Disability Real Talk

Right. Look—I’ve probably gone on about Serapis Bey before. Maybe once, maybe fifty times. I can’t remember. MS has turned my brain into wet cardboard. Thinking hurts. But this one? This one’s worth dragging through the static.

So buckle up, kids. Grandad’s got a story.

It was 2012. I was 53, bedridden, and my body felt like it had been dropped down the side of a motorway and left there to rot. MS had chewed through me like I owed it money. My spine was screaming. I’d pissed off death, and he was circling like a vulture with a stopwatch.

And then he showed up.

Serapis bloody Bey. Not the kind of name you expect to hear when you’re lying in bed in agony wondering if this is it. But there he was. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Not the ghost of some acid tab from ’79 finally cashing in. The real deal.

Tall, glowing, ancient. Like someone had lit a bonfire inside a Greek god. No words at first—just presence. Then the message came in clear:

“You need to shift. You’re going down fast. Change—or it’s over.”

Didn’t sugar-coat it. Didn’t pat my hand and call me brave. He said: Get your shit together. And I did.

That moment cracked me open like a ribcage at a demolition derby. Everything I thought I was burned off. What was left was raw. Real. And somehow stronger.

I’ve been a lot of things in this life. A biker. A bastard. A brother. A wreck. But that night made me me again, in a way nothing else ever has.

It’s been nearly 13 years now. I still sit here in this wheelchair, beard down to my chest, hair long as sin, and I still feel the fire of that night. Everything I believe, everything I write, everything I am—it comes from that cosmic kick in the arse Serapis Bey delivered.

So yeah, I’ve done my research. I know the “Ascended Master” label sounds like something you find in the bargain bin at a dodgy new age shop next to some incense and a badly-carved dragon. But forget the fluff.

This was real. It is real. And I don’t care if anyone believes it.

Truth doesn’t care about approval.

        “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 ✨🧌

Well, what a week it's been. I'm currently sat here talking to my speech-to-text app like some deranged oracle.

Battery life? Liar. Sporadic power at best. This so-called “smartphone” isn’t smart at all. I tell it to power down—it sends me to a bloody help page. In the end, I worked out a hack to switch it off. Because apparently, being disabled means needing a PhD to press a button.

My fingers are numb. Hands barely functional. Tactile feedback? Gone. Tiny buttons are useless ornaments to me. Touchscreens are a little better—still a pain, but I don't need to perform a séance just to answer a call.

I keep the phone in a Faraday bag overnight. No signals in, no signals out. Paranoid? No. Realistic. I don’t need Alexa learning how many antihistamines I pop daily.

Speaking of which—my allergies are off the fucking chart. Hay fever is now a cosmic entity. Took so many antihistamines, I’m practically embalmed. Side effects? Mild haunting. Random dissociation. Full-body brain fog. But hey, better than full-on freak-out.

MS loves to sprinkle in a panic attack for seasoning. The good kind—the ones that make you curl into a corner and question whether you’re even a person anymore. And if I forget my pills? Cue existential hell.

The electrical storms in my brain? Picture a lightning bolt shagging a power station. BANG. That’s what my neurons do for fun.

Today? Balance gone. No walking. Grabbed furniture, ended up grabbing air. Wheelchair day. Again. Will I never learn?

Overdid it. Spoons: gone. Days or weeks until I get them back. It’s raining. Of course it is. Put on some music to distract myself from my collapsing nervous system.

My throat’s spasming. Too much talking. Break.

Haha—just transferred this to my PC and the spellchecker is climaxing with all the red lines. Absolute filth. Press the magic button—bam, respectable writing.

Took some oil. Spasms eased. Neck still hurts. Tongue’s numb. Mouth’s a dead zone. Remember novocaine? It’s like that 24/7. Eating is a carnival of self-harm. Choking daily. Cheeks bitten.

And that feeling—bone-deep weirdness. Invisible sprites stabbing needles in a crown around my head. Madness, right?

If I posted this raw, people might think I’ve lost it. Maybe I have. Cognitive decline has me screaming at walls. Memory? What memory.

I stare at what I’ve written and it’s just a tangled mess of frustration, grief, and fuckery. But I still have something to give, even if the delivery system is fucked.

Maybe I’ll keep doing this. Write from my broken, unhinged, seen-too-much mind.

I want to talk about MS. I want to talk about other things too. Will that confuse people? Maybe. Do I care? Less and less.

I just hope someone out there—another broken soul with a half-working body and a mind full of static—reads this and feels seen.

Life is for living, no matter how fucked up you are.

All you need is love.

Love is divine.

The universe is love.

The One is love.

But that’s just me.

— End transmission.

        “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 ✨🧌