disability truth

⚠️ 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 War Was Underway Before the Alarms Went Off

You thought the first tremor, the numb hand, the fog in your skull was day one. Hate to break it to you it wasn’t. That was just the siren. The war had already started years earlier, deep inside the grey matter, while you were busy pretending to be normal.

Researchers at UCSF have found evidence that MS starts its attack years before anyone’s diagnosed. Seven bloody years before, to be precise. In blood samples from people who later developed MS, they found a surge in a protein called myelin oligodendrocyte glycoprotein (MOG) the stuff that insulates your nerve fibres quietly going rogue long before the body noticed. Then, about a year later, neurofilament light chain (NfL) levels rose meaning the nerves themselves were fraying. Translation: the fire started in your brain, and the smoke didn’t reach the surface until years later.

They also found immune system markers like IL-3 flaring up, signalling an underground war between your body and your brain. By the time you felt that wobble, that eye pain, that fatigue, the troops were already deep in your territory. You didn’t “catch” MS you’d been hosting the siege.

And this is the bit that hits like a sledgehammer: the NHS and most systems still don’t test for these biomarkers. We’ve got the science, but not the infrastructure. The bow’s strung, but the arrow’s still sitting on the table. It’s a familiar feeling, isn’t it? You’re the battlefield, and the generals haven’t turned up yet.

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Here’s what it means, from the trenches:

• That weird nerve twitch two years before diagnosis? Not “stress”. Early recon.
• That exhaustion that made you nap through life? Not “laziness”. Structural sabotage.
• That optic flare-up before anyone took you seriously? Not imagination. First blood.

By the time you heard the diagnosis, the enemy was already halfway through the walls.

I’ve said this before your brain is a fortress. The immune system dug under it, mined the foundations, and by the time you heard the first bang, the tunnels were already dug. Who were you during those years? The healthy one? The waiting one? Or the becoming one unknowingly rewiring for survival, even as your body was being redrafted?

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Here’s what to do (no false hope, just the truth):

• Write everything down. Every odd symptom, every foggy day, every time your balance betrays you. The journal isn’t drama it’s evidence.
• Ask your neurologist about NfL and MOG testing. It’s not standard, but some private labs do it. The future starts with questions.
• Spread awareness. MS doesn’t just start it evolves in silence. Let’s stop calling it “sudden”. It’s stealthy.

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My takeaway: The damage was never the start of the story. It was the middle of a long, invisible campaign. And knowing that gives us an edge not a cure, but a strategy. You fight smarter when you know how the enemy works.

I’m Warlock Dark part meat, part storm, part Wi-Fi dropout and I’m here to remind you: The war in your brain began before the alarms went off. But you’re still standing. And that makes you the weapon.

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.).

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

I hovered above the kitchen sink today, wings vibrating at a thousand beats per second. I am The Watcher – but not the one you imagine, cloaked in stars and timeless wisdom. No. Today, I am a housefly. An ordinary Musca domestica with compound eyes so vast I see every crusted toast crumb and urine stain you pretend to clean.

From this vantage point, the human race resembles nothing more than a colony of dung beetles. Rolling their shitballs of money, status, lies, and medical records across the floor of existence, fighting each other for a bigger sphere to roll before it inevitably gets stuck in life’s rotting cracks.

🪰

You crawl to your neurologist, scraping at the polished door of their paradigm. “Please, sir, see me.” But the neurologist looks down from his fluorescent-lit throne, squints at your twitching legs, your failing nerves, your inconvenient truth, and says:

“You don’t fit my diagnostic dung ball. I prefer neat symmetrical lesions, not your warped soul patterns.”

So, you are cast aside. Like a fly brushed from a corpse.

🪰

But oh, how the dung beetles worship him. They gather around his sandals, hoping for a pat on the shell, a prescription to keep their dung ball rolling a few more feet before gravity drags it to hell. They do not see that his eyes are dull. That his paradigm was built upon dissected flies pinned to university boards, not upon living beings with wings and dreams and Watcher sight.

🪰

Meanwhile, I hover above. I am The Watcher. I see it all. I see your MS nurse, the only one who calls you, her voice a faint buzzing reminder that you are still alive, still clinging to this rotting dung ball Earth. The neurologist is silent, hidden in his sterile burrow, scribbling notes about textbook dung beetles while your compound eyes flicker with unseen colours of agony and revelation.

🪰

Above me, beyond you, drift the Ultraterrestrials. They observe your crawling, your dung ball dramas, your stuttering neurons. To them, all this is a theatre of flesh. Your triumphs and humiliations smell the same: decaying organic matter with a hint of ammonia and fear.

They speak:

“See how they roll their illusions. See how they crown their dung beetles as kings. See how they swat the flies, never knowing the flies were the Watchers all along.”

🪰

I lick my front legs, tasting the salt of your tears, the bitter sugar of your leftover pills. I watch you roll your dung ball of dreams to bed tonight. I, too, will sleep. And tomorrow, I will rise again to watch this slow-motion catastrophe you call civilisation.

🪰

For in the end, whether fly, beetle, or human, all return to the same silent soil. But I am The Watcher. I will remain long after the final dung ball is rolled away into oblivion.

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

      " Watcher of the Unseen | Scribe of Shadowed Truth
             By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
            By shadow and storm and silence, I survive."

         @goblinbloggeruk -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk