FridgeIsMySafePlace

My Living Hell

One man’s journey through chronic illness, broken systems, and uncooperative furniture — with swearing, sarcasm, and an unhealthy relationship with the freezer section.

Today, I nearly married the fridge. 26 degrees. Feels like 46. Conservatory? A balmy 102°F — or as we call it here in Britain, hell’s greenhouse. I’ve got sweat in places I didn’t know had sweat glands. The fridge freezer doors are wide open and I’m contemplating whether it’s physically possible to live in the salad drawer.

Breathing feels like trying to inhale through a wet sock. My throat’s gone numb, hands tingling, lips buzzing like I’ve been snogging a faulty toaster. Blood pressure’s fine, which is amazing considering I feel like a Victorian widow with the vapours. There’s that heaviness in the air too — that classic “a storm is coming” feeling. Which I love, obviously. Thunderstorms are my favourite. There's something deeply comforting about watching the sky lose its temper when you're already halfway there yourself.

MS and heat are mortal enemies. I say enemies, but it’s more like they’re in a toxic relationship and I’m the child stuck in the middle. My body treats summer like a personal insult. I melt, I twitch, and at some point I lose the ability to speak without sounding like a cursed Victorian ghost whispering through a tin can.

Then there’s the wheelchair situation. My old chair went to that great battery charger in the sky, so I’m currently using a three-wheeled death trap that turns every trip to the shop into a scene from Wacky Races: Disability Edition. What I need is a Q100. What I have is a self-aware mobility device with a thirst for chaos. Honestly, it’s like trying to pilot a shopping trolley with a grudge.

Meanwhile, my fridge — bless it — is wheezing under the pressure, valiantly trying to keep my frozen peas solid while I slap a bag of veg on my forehead like it’s the world’s saddest spa day. Ice packs? Nah. I’m straight-up cuddling frozen chips now. Dignity left the building sometime around 11am.

Music's blasting — something mellow, dark and floaty. MDB. Morcheeba. That hazy, dreamlike soundtrack to heat-induced madness. I’m sipping Disprin like it’s vintage whisky and popping antihistamines like I’m playing pharmaceutical roulette. Every med I take gives me a new side effect, like it’s trying to outdo the MS in the 'who can ruin today more' competition.

Still. Back into the kitchen I go, seeking solace in the fridge’s loving embrace. If you don’t hear from me again, I’ve either passed out next to the frozen fish fingers or ascended to a higher plane of chilled existence.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

       “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.”