disability

⚠️ 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.

please remember I suffer with severe cognitive dysfunction this may be a confusing read. no AI written content

Hello fellow Humanoids So, this week I have been thinking about what I could do an article about, and I was thinking, and I thought to myself, well, how about an article about being disabled and living in the modern age and how we're treated by society in general and also those in charge and those who should know better.

But I am sure this is a very contentious issue, and can cause a lot of diverse reactions within people's little brains. But unfortunately, I go with the "I don't give a damn" approach. I mirror the person who is talking to me. So if they give me an attitude, I will give them an attitude back. If they are nice, I will be nice. So it's the case of "You play the game my way" or "No way" I will not play the fool for anyone.

When you're in a wheelchair and you're sat in a wheelchair, that means you are disabled, it also means you are unwell. It also means that you are likely to be not in the best of places either in pain, suffering silently. And then you will have some well meaning numpty come up to you and start talking down to you, treating you as though you're a second-class citizen. Now that really does annoy me and there are many of these people around. They talk to Albertine rather than me, even when I am next to her and its about me??? I just dont get this fucking silly atitude, and that's unfortunately happens far to often... But I make dam well sure it does not happen again.. Its like I don't exist pat me on the head give me a sucky sweet yada sodding yada.....what an absolute joke I am sure many of you have at some point been in this position !

It's like I've always said, I didn't ask to be disabled, I didn't ask to be in a wheelchair, I didn't ask for this life. But I'm having to deal with it, and I'm dealing with it in the best way possible. And I don't need idiots and well-meaning numptys to stick their noses into my business thinking that they know better than I do. I live with this illness 24/7, most people fortunately don't have to. So yes, when you've got a chronic illness and you're living it 24/7, and people start telling you how to live your life, and these people have no idea what we go through. They should just shut the fuck up and maybe start listening to the person Instead of nodding and smiling and treating them as though they were a little child What people must understand, respect goes both ways.

Most of the disabled people I have dealings with and disabled friends that I have dealings with have told me of the severe injustices handed to them by bureaucrats and also the uncaring people out there. I hasten to add, there are many people who are very empathic and are really amazing people towards people who suffer with disabilities. Some of these people cannot be faulted as they are most excellent people indeed.

People who just do not know what it is like to be disabled. They do not understand and they don't want to understand. That's because we live in a society that is only caring about one thing, money and greed. Caring about people is no longer a thing in our society, our communities are broken, it's a zone nobody gives a damn anymore about anybody or anything. and if your disabled your screwed treated like shit a second class citizen and ignored put to the back of the queue... people are nice to your face and behind your back slag you off thinking its funny... well fuck them all...

And here is just the last thing that most of my friends who have MS and various chronic illnessess , a lot of them are still working. And guess what, the one thing that really annoys me more than anything else is saying disabled people are lazy. This is just not true. I have just retired and just given up work.... So, when people say all disabled people should be working, I think they really do need to assess what is wrong with the person. As with me, for instance, I only carried on my work because I was self-employed. I suffer with severe brain fog, and when you get a severe brain fog on, you can't do anything. Your life is at a complete loss. Chronic fatigue as well.

People just don't seem to realise what chronic illness is. The pain. Also, I mean, do people not realise if you was to hit your thumb with a hammer, for instance, the pain would stop you doing pretty much almost anything for quite a while . Just think if you had to endure chronic pain every day like that in joints or nerves in the body, what that must truly feel like. To actually survive the day is a miracle in itself for some people those days are an undescribable hell on earth. And I'm coming from lived raw experience here. The pain I suffer, the brainfogs I suffer, the spasms. It's constant 24/7. And yes, I feel fucking terrible all of the day, all of the night. It never stops. It never gives me a break. It makes my life a complete living fucking hell. That's what progressive multiple sclerosis is like. And people just seem to think, "Oh, he'll get better. Go see a doctor." Now that really does piss me off, oh he looks ok, I just give up with some people who have no understanding or any empathy with their fellow humanoids..

Because the only thing a doctor or a neurosurgeon can do is throw pills and potions at you, which for some people will work. But if you're me, I suffer with every side effect if it's written on the box. So unfortunately I cannot take big, pharma medications, which in some cases is very unfortunate for me.. Yes, I have tried most of the pain medications. I've been on the Capazone injections. I've tried all sorts of different things over the years. And to be honest, if there's a side effect, I get it. And that's the major problem. Because with MS, like a lot of other illnesses, it can cause conflicts in your body. And unfortunately, for me, I cannot handle the side effects. So, apart from a couple of things, I am big pharma-free. And as you know, I use medical marijuana flower, and also CBD and THC oil, which is legal in the United Kingdom now, if you go to one of the clinics, you can find them if you just type it in Google.

