that is multiple sclerosis, where the main act is your body betraying you in the most creative ways possible. Among the many charming surprises this condition throws your way, itching is like that one friend who crashes your party, drinks all your booze, and then refuses to leave. Let’s take a stroll through the hellscape of MS-related itching, shall we? The Itch That Just Won't Die

Picture this: you’re trying to enjoy a moment of peace, maybe contemplating why you just dropped your phone in the toilet. Suddenly, an itch strikes! But not just any itch—this is the kind that feels like a thousand tiny demons are having a rave on your skin. Welcome to the world of neuropathic itching, where scratching is as effective as using a spoon to dig a hole in concrete. Why Does This Happen?

Nerve Damage: Thanks to MS, your nerves are about as reliable as a politician’s promise. The myelin sheath is under siege, leading to all sorts of delightful sensations, including that relentless itch. It’s like your nerves are sending you a message: “Hey, remember when you thought you could have a normal life? LOL! Good luck with that!”

Unpredictable Fun: The itch can pop up anywhere—your back, your legs, even your scalp. It’s like a game of hide and seek, but you’re always “it,” and the prize is eternal discomfort. Who needs a spa day when you can have a full-body itch fest?

Triggers: Heat, stress, and certain medications can turn the itch dial up to eleven. So, if you thought a hot bath was a good idea, think again! It’s more like a ticket to the Itch Olympics, where the only prize is more itching.

How to Cope (or Not)

Scratching: Spoiler alert: it doesn’t help. It’s like trying to soothe a sunburn with a blowtorch. You’ll just end up with blood and scars to prove your suffering—because why not add a little flair to your misery?

Cold Compresses: These might provide temporary relief, but let’s be real—who wants to walk around with a bag of frozen peas on their skin? It’s not exactly a fashion statement.

Medications: If the itch becomes unbearable, consult your doctor. They might prescribe something to help, but don’t expect miracles. After all, this is MS we’re talking about. It’s like asking a magician to pull a rabbit out of a hat when all they have is a rock.

Alternative Remedies: Enter the world of CBD and THC oil—your potential new best friends. Medical marijuana has been known to help some folks manage their symptoms, including that relentless itch. Whether it’s through oils, edibles, or other forms, these alternatives might just provide a glimmer of relief in this dark comedy we call life. Just remember to consult with your healthcare provider before diving into the green goodness.

So, there you have it. Itching in MS is just another delightful layer of this hellish cake we call life. Embrace the chaos, and remember: laughter is the best medicine—unless you’re itching, in which case, it’s probably just more itching. Welcome to the club, where the only thing we have in common is our suffering and a dark sense of humor.

   “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 ✨🧌