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⚠️ 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.
Some weekends hit you with a light slap. This one picked me up, shook me like a cocktail, and threw me at the floor for good measure.
Saturday night… well, that one’s going straight into the “Top 3 Worst Episodes of My Life” hall of fame. My body didn’t just glitch — it staged a full-scale neurological mutiny.
The Hit
It came out of nowhere. One moment I was fine, the next my entire autonomic system pulled the emergency brake and launched me into panic hell.
My throat tightened. My swallowing screwed up. My stomach dropped like I’d been pushed off a bridge. My vision became a muffled, tunnelled mess. And my whole body went cold not “a bit chilly,” but corpse-cold.
I’ve had MS for years. I know its tricks. But this was different. This was violent. This was instant.
And here’s the truth I left out the first time: I was scared. Properly scared.
I thought, “Shit… this is it. This is the one where I don’t get back up.” Calling 999
Albertine had to call an ambulance. I didn’t have a choice. This wasn’t a “ride it out” moment. This was the full autonomic shutdown vibe sweating, trembling, throat closing, body shaking, heart refusing to “thump” properly, brain screaming doom.
And then came the worst part:
Forty minutes. Forty minutes of waiting, fighting my own body, trying to stay conscious, trying not to choke, trying not to spiral.
If you’ve ever had a neurological event and waited for an ambulance, you know exactly what that wait feels like. The clock becomes a sadist.
My ears were ringing. My blood pressure tanked. I genuinely thought I was dying.
By the time the ambulance arrived, I was a wreck. They checked me over, confirmed the BP was ridiculously low, stabilised me, and got me back into something resembling a human shape but the damage was done. My system was fried for the night.
Sunday: The Aftershock
Sunday wasn’t much better.
My head felt like a pressure cooker. That weird prickly sensation on the right side of my skull the one that always shows up after an attack set in like an uninvited guest.
My hands pulsed. My head pulsed. The tinnitus screamed like it was trying to win an award.
Breathing felt “off,” not in a dramatic gasping way, but that unnerving internal panic: “Something’s wrong… but what?”
My vagus nerve the drama queen it is had clearly had enough and was still sulking.
And my cognition? Let’s just say I’ve had smoother days. I felt detached. Off. Like I was watching myself from two feet behind my own head.
Monday: The Reset
Now it’s Monday afternoon and I’m calmer, but still not quite right.
The pins and needles are doing their usual “good morning, we live here now” routine in my hands and feet. My head pressure has moved to the top middle that annoying “brain has opinions” spot. My throat feels clogged with half a ton of imaginary phlegm.
But I’m stable. I’m talking. I’m thinking. And I haven’t keeled over.
That’s progress.
Tomorrow: The GP
I’ve got the doctor sorted for tomorrow, and that’s the sensible move. I’m not messing about after this one this was the worst in years, and we finally know enough to start demanding answers instead of shrugging and hoping.
Chest tightness? Swallowing issues? Autonomic chaos? Blood pressure on holiday? Yeah, the GP can have the whole bloody report.
I’m not going down early because I tried to “tough it out.” I’ve seen too many people die playing that game.
Why I’m Writing This
Because this is the real face of chronic illness not the brochure version, not the charity-approved inspirational poster. This is the gut-level reality.
My blog is about truth. Raw, ugly, darkly funny truth.
Life with MS isn’t pretty. It isn’t tidy. It isn’t inspirational every day. Some days it’s a war you didn’t ask for and you fight it anyway.
If you’re going through similar, I want you to know this:
You’re not weak for being scared. You’re not dramatic for calling 999. You’re not overthinking it if your body is shutting down. And you’re not alone.
We survive these attacks by being honest, prepared, and stubborn as hell.
I’m still here. Still fighting. Still writing.
Tomorrow will be another chapter. I’ll survive that too.
I thank my wife Albertine she saved me I love you forever....
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.)