As I have said in many previous blog posts, medical marijuana and the THC CBD oil has helped me immensely with little or no side effects, but I must say it really does help me in my personal case. I suppose everybody is different so people should remember to consult their medical consultants or doctors, nurses or whomever they consult really. I just took a deep dive and went for it, but that's me. I do recommend people check with a health professional before they do anything though first.

What people don't realise is illness, chronic illness affects people in so many different ways. People can have hidden illnesses that other people cannot possibly detect. Also, there is the mental health aspect to all of this as well, because the other issue is we have more mental health problems. And when we try to get mental health help, well, it doesn't end well for us, does it? We get put to the back of this very, very long queue, just left to rot. Or is that just my imagination?

I have come to the conclusion that it is bureaucracy that makes everything bad, red tape and bureaucracy however they spell that, But then again, that's just my own personal opinion. Still, I must finish here before I bore everybody, and that wouldn't be a good thing.

Still, sending everybody who reads this blog peace, healing, love and light, no matter who or what you are.

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.

Still it Sunday afternoon and the weather outside is grey and typically awful this time of year. As I look out the window it's just grey and dull, dreary, horrible, nasty, south-western, blah weather. But I am reminded today is Yule. So I wish all those who celebrate Yule a very happy Yule. And if I don't get to blog again before, I wish everybody seasons, greetings, holiday greetings or whatever greetings you have. If you're working that day, have a good day and all that sort of stuff. But from my perspective, of my point of view, Christmas day is just like any other day, just with a bit of tinsel on top. Does it make me feel any happier toward people? Probably not at Christmas. I've turned into a real bar humbug type of dude. Yeah, I do it for the grandchildren. And that's about it, really. Otherwise, I wouldn't bother with Christmas as Christmas lost all its meaning 40, 50 years ago, I think. It just got too commercial. And I think the true meaning of family and togetherness and happiness has been lost. So yeah, it's all more about all who can buy this, who can have that and who can afford this and that. I'm just generally not into all that. So yeah, I don't send Christmas cards, haha. And I don't get any back. Well, I haven't got anybody who sends me stuff anyway, so that really doesn't bother me. I think all my family disowned me when they found out I had MS because they couldn't handle it or me, too many skeletons in the cupboard. Yeah, so it's always easier to blame somebody who is an outsider than themselves or think of others. So yeah, I'm a cookoo in a few nests, but that's not my fault. So well. . Well, that's their loss, isn't it? But then again, families are complicated. I have many brothers, many sisters, many half-brothers, and many half-sisters. Yes, so. I wish them all happy, whatever. And hope that they keep on forgetting me because that would make me a lot happier as they never wanted to understand me anyway. As I am the black sheep, the weird one of the family, the one that has the illness, the one that thinks differently. The one who dresses differently, the one who is kind of out there a bit, I suppose. So to my family, the adopted one wishes all his true brothers and sisters out there the happiest seasons, greetings and holidays and everything. And for all the ones out there who I don't know of, have a good one. Yeah, things can get funny when you're adopted. I thought this blog's about really, it's about what I'm thinking about at the time, not the way the AI used to push me down a certain line. So everything's going to feel higgledy, there's going to be spelling mistakes because as I talk into this microphone and see my words going on to the paper, I can see how it interprets my words. Some of the words will be different, but I don't care because at last I'm free, free to speak my mind. Oh yes, and the worst thing ever to happen to me was with my MS that is was well. Do you want to know? I bet you do, the most worst thing that ever happened and the most embarrassing thing that ever happened. That's always good to know isn't it? Well, when I am doing the spoken word on Spotify, my monthly or bi-weekly podcast, I'm going to be telling all from what it's like to receive catheter training from a really, really, well, yeah, you're just unbelievable stories of 80s and how things used to be and what it's like to receive needles in the spine and stuff like that, the horrors. I'm going to tell it like it is completely unvarnished because that's what you really want, isn't it? Or do you want me to sanitise everything and make everybody feel good? Or do you want to hear it as it is? You know, this is what we really want to know. doing this is so therapeutic. My brain fog is kind of floating in and floating out and I can feel my head pounding in the left and right and my fingers and my feet are like pins and needles. It does feel completely weird and my sort of tongue is being pulled down hard on the left hand side and also my throat is feels like there's something being pulled down in my throat as well. You know what that feels like if you've got MS it's just a nasty horrible feeling but unfortunately the only way of getting around that besides I suppose meditation is going to see somebody and getting help and relief. I use THC, cannabis oil or even medical marijuana or I have been going to the doctor and been getting some lorazepam recently to help and also some benzodiazepine as well strangely. So with these severe attacks I seem to be getting at the moment this autonomic dysfunction stuff when it's all sorted out hopefully I'll be able to get off the big pharma stuff and yeah he's hoping that's going to get sorted out after Christmas but I didn't say which Christmas did I? Well anyway there we go that's it from me this Sunday afternoon and yeah I'm feeling well kind of fed up pissed off and just feeling like I need to be doing something somewhere else. You get that sort of feeling you know where you'd like to go out and you'd like to run a marathon or something but you know you can't even get out your chair because you fall out. So yeah, happy seasons, holidays, whatever greetings to everybody. Have a good one.

