folklore

⚠️ This blog shares my personal, sometimes painful experiences with MS and mental health. My intention is to speak honestly and offer solidarity—not to harm or replace professional advice. I’m not a doctor or therapist, just someone who gets how hard it can get. If you’re struggling, you’re not alone. Please reach out to a trusted friend, support group, or professional. You deserve help and hope.⚠️

please remember I suffer with severe cognitive dysfunction, and use AI to help solve this issue so you can understand it lol

What Is My Living Hell

People often think this blog is about Multiple Sclerosis.

It isn't.

MS is simply the landscape.

This blog is about what happens when the landscape beneath your feet begins to move.

It's about discovering that your body and your mind aren't always in agreement.

It's about asking questions that neurologists don't pretend to answer.

Who am I when my legs refuse to walk?

Who is thinking the thoughts that my damaged brain struggles to express?

Is consciousness nothing more than electrical impulses, or is there something deeper quietly watching the chaos unfold?

I don't claim to have the answers.

Some days I lean towards neuroscience.

Other days I wander into Gnosticism, Wicca, Jung, quantum speculation, psychedelics, folklore, or the strange stories whispered around campfires.

Not because I think they replace medicine.

They don't.

MS deserves evidence-based treatment, and I would never suggest otherwise.

But while medicine explains what is happening to my nervous system, philosophy and spirituality help me ask what it means to live through it.

Somewhere between MRI scanners and ancient myths...

...between mobility scooters and mushroom circles...

...between neurologists and trickster spirits...

...I keep searching.

Perhaps that's what this blog has always been.

Not a search for a cure.

A search for understanding.

If you're willing to walk that path with me—however slowly—welcome.

Pull up a chair.

The kettle's on.

The universe is about to get weird.

Wishing all the readers of this blog, peace healing love and light.

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.) This Is Not A Blog About MS This Is My Life With MS

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

Every October, people dress as demons, zombies, and weird creatures and call it Halloween. But before it was an excuse for adults to act like toddlers in latex, it was Samhain a Celtic festival marking the end of harvest and the beginning of winter.

Back then, the Celts didn’t have pumpkin-spiced anything. They had bonfires, druids, and a firm belief that on October 31, the veil between the living and the dead went paper-thin. Spirits wandered freely, and the only logical response was to wear animal skins, set things on fire, and pretend you weren’t terrified.

Then along came the Romans. Because of course they did. They rolled in, saw the bonfires, and thought, “That looks fun, let’s add fruit.” Enter Pomona, goddess of trees and apples — hence the modern horror of “apple bobbing.” Nothing says ancient pagan reverence quite like dunking your face in tepid fruit water.

Later, the Christians arrived and decided to rename the party. They called it All Hallows’ Eve the night before All Saints’ Day. Basically, they rebranded a spirit rave into a saintly sleepover. The costumes stayed, but the theology got a facelift.

The Veil and the Dead (Or: Where the Weird Stuff Starts Crawling In)

Samhain was never about candy; it was about respect and fear. They believed the dead could cross over, fairies might steal your baby, and rowan berries could stop all that nonsense. People left food for ghosts, milk for wandering souls, and the occasional loaf for whatever thing was breathing behind the barn.

The thin veil still fascinates people. Every year, the New Age crowd wheel out the crystals, the witches open Etsy shops, and somewhere a bloke with a bad Wi-Fi signal declares he’s “seen the other side” via his Ring doorbell.

Ghosts, Myths, and Other Recycled Nightmares

Jack O’Lantern — A man so stingy he tricked the Devil, got banned from Heaven and Hell, and ended up wandering the earth with a hollowed-out turnip. Basically, the first bloke ever to DIY existential despair.

The Banshee — Screams before death arrives. Often mistaken for your mother-in-law.

Will-o’-the-Wisp — Mysterious lights leading travellers to their doom. Ancient folklore’s way of saying, “Don’t walk into swamps, you idiot.”