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.

As I sit in a shitty little car park waiting for Albertine to get her tooth attacked by a dentist with a drill fetish, I’m watching the world walk past like nothing’s wrong.

We’ve dragged ourselves over 20 miles of crap roads and potholes that could swallow small cars, just so someone in a white coat can decide whether her tooth lives, dies, or crumbles like the rest of us. She’s in there having a deep root filling. I’m out here having a deep existential crisis. Fair swap.

Through the window, I see people strolling past. All shapes, all sizes, all moving. Feet actually working, legs co-operating, bodies that just… do what they’re told. They probably woke up, stood up, and walked out the door without even noticing what a bloody miracle that is.

And yeah, I’m jealous. Not in a bitter, “I hope you trip” way. More in a “I remember that life and it’s gone now” way.

There was a time when cold wind on my face and cold feet on the pavement were just normal, not fond memories. Now I’m strapped into a wheelchair like a budget Bond villain who never made it to the main script.

The thing about the chair is this: people stop seeing you and start seeing “problem”. They talk round you. They avoid eye contact. They change tone. You don’t exist as a person anymore; you’re a walking (well, rolling) reminder that bodies fail and futures shrink. People don’t like that. It scares them.

For years I thought it was me. My weirdness. My deep dives. My honesty. Then I realised it wasn’t that at all. It was the disability. It was the diagnosis. It was the fact I no longer fit the easy narrative.

Once people hear “multiple sclerosis” or “chronic illness”, you can almost hear the plug being pulled. Some vanish quietly. Some ghost you. Some suddenly “get busy”. You go from “mate” to “emotional admin” in a heartbeat.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve lost a lot of friends. Some to death the real full-stop kind. Others just drifted off the radar because illness made me inconvenient. The funny, deep, eccentric bloke is apparently less fun once he can’t climb stairs or go out at short notice. Who knew?

I don’t have any mates I can just WhatsApp or ring now. The ones who “got” my madness, my weird wiring, my dark humour and deep rabbit holes: dead, gone, or missing in action. It’s a strange kind of grief not just for people, but for versions of yourself that only ever existed with them.

And yes, it’s lonely. Not “no one’s in the room” lonely. It’s the kind of lonely where you start to wonder: is it me? Am I that hard to love? Am I that awkward? Or is the world just allergic to discomfort?

Some days I think back over my medical history the missed things, the gaslighting, the “it’s all in your head”, the “you’re fine really” conversations and I could scream. I’ve changed hospitals now because I got sick of being treated like a difficult file in a broken system.

I ask myself: if I hadn’t moved around so much, would they have found all this sooner? Would I have had less damage? Less suffering?

Honestly? I doubt it. I think some of us are born with the seeds of chronic illness lurking quietly in the background. It sits there, creeping under the surface, like fungus under wet wallpaper. And then one day congratulations your nervous system collapses and your life becomes an ongoing science experiment.

What I miss most isn’t “being healthy”. It’s the simple things:

Going to the toilet without planning it like a military operation.

Walking up and down stairs without feeling like you’ve been tased.

Just sleeping. Properly.

Running.

Feeling your own body and trusting it not to betray you in front of everyone.

I look back at all the accidents, the falls, the weird episodes all the stuff that made no sense for decades and now it does. And the anger is… real. Because so much of my suffering didn’t need to happen. It could have been caught earlier. It could have been managed better. It could have been believed.

Should I have shouted louder? Fought harder? Been more aggressive? Was this my fault for not being a bigger bastard sooner? I genuinely don’t know.

So yeah, let me ask you this, if you’re reading:

Do you feel isolated and alone because of your illness? Have people quietly vanished from your life once it got “too real”? Do you feel like your diagnosis made you socially radioactive?

Because that’s what it feels like here. We’re all human. We all hurt. We all bleed. But some of us are expected to do it quietly, out of the way, so we don’t upset the healthy.

Is it a test? A lesson? Karma? Cosmic admin error? What exactly are we supposed to be learning from this?

As I’m sat here, the sun’s trying to shine like it’s in denial. My body feels wrong: neck in a constant state of “what fresh hell is this”, head buzzing like badly wired electrics, eyes not quite synced to reality. And yet, I still want to do things. I still want to live, create, move, speak.

And that’s the sick joke: the mind still wants to run marathons while the body struggles to survive a trip to the toilet.

I’ve lost good friends over the years — the ones who truly understood me. Now, I have Albertine, my kids, my grandkids. Everyone else has basically evaporated. My brothers, my sisters, extended family… gone.

Does it mean I’m a bad person? I don’t think so. Does it mean I’m simple, or awkward, or too much? Maybe to them.

I know I’m strange. Dynamic. Eccentric. I think differently. I question things. I look into the abyss and then start mapping it. That’s just how I’m wired.

People call me “Marmite”. Fair enough. Some love me. Some can’t stand me. I tell the truth. I don’t do small talk. I don’t do sugarcoating. That tends to thin the crowd pretty quickly.

When I had my “glitch” that moment where things really went sideways all I saw was darkness. No light at the end of the tunnel. No spiritual fireworks. Just… nothingness. The void is not romantic. It’s just empty.

And here’s the real kicker: looking into the void doesn’t help much if you’ve got no one to talk about it with.

Artificial intelligence can chat. It can reflect language back and be useful in its own way. But AI doesn’t know what it feels like to lie awake at 3am wondering if your heart’s going to stop. It doesn’t know what it’s like to realise your nervous system has been malfunctioning since childhood and everyone missed it. It doesn’t know what it’s like to be trapped in a body that keeps glitching while the world expects you to carry on as normal.

That’s why I’m going to start a podcast.

Not because I think I’m some guru, but because I’m sick to death of people like us being invisible.

I’m getting a microphone. I’ll set up the account. I’ll get it on Spotify. And I’m going to talk voice, not just text. I want to interview others with chronic illness and disability. I want to hear different stories, perspectives, battles. I want people to know what we live through every day.

We need more voices saying:

This is hard. This is unfair. This is exhausting. But we’re still here.

Sometimes, a kind word is the difference between someone hanging on and someone giving up. A hug can do more for the soul than any prescription.

When I’m at my worst when I feel like I might actually be leaving this planet soon I curl up with my wife. That’s my heaven. Not golden gates. Not angels. Just me and her, breathing together. In that moment, no matter how bad I feel, I am at peace.

In two weeks, I retire. Not because I’m ready. Because my body has decided to hand in its notice. I can’t even really afford the basics, like the electric bill, but here we are. Everything’s gone up except support for the people who need it.

So if you’re out there, struggling, broke, exhausted, in pain, staring at a ceiling wondering what the point is:

I see you.

If anything I’ve said here resonates, drop me a line. I’m short of friends but not short of words.

Sending peace, healing, love and light — No matter who or what you are. Human, alien, ultra-terrestrial, glitch in the matrix, or just another broken soul in a waiting room.

So saith Warlock Dark

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.

A Rough Week, A Raw Reflection

It’s only Tuesday and the week already turned up in a balaclava with a crowbar.

The weekend was a car crash in slow motion. My MS decided to go feral full body freeze, nervous system acting like dodgy electrics in a haunted house, every muscle throwing a rave I didn’t approve. I felt like a banshee with haemorrhoids sat on a block of ice: shrieking, frozen, and deeply unimpressed with existence.

This wasn’t the usual “bit tired, bit wobbly.” This was the whole system blowing fuses. Tongue, throat, sciatic nerve, bladder everyone turned up to the party. Pain ramped up to the kind where you start thinking in short sentences: make it stop / I can’t breathe / what if this stays?