Headless Horseman — The Dullahan on a gap year to America. Rides around looking for his head — like most people on a Monday morning.

La Llorona — The wailing woman by the river. A cautionary tale for men who think ghosting ends at death.

The Modern Horror Show

Today Halloween is a mash-up of capitalism, sugar, and trauma bonding. Supermarkets vomit orange plastic; influencers pretend it’s about “manifesting darkness”; and people pay £30 to walk through haunted houses that are statistically less scary than the cost of living.

But under all that, the night still hums with something ancient. A recognition that life and death aren’t enemies they’re neighbours, separated by a door that creaks open once a year.

So if you’re out tonight and feel that electric chill, don’t blame the weather. That’s the old world whispering, reminding you you’re just another mortal passing through.

Light your candle. Wear your mask. The dead are listening.

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 love letter to time passing, things dying, and our stubborn insistence on dancing anyway.

Samhain — 31 October (pronounced “Sow-in”) Celtic New Year. The veil does that “paper-thin” thing and everyone pretends they aren’t terrified. We remember the dead, talk nicely to them, and try not to bring home anything with teeth. Death isn’t a plot twist; it’s the punchline. Light a candle. Lock the cupboards. Be polite to the shadows.

Yule — 21 December (archaic Geola; “YOO-luh”) Winter Solstice. The sun technically returns, which is adorable considering you won’t see it properly till March. The God is reborn, we eat too much, and convince ourselves evergreen branches can hold back seasonal despair. Ullr nods approvingly. New Year (again), because human calendars are soft suggestions at best.

Imbolc — 2 February The land wakes up like a hungover dragon: cranky, gorgeous, and not to be rushed. Brighid is the Virgin of Light, which is ironic given how many candles we burn for her. Snowdrops appear; we collectively gasp; someone says “spring is coming” like it’s a spoiler.

Spring Equinox — 21 March Day and night call a truce. The sun stretches; the earth blushes; allergies weaponise. Dedicate this to Eostre if you like: rabbits, eggs, fertility, the entire internet losing its mind. The young God goes hunting; so do we — for antihistamines and decent weather.

Beltane — 30 April Everything is alive, loud, and suggestive. Sacred Marriage time: Goddess, God, maypoles, ribbons, symbolic entanglements that aren’t even trying to be subtle. If you’re not dancing, you’re at least grinning with suspiciously rosy cheeks. Bless the fires. Try not to set your hedge on actual fire.

Midsummer (Litha) — 21 June Peak light. Peak hubris. The Sun wears a crown and we all act like it’ll last forever. It won’t — that’s the joke. Celebrate plenty, fill your pockets with protection herbs, and pretend the turning hasn’t already begun. The shadows are patient. So is entropy.

Lughnasadh (Lammas) — 1 August (pronounced “LOO-nuh-suh”) First harvest. Time to reap what you sowed (or didn’t — awkward). Bread is broken, corn is cut, and we thank the land like it isn’t side-eyeing our life choices. Offer gratitude. Offer cake. Offer to stop procrastinating (you won’t).

Autumn Equinox — 21 September Second truce. Day and night shake hands like rivals who know what’s coming. We honour age, endings, and that creeping chill that isn’t just the weather. Put away the summer bravado; fetch the blankets; pretend you like gourds.

…and back to Samhain — 31 October The wheel clicks home. We face the Gods in their difficult aspects, the ones that don’t do customer service. Not fear — perspective. Life and death are a matched set. Say the names. Pour the drink. Keep the door half-open.

How to Actually Use This (Without Becoming a Walking Pinterest Board) Mark the days. A candle is enough. So is a good meal.

Keep a tiny notebook: what’s growing, what’s dying, what you’re pretending not to feel.

Make one offering each sabbat: time, food, or honesty. The last one stings; it works.

Don’t overcomplicate it. The earth is turning with or without your table runner.

Eight seasonal checkpoints. Celebrate what lives, mourn what doesn’t, and remain cheeky about the abyss. That’s the praxis.

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