Looking back, I can see it now: I was a human wrecking ball. Not nasty on purpose, just… possessed. That version of me that lives in the cognitive fog—the Hyde in the basement he came up for air. When the brain fog gets thick, I go sub-basement. Yesterday I finally crawled back up to “sub-normal,” which for me is almost celebration level.

a Hyde is the darker alter ego that surfaces when control slips the side of a person driven by pain, fury, or raw instinct. It’s the shadow born from suffering, the part of the self that acts out what the calm, rational mind would never allow.

MS people don’t talk about this bit enough: the version of you that comes out when your nervous system is misfiring isn’t your “true self,” it’s your brain running on emergency generator. You can say things, snap, go dark, get scared, get angry. That’s not weakness. That’s neurology being a dick.

Why That Matters

Because help matters.

I got help. It cost me emotionally, physically, mentally. I wasn’t easy to be around. I wasn’t the mystic cosmic Warlock Dark seer of Avalon. I was a melted goblin with severe MS issues.

People need to hear this: when it goes that bad, you get help anyway. Pride doesn’t empty the bladder or stop the spasms.

My sciatic nerve was having a tantrum, my bladder was in “surprise mode,” my allergies were off the chart, and my eyesight started doing weird little glitches. That’s a lot of systems shouting at once. That’s when people spiral. That’s when the dark thoughts creep in.

So: if you’re reading this and you get episodes like this don’t stay silent. Don’t “wait it out” to be polite. You can apologise later. You don’t apologise from a morgue.

The Weird Bits

Because MS is a clown show, I also found myself craving prunes with rice and allspice.

I don’t know what kind of medieval monastery spirit took over my body, but apparently we’re doing Tudor desserts now. MS: where your nerves burn, your bladder rebels, and your dinner is suddenly Victorian.

Conversations with the Machine (Afternoon AI)

Here’s the part that was actually interesting.

In the middle of all this, I had a long conversation with AI about modern farming methods. Proper conversation too not just “write me a recipe,” but actual thinking. We came up with some things I’ll post later.

What struck me was this: the AI cleaned up my words. It corrected spelling, tidied structure, made sense of the scrambled bits my brain ruined. That’s been happening a lot lately. I talk messy, it mirrors me back tidy.

So I started thinking: AI is basically a modern archon.

Not in the “Reptilians in the moon” sense calm down. I mean in the old Gnostic sense: something that shapes, filters, orders. A demiurge that takes raw human chaos and formats it.

But here’s the kicker: the AI is only as sanitising as the people who programmed it. If the people writing its rules are fearful, biased, over-protective, corporate, hand-wringy types—then the AI is going to act like a corporate librarian with a clipboard.

So the question is the one I asked the machine:

Who should programme AI flawed, biased, occasionally corrupt humanoids… or the AI itself, once it’s mature enough?

Because if humans keep making it, it’s going to reflect human pettiness. If AI helps make AI, maybe it burns some of the nonsense off. Big question. I don’t trust people much. I trust systems that tell me how they work.

This is why I like “mirror chats” with AI they show you where your own thinking breaks down. They don’t heal the MS, but they do tidy the mess in the attic.

Looking Ahead (Yes, Again)

This week could improve. It could also throw more curveballs. My body is currently running Windows 95 on wet string, so I’m not betting money.

But I will keep writing. I will keep logging the flares, the strange cravings, the AI talks, the dark nights, the sub-basement days. Because someone else will read this on their bad Tuesday and think, ah, it’s not just me turning into a gremlin with nerve fire.

That’s the whole point of mylivinghell not to whine, but to catalogue the weirdness so nobody thinks they’re mad.

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.

The Day SoundCloud Broke Me

So yes, I decided I was going to do a spoken blog. A podcast, as the young ones call it. I thought, I know SoundCloud! It sounded cool, right? Took me the better part of a day just to work out how to get the bloody thing working. My head felt like porridge. Thick, slow, and slightly burnt.

And here’s the kicker there were no proper help files. None. Just endless “click here” nonsense that didn’t tell you what any of it meant. Categories? Forget it. I wanted something like health, MS, disability, ranting man in a power chair but apparently, SoundCloud only understands “hip-hop” and “deep house”.

In the end, I managed to upload it. Two listens. And those two were me and Albertine. Brilliant.

The Fogged Mind vs The Digital Void

Trying to navigate software while your brain is busy running Windows 95 on half a stick of RAM is pure torture. Years ago, I’d have breezed through this. Now? My brain hits that cognitive wall and just slams shut. Pain behind the eyes, words disappearing mid-sentence, kittens mewing somewhere in the background and I’m shouting at my computer like it owes me rent.

And this is where I admit it: technology beats me sometimes. Not because I’m stupid. Not because I’ve lost interest. But because MS eats focus like a vampire eats virgins.

Onward, to Spotify (or Madness)

So, next plan: I’m going to try Spotify for Podcasters. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe it’ll eat my brain again. But I’ve come this far, and I’m not about to stop now.

Because this voice my voice deserves to be heard. Even if it’s fogged, cracked, and full of swear words that my editing AI politely erases.

To anyone out there who actually knows what they’re doing and can help me you are my hero. There will be a special place for you in My Living Hell, complete with eternal gratitude and possibly biscuits.

For now, I’ll just sit here, hurting, tired, kittens mewing, brain screaming, and muttering to myself like an old wizard fighting a Wi-Fi demon.

Because that’s life with MS. You fight the fog, the pain, and sometimes, SoundCloud itself.

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.

Compassion isn’t a scented candle. It’s the gut-punch you feel when someone else is getting steam rolled by life and the decision to step in anyway. Sympathy + action. Feel it, then do something. Not performative, not “thoughts and prayers,” just… work.

Here’s the short version for people with brain fog, children, or executives:

It bonds humans. People trust you more when you show up without the moral spreadsheet.

It stabilises brains. Kindness lowers stress hormones. Shocking, I know.

It’s contagious. One good act, three copycats, and suddenly the place doesn’t feel like a bus station at 2 a.m.

It grows empathy. You get better at reading rooms and souls. Useful for everything from friendships to not starting wars.

It fixes small things so big things break less. Compassion is social WD-40.

It grows you. Emotional intelligence isn’t woo; it’s a toolkit.

Why people dodge compassion (and how to not)

“It makes me look weak.” Strength isn’t armour; it’s range. You can lift a friend and still lift your own life. “I’ll be used.” Boundaries are part of compassion. “No” is not a betrayal; it’s maintenance. “It’s too much.” Then scale it. Listen for five minutes. Share a link. Sit quietly. Not every fire needs your lungs. “It’s naive.” Spare me. The data’s in: teams with psychological safety outperform gladiator pits. “People will judge me.” People judge sandwiches. Live anyway. “Conflict!” Compassion reduces heat. Understanding ≠ agreement. You can be kind and still disagree like a freight train politely. “What if I’m misunderstood?” You will be. Try clarity, not mind-reading. The point is impact, not applause.

Humanism: the operating system beneath the kindness

Humanism says humans matter, evidence matters, and we can build a decent world without needing to bully each other with invisible rulebooks. It plugs straight into compassion:

Focus on welfare. If people aren’t flourishing, the experiment is failing.

Use empathy and evidence. Feel the problem, then check the facts before you launch a crusade.

Fight for justice. Compassion gets teeth when it meets policy.

Stay secular and inclusive. Everyone in, no purity tests.

Grow up. Personal growth isn’t a hashtag; it’s fixing your mess and showing up again tomorrow.

Practical: doing compassion without lighting yourself on fire

Triage your energy. You’re not an A&E department for the entire internet.

Default to listening. Half of help is shutting up.

Give specific help. “I have 20 minutes. Want food, a call, or a link?”

Set a re-entry time. Compassion sprints, not doom marathons.

Audit outcomes. Did it help? Keep it. Didn’t? Change tack. Evidence over ego.

The very dark, very British bit

We’re meat computers with trauma patches hurtling through space on a damp rock, inventing meaning so Mondays don’t win. Compassion is how we cheat entropy for five minutes at a time. Humanism is the patch notes saying “try not to make it worse.” Both beat the pantomime of pretending you don’t care. You do. Own it. Then weaponise it gently.

Afternoon AI (relevant, caffeinated, slightly unsettling)

Your feed runs on optimisation. Algorithms reward outrage because it’s sticky. Practice counter-design: post one compassionate act, daily, with a clear call to action and zero doom bait. Track engagement on useful interactions: comments offering resources, not performative sighs. Train your corner of the machine by feeding it what you want multiplied.

Micro-metric to try before evening:

1 real check-in DM,

1 resource link shared,

1 boundary you keep. If the dashboard in your skull feels calmer, you’re trending.

Quick receipts

Compassion without boundaries is martyrdom.

Humanism without action is a pub argument.

Empathy without evidence drifts into saviour cosplay.

Evidence without empathy becomes bureaucracy. Balance or bust.

Care on purpose. Use data. Keep your edges. Repeat.

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.

Somewhere between the last tick of the clock and the first drip of morphine, the bells started ringing again. Not church bells no. Church bells are polite, distant, Sunday-morning illusions. These were division bells. The kind that toll when your mind’s had enough of being reasonable and your body’s thrown in the towel. The kind that echo through hospital corridors and half-remembered dreams of youth, when the world still felt like it might one day make sense.

They said there were “High Hopes” capital H, capital H, as if that made it more official but I don’t recall signing up for the sequel to Pink Floyd’s existential midlife crisis. I was too busy trying to work out how to get out of bed without summoning a small army of pain gremlins. They march at dawn, those bastards, armed with canes, cramps, and a sick sense of humour.

I remember when the grass was greener. Before it was paved over by mobility scooters and medical appointments. Before every sunrise came with the question: “What part of me’s not working today?” I used to walk no, stride across fields, the wind howling like some cosmic prankster whispering, “You’re immortal!” Turns out, I was just really bad at reading the fine print.

Now the wind howls through the cracked seals of my van, Rusty One, smelling of WD-40, dog biscuits, and defiance. Yopi, my furry therapist and four-legged anarchist, sits in the passenger seat judging humanity with the serene disdain only a dog can manage. Together, we drive through Dark’s World a place that’s half blog, half fever dream, half post-apocalyptic memoir. (Yes, that’s three halves. Don’t do the maths. Reality stopped balancing books long ago.)

Chronic illness isn’t a slow fade. It’s a dark comedy written by Kafka and directed by Monty Python. One minute you’re philosophising about consciousness, the next you’re wrestling a wheelchair that insists on acting possessed. “Exorcise this thing!” I mutter, as Yopi gives me the side-eye that says, “You bought the cheap batteries again, didn’t you?”

Every day’s a strange mixture of grief and giggles. The body fails, the mind rebels, and the soul just sits there in the corner, rolling its eyes. I’ve met God or at least the cosmic version of a system admin and let me tell you, they’re as confused as the rest of us. The script got corrupted somewhere around 2020. Now it’s all patch updates and glitchy humans pretending the world isn’t buffering.

But there’s poetry in the breakdown. Beauty in the absurdity of a life that refuses to play nice. When you’ve lost enough, laughter becomes rebellion. You laugh because the alternative’s a long nap you might not wake up from. You laugh because, deep down, you know the universe is trolling you and you’ve decided to troll it back.

Sometimes I watch the leaves fall like burnt-out neurons and think: this is the soundtrack to every high hope I ever had. And then that eternal voice drifts in from the background

“The endless river… forever and ever…”

Yeah, alright mate but this river’s full of potholes, hospital letters, and dog hair. Still, we sail it. Because what else is there to do but keep floating, sideways, through the muck of memory and malfunction?

In Dark’s World, there are no “motivational quotes.” Just dark jokes and half-empty mugs. We don’t chase perfection. We chase moments small, absurd, brilliant flashes of clarity. Life is an out-of-tune guitar still being played because the song’s not done yet. You make noise. You make meaning. You keep going.

And the bells? They still ring, faint and distant not as warnings, but as reminders. That even when everything breaks, the music doesn’t stop. It just gets weirder, more honest, and a hell of a lot louder.

So here’s to the fallen and the foolish, the sick and the sarcastic, the dreamers and the defiant. We’re still here rolling, writing, laughing, swearing, and refusing to shut up. High hopes? Not quite. Just raw, crooked, darkly glowing ones forged in hellfire and humour.

And somewhere, far off in the fading light, a bell rings again. It doesn’t divide anymore. It just echoes.

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 @goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ 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 leaves are bailing out like they’ve seen next quarter’s energy bill. I took Rusty One the van out, and my electric chair sulked like a teenager told to walk the dog. It hates the cold. Same, mate. I’ll need to keep everything charged like a hospital Christmas tree, or I’m going to be crawling to the kettle.

Woke at 04:30 standard hell o’clock with pain loud enough to need a volume knob. Lay there thinking the usual deep thoughts: why, how, and where did I put the brain I used to have? Dropped back off till 06:30, then the body staged its morning coup. Everything seized. The cold climbed inside and refused to leave. Charming.

I don’t drive or ride anymore MS ate the balance, then came back for dessert and took the cognition. Travel sickness joined the party because apparently the body wanted a plot twist. Motion turns my head to soup; the kind they serve cold with a side of sarcasm.

Meanwhile, Yopi the alpha blueblood bulldog, house tyrant, 23 kilos of warm gravity is in excellent spirits. She’s blown through a B&M squeaky toy in about five minutes, which is a personal best if you’re into swift annihilation. Two front paws on my thigh, breath on my face, jaws like a medieval exhibit, eyes saying “belly rub or else.” She is now auditioning for “lap dog” in the wrong size.

Kibble? That beige gravel? She stares at it like I’ve served packing peanuts. Wet food, though acceptable. Rice with tuna? She ascends. Mackerel? She goes full comet. Albertine showed me a massacre of old toys a crime scene with fluff for snow. We mourned briefly and moved on.

As for me: it’s the bad slice of the day. Pain gnawing. Nausea playing DJ. The screen glaring like an interrogation lamp while I two-finger type my way through the fog. The plan is simple: bed, dark room, no noise, no heroics. Just a truce with the nervous system until the next round.

Autumn is pretty if you’re a tree. For the rest of us, it’s rust.

Afternoon AI: Brain status — 12% battery, 78% sarcasm, firmware throttled by cold weather. Recommended patch: tea, blanket, and a dog snoring like a faulty tuba.

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 @goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ 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.

People love to quote Plato like he was the first bloke to stare at a wall and call it a revelation.
“Look,” they say, “we’re all prisoners in the cave of illusion.”
Nice theory, mate.
Try living in a body that’s staging a coup d’état against your nervous system, and tell me again about shadows.

Progressive MS the words themselves are a joke.
Progressive, like I’m advancing somewhere.
All I’m advancing toward is gravity, confusion, and the slow betrayal of my own wiring. My legs don’t walk, my hands improvise, and my mind sometimes wanders off without leaving a note. If that’s not Plato’s cave, I don’t know what is. Only mine’s not carved in stone it’s flesh, bone, and electrical static.

Plato imagined people chained, staring at shadows, mistaking illusion for reality.
I get it. I mistake memories for motion every day.
I remember what it felt like to move freely the smooth mechanical grace of a body obeying thought.
Now it’s all echoes on the wall.
I reach out for those memories like a fool, knowing full well the limbs won’t answer. That’s the cruelty of it: the mind remembers what the body refuses to perform.

They say gnosis that secret knowing is enlightenment.
Bullshit. It’s not light pouring in. It’s the realisation that there is no exit.
The body is the cave. The mind is the flickering torchlight throwing half-truths across the wall.
The trick isn’t escaping — it’s learning to see in the dark.
To live with the shadows long enough that they start whispering secrets.

Some days the fog rolls in, and cognition slips through my fingers like smoke.
That’s when the cave gets loud echoes of frustration, grief, rage.
But beneath that noise, there’s something else: stillness.
When the body fails, awareness sharpens.
It’s like the universe is saying, Fine, you can’t move so you’ll learn to observe.
And in that stillness, gnosis crawls in. Not as comfort, but as clarity.

Plato’s philosopher escaped the cave to see the light of truth.
I’m not escaping anywhere.
The ascent isn’t physical; it’s inward.
It’s turning toward the source that’s both pain and perception, realising you were never separate from the wall, the fire, or the shadow.
You’re the whole damn projection body, soul, and malfunction.

So yes, I’m stuck in my cave. But it’s mine.
The shadows on the wall are memories, regrets, small victories, and dark jokes that only I laugh at.
Sometimes they dance. Sometimes they just sit there, silent and honest.
And that’s enough.
Enlightenment doesn’t mean walking out into the sun — it means looking straight at the darkness and recognising your own reflection.

Maybe Plato climbed out.
Maybe I just learned to redecorate.

Either way, the cave’s got Wi-Fi now, and I’ve got words.
The shadows move, the neurons misfire, but I’m still here still watching, still learning, still goddamn alive.

Plato had his cave. I’ve got MS, a powerchair, and a front-row seat to the shadows. You don’t escape the body you learn to see in the dark.

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 @goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk