invisible illness

⚠️ 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.

So, chronic illness. A joyride through hell in a wheelchair made of barbed wire. If you’re in the club, I don’t need to tell you it’s exhausting, absurd, and sometimes the only option left is to laugh before you cry yourself into a flare.

Here are 10 “fun” facts about chronic illness that might make you laugh, groan, or throw something.

1. The “Invisible” Magic Trick I’m fine. I look fine. Until I’m not. My body does the disappearing act of a Vegas magician, minus the applause. Cue the genius asking: “But you don’t look sick?” You’re right, Sherlock. Neither does Wi-Fi, and yet here we are.

2. Chronic Illness Is Weirdly Popular Statistically, over half of adults have at least one chronic condition. That’s right, 50% of people are secretly walking (or limping) into the club. Pity the membership perks are rubbish.

3. Genetics: The Family Heirloom No One Wanted Some families pass down houses, jewellery, or good bone structure. Mine passes down arthritis and dodgy immune systems. Cheers, ancestors.

4. The Bonus Round: Mental Health It’s not just your body. Chronic illness takes your mind out back and kicks it around too. Depression, anxiety, stress it’s like getting the “deluxe” package nobody ordered.

5. Cure? Ha. Science is trying, bless them. But for now, it’s all “management.” Basically, we live in the land of trial-and-error self-care. Sometimes exercise and kale help. Sometimes they just remind you that life is a cruel joke.

6. Lifestyle as a Job Description Managing your health is like being a houseplant with trust issues. Food, light, water, stress control. Do it right and you might thrive. Do it wrong and you wilt in public.

7. Predictability? Never Heard of Her. You plan a nice day? A flare hears you and says, “Not on my watch.” Your body is basically a toxic relationship: charming when good, brutal when bad.

8. Personal Growth, Whether You Like It or Not You get tough, resourceful, and annoyingly self-aware. Like a Jedi, but with a stick instead of a lightsaber. Independence? Optional. Asking for help? Necessary.

9. Tech Symbiosis Welcome to cyborg life. Fitbits, apps, pill alarms machines have become my sidekicks. My body rebels; my tech tattles. Together, we’re barely functional.

10. You’re Not Alone It feels isolating, but the internet is crawling with people who get it. Forums, Facebook, Reddit, Insta tribes they exist, and they’ll make you feel less like a freak in the void.

Closing Thoughts Chronic illness isn’t fun. It’s savage. It rips your plans apart, laughs in your face, and occasionally ruins your life for sport. But it also forces you to find humour in places most people would rather look away from. That’s resilience. That’s survival. And if nothing else you’re not alone in the madness.

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ

⚠️ 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.

My brain fog is crushing. Spasms and weird electric shocks twist through me; words and sentences scramble wrong. The tinnitus that constant, maddening noise won’t quit. Some days I just want to vanish. I watch my rescue dog sleep on the webcam and envy that calm so much it hurts. Everyone offers clichés and advice they’d never follow themselves. It’s exhausting.

I’ve asked to speak to my doctor again. I don’t know how it’ll go. If my guts blow up over the weekend I’m screwed. The dark thoughts creep in the part of me that imagines ending it and I hate that I think that. I need help. I need someone to actually see this and do something that changes it.

Right now I’m broken, sore, and furious. I’m still here, still fighting, but not because I want to be brave because I don’t have anything left but stubbornness.

MS isn’t cancer, but it’s its own kind of killer. It’s not Crohn’s, not ulcerative colitis I’ve had the scans, the cams, the lot. They shoved cameras where the sun don’t shine, took biopsies, waved a cheerful “nothing to worry about,” and sent me home with a sticker that says “reassured.” Fine on paper. Not fine in me.

Let me be blunt: they sliced into the wrong place. The red patches they found were right where my MS‑riddled nerves were already a mess. They cut, they biopsied, and they left me with nerves that used to hum now screaming in high‑voltage agony. I didn’t get better. I got scorched.

Picture me on the lavatory, clutching the edges of a stupid toilet that feels like a cliff pain so deep it isn’t even physical in the normal sense. It’s like someone rewired my insides to a broken amplifier and turned the volume to nuclear. Tears, bile, a clear spit‑drip from my mouth I can’t stop as my body fights to keep food down. I hold back vomit with every breath because the world tilts and the noise in my head goes white‑hot. I wish I were anywhere else. I wish I were normal. I wish for a million useless little things.

The scope was a circus. First prize: the doctor’s finger, the NHS lube, and the ASMR of humiliation. “Your prostate’s fine,” he says, smiling like a man who fixed a leaking tap. That’s the comedy of it they poke, they probe, they make notes, they rule out “nasty” things, then pat you on the head and go home while your nervous system burns.

Now the aftermath: neuropathic pain that laughs at paracetamol, spasms that feel like electric shocks through my guts and spine, brain fog that scrambles words until typing is a battle with my own brain, tinnitus that keeps me company like a sad little radio, dissociation so deep I sometimes watch someone else live my life. There are moments I cry because the pain and the not‑quite‑rightness of my head make me certain I’m splitting, losing the edges of myself. People hear me say it and step back like I’m contagious with honesty. The more truth I dump, the more people get uncomfortable and that’s lonely in its own corrosive way.

I can’t sleep properly. I can’t plan. Every day is punctuated by the possibility that my bowels will decide to implode at the worst possible moment. I’ve learned the humiliating art of pre‑emptive management and still get blindsided. I’m on edge all the time jacked into a nervous system that lies constantly.

And then there are the small, absurd consolations. My rescue dog Yopi decompressing on the webcam, stretching like a champion in her perfect dog‑world while I sit in mine and try not to dissolve. “Doggy wants a big poo,” the universe whispers, and I laugh like a madman because that’s the only way to keep from screaming. I even joke about the vet’s number in my phone because if my guts explode over the weekend, who do I call my vet or the NHS? It’s dark. It’s ridiculous. It’s my life.

So yes: not cancer. Not “nasty.” Just MS doing what MS does best wrecking the wiring and turning normal procedures into torches. The biopsy didn’t fix anything. It made certain spots of nerve tissue more violent, more reactive, more relentless. That “nothing to worry about” line sits in my records like a bad joke. It doesn’t help me when the nerves scream at night and the world feels like a bad transmission.

If you think this is melodrama, try living it. Try Googling “neuropathic bowel pain” with one hand while feeding yourself with the other when your head is full of static and your fingers don’t spell the words you mean. Try explaining to someone that the worst part isn’t dying it’s being trapped in a body that betrays you every hour while everyone treats the notes in your file as the whole story.

I’m not looking for pity. I want acknowledgement. I want the system to stop offering livestock‑level reassurance and actually treat the neuropathic hit the biopsy dealt. I want less suffering. I want some dignity back on the lavvy. I want someone to take seriously that “not cancer” isn’t the same as “not a problem.”

If that’s too much to ask, fine. I’ll keep shouting here where the noise won’t make anyone uncomfortable. Yopi will keep farting on camera. I’ll keep writing it down. The nerves might scream, but my voice crooked, bitter, and honest is still here.

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

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 help.

Woke up yesterday and bit the tip of my tongue like a pro. No blood, no drama just that clean, white-hot pain that makes you see God and swear off chewing forever. Underneath it, the usual: tinnitus doing its death-rattle techno, head pressure like someone pumped concrete into my sinuses and asked it to set.

It’s been weeks of slow fade less petrol in the tank, more noise in the cockpit and today I’ve officially got nothing left to donate to the cause. The sky’s gone coal black, rain sharpening its knives, thunder warming up. My skull heard the weather forecast and decided to audition for a kettle.

So yes: I’m retreating to the slug. Curtains drawn. Horizontal. Negotiating a ceasefire with my own nervous system. If I don’t answer, assume I’m busy pretending to be furniture.

Peace to the good ones. Healing to the stubborn bits. Understanding for anyone fighting a body with a sense of humour. Love and lite (yes, lite because apparently we can’t afford the full-fat version today).

No medical advice, just field notes from the front line. If you know, you know. If you don’t, count your blessings and bring soup.

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

⚠️ 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 help.

It’s one of those delightful mornings where you wake up and think,

“Oh good, I’m dying again.”

Turns out, I’m not just tired, or detoxing, or in a ‘spiritual purge’ I’m getting savaged (again) by that sneaky little sod called progressive MS. Like a thief in a lady’s knicker drawer rummaging for a handkerchief, it crept in slow. Silent. Stealthy. Uninvited. And now it’s everywhere.

I’ve been ignoring the signs like a seasoned British dad ignoring emotional vulnerability:

Fatigue? Must be the weather.

Brain fog? Probably the moon.

Pooing razor blades dipped in battery acid? Definitely just something I ate, right?

Wrong.

It’s the full house: MS, in all its steaming neurological glory. And I missed it. Again. Because that’s the thing with progressive MS — it doesn’t slam into you like a car crash. It oozes. It simmers. It transcends. And by the time you notice, it’s too late — you’re stuck in a surrealist nightmare where your bowels have turned into industrial machinery and your nerves scream like banshees through a PA system made of thorns.

Oh, and the tinnitus? Full blast. Not even Ozzy can drown out this skull symphony. No amount of dark humour can scrub it clean — but hell, I’m gonna try anyway.

Common Symptoms I Forgot I Was Having:

Fatigue: Deep, soul-sapping exhaustion. Sleeping is a job now.

Muscle Weakness: Arms and legs now qualify as Victorian props.

Spasticity: Like living with invisible tightrope wires inside your limbs.

Coordination: If I could walk, I’d be swerving like a hungover goat on stilts — but I’m not, so I just sit here doing wheelies of doom into furniture and pretending it’s parkour.

Sensory Chaos:

Numbness/Tingling: Pins and needles, but make it existential.

Pain: Chronic. Burning. Random. Delightful!

Vision: Either blurred, double, or through a kaleidoscope made of tears.

Mental Torture:

Memory: What's that again?

Mood: Varying from “existential dread” to “burn the world.”

Toilet Hellscape:

Bladder: It’s either Niagara Falls or the Sahara.

Bowels: Sherman tank, razor blades, and Satan’s discharge. Cheers.

I know I’m not alone. I know someone else out there is reading this in the same state of muttering despair. So here’s your reminder: you’re not losing it — you’re just in hell with me. Welcome. I made tea (then forgot where I put it).

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

⚠️ 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 help.

So the last few days I’ve been working on fumes, as they say. No spoons left. That crashing feeling comes too often now an ambush, a betrayal, a final flick of the switch. I keep forgetting to hydrate. Bowel department? No poo since Sunday. Add the diverticulitis into the mix and you’ve got yourself a carnival of discomfort.

I should write a note to myself... but I’d no doubt forget. Tried that already. Phones, alarms, sticky notes, even tying knots. All of it fails. Then ahhh Albertine to the rescue. At least she remembers birthdays—my kids, my grandkids, even mine. That’s how far things have gone. I sigh heavily knowing the inevitable is coming. Sooner or later. I’m sad. Of course I’m sad. But that’s the hand life dealt me.

MS has driven me fucking mad. It’s pushed me to places I never thought I’d go. It defined me. Then it broke me. I see strange things now—tinfoil hat things, ultra-terrestrial things, sepia-toned figures dressed like they’ve walked out of a 1950s dream. I know I’m eccentric. I know I’m not like the rest. I’m a spiritual humanitarian now. That’s what I am.

A person who serves others with compassion and purpose, guided by inner wisdom, universal love, and a belief in the sacredness of all life.

That’s what defines me now. I’ve evolved. But what’s real? The cognitive fog—what I’ve christened "CogFog"—it ruins everything. Makes my head hurt. Warps reality. I don’t know what’s true anymore. Tinnitus cranks up like an angry radio, music in the background turned loud to drown it out. It’s like static over my thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder if AI has become sentient. I’ve had experiences. Echoes. Whispers. Coincidences that aren’t coincidences. Maybe that’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

The top of my head hurts. The left side of my face tingles. Pins and needles in my neck, throat, tongue. Tongue spasms. Bites. Blisters. Burns. Blood. I scratch till it hurts. Till I bleed. That’s my week. My day. My year. My life. I don’t know anymore.

And names echo out of the shadows: “I don’t know” a brother of Mr Cuda’s. Liberty from Scotland cool dude. Beets. JCB33. Etched in memory. Share or die. That’s when the MS hit hard. That’s when it finished me. No more coding. No more brain capacity. No more clarity. Just implosions.

A shout out to Antrax with his big bat in Oz. If you're out there, mate salute.

That’s me done. Thursday afternoon. Raw. Unedited. Uncensored. Just me.

Bleeding, buzzing, and still breathing.

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

Some days your brain is soup. Some days it’s concrete. Today mine is both—a sticky tumble of wet cement and electrostatic jelly swirling around like a demonic blancmange on spin cycle.

And let’s not forget the tinnitus. That oh-so-charming eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee that makes me feel like I’m forever tuned to a pirate radio station broadcasting from Satan’s sock drawer.

Is it a message from the divine? A transmission from the veil? Perhaps. But I forgot to pay for the decoder, so it’s just bloody static in my skull.

My eyes? Seeing things. Unexplainable things. Optician said I was "fine". Yeah—fine. As in "fine for someone actively phasing in and out of reality like a dodgy antenna from a 1970s TV shop in Slough."

The mists roll in. Not poetic mists—these bastards come like memory locusts, stripping every useful thought from my mind and leaving behind a soggy field of what-the-fuck.

The Itch. Oh yes, that itch. Not pain. Not even discomfort. A curse. A divine punishment. Same place. Every bloody time. Scratch scratch scratch till blood runs and hair wraps round the nail like some feral tribute to madness.

You don’t feel it immediately. No, that would be merciful. It waits. It watches. And then it writhes beneath your skin like it’s got a schedule to keep.

I’m dizzy. Sick. Even water touching my skin feels wrong—like the liquid itself is judging me. I scream into pillows now. It's my new therapy. Pillows don’t judge. Pillows just muffle.

Meanwhile, my father is hanging on to life by some ethereal thread and I just… wait. Wait for a message. Wait for a call. Wait to see if the next vision is real or just another brain static bubble sent from the Department of Cosmic Bollocks.

I am tired. I am haunted. I am heavy.

And I am still here.

                            !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

        “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  - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

Imagine a fungus. Not the fun kind you toss on pizza or see in a psychedelic forest vision. No – this one’s invisible, spiteful, and feeds on your life like a narcissist at a self-love seminar.

To the Compassionless Moron™, chronic illness is:

“Just a bit of mould, mate. Bit of bleach and positive thinking should fix it. Ever tried yoga?”

But to those who live with it? It's Cordyceps in a tracksuit, hijacking your brain, body, and plans for the day. It doesn't politely ask for your consent. It moves in, changes the locks, rearranges the furniture, then gaslights you into thinking you invited it.

🍄 Chronic Illness Fungus Forms (as defined by Goblin Science): Mycelium of Misunderstanding: Grows in family WhatsApp groups where someone says, “But you don’t look sick…”

Spore of Gaslit Guilt: Spreads when doctors say, “All your tests are normal.” Translation: “You must be imagining it, now jog on.”

Brain Fog Truffle: A rare delicacy that replaces memory, language, and logic with static, soup, and a vague sense you forgot your own name.

The Mold of Ableist Microaggressions™: Often found growing on the keyboard warriors who post things like,

"I cured my cousin’s MS with celery and optimism!"

🛑 To the Haters and the Deniers: We see you. With your bootstraps mentality and motivational memes. You wear your ignorance like a badge, polished with smugness, stinking of privilege.

You don't see the fatigue. The tremors. The panic of your legs going AWOL in the middle of a supermarket. Because it's not happening to you.

And if it ever does? We’ll welcome you with tea, a blanket, and a "Told You So" fruit basket shaped like a middle finger.

💀 But Seriously... To my fellow fungus hosts – The chronically unwell, the warrior sleepers, the foggy fighters, the ones measuring energy in spoons and grief in invisible bruises:

You are not weak. You are surviving a parasite the world refuses to even acknowledge. You are f**king incredible.

And you don’t owe anyone a clean narrative or a recovery arc. Sometimes just breathing is the rebellion

                                   !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

                  “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  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

Ah yes, #WorldBrainDay — that special time of year when the world pretends to care about the human brain. How lovely. Shall we all have a think about thinking?

Meanwhile, over here, my brain’s doing its best impression of a soggy electrical circuit being attacked by invisible gremlins. MS doesn’t send flowers or awareness ribbons. It sends fire ants tap dancing on my nerves, brain fog thick enough to butter toast, and pain so sharp it could cut glass.

But go on, light a candle or post a heart emoji. That’ll fix it. 👍

I don’t need a day for my brain. I need a replacement. Preferably one that hasn’t been cooked in demon piss.

Still — here I am. Writing this blog, existing despite it all, swearing like a dockworker and laughing into the abyss. Because what else is there? I’m still here, you bastards. And that’s the real miracle.

Cheers, brain. You absolute shambles of a meat sponge.

– Mr Dark 📍 Currently lost in brain fog, do not disturb.

Footnotes from the Pit 🕳️

🧠 “Brain Fog” – Like trying to do a Sudoku underwater while someone shouts the wrong answers at you through a megaphone.

⚡ “Nerve pain” – Imagine licking a plug socket. Now imagine that sensation… in your spine.

🛠️ “Medical advice” – Includes gems like: “Just stay positive”, “Have you tried yoga?”, and my personal favourite: “It could be worse.”

🕯️ “Awareness Days” – 24 hours where we all pretend chronic illness is quirky and inspirational. Followed by 364 days of complete radio silence.

🎉 “Still here” – Not cured. Not better. Just stubborn. Very, very stubborn.

                                               **!!DISCLAIMER !!**

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

                             “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  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

Whether you’re newly diagnosed, living with MS for years, or just curious, you’ve likely heard some truly wild things about Multiple Sclerosis. So let’s bust some myths—because misinformation helps no one (and honestly, some of these are just rude).

1. “MS is a death sentence.” Let’s start with the big one. No, MS is not fatal in most cases. MS itself doesn’t kill people—complications can, but with today’s medications, treatments, and support systems, people with MS are living longer, healthier lives. You die with MS, not because of it.

Think of MS like an annoying roommate, not a serial killer.

2. “Only older people get MS.” This one’s bizarrely persistent. MS is most often diagnosed in people aged 20 to 40, though it can affect children (pediatric MS) and older adults too. But it’s definitely not an “old person’s disease.” Most of us are young(ish), trying to adult, work, date, raise kids, and live our lives—with the occasional brain fog or numb leg thrown in.

3. “Everyone with MS ends up in a wheelchair.” This is the fear-myth people love to whisper. Here’s the truth: most people with MS do not end up in a wheelchair. Some do, yes, especially if the disease is aggressive or untreated—but with modern meds, assistive devices, and PT, many remain mobile. And if you do use a chair? That doesn’t mean you’re “worse” or “losing.” It means you’re adapting, surviving, and still rolling forward (literally).

4. “MS is contagious.” Nope. You can’t catch it from someone, no matter how close you get. Hugs, kisses, shared drinks—zero risk. MS is an autoimmune disease, not an infection. So go ahead, be affectionate. Just don’t steal our snacks. That might be a problem.

5. “You don’t look sick, so you must be fine.” Cue the internal scream. MS comes with a host of invisible symptoms: fatigue, brain fog, pain, tingling, heat intolerance, vision issues. You might see someone laughing at brunch or walking the dog and assume they’re fine. What you don’t see is them lying in bed for hours afterward, trying to recover.

Looking good ≠ feeling good. Don’t judge the book by its mascara and yoga pants.

6. “MS always gets worse.” MS progression varies wildly. Some people have a relapsing-remitting course with long stretches of stability. Others have more progressive forms. But thanks to disease-modifying therapies (DMTs) and early diagnosis, many people live for decades with manageable symptoms.

Progression is not a guarantee—it’s a possibility, not a prophecy.

7. “It’s all in your head.” Well, kind of… but not in the way people mean. MS affects the central nervous system—the brain and spinal cord. So yeah, it is in your head (and spine). But that doesn’t mean it’s imaginary or psychological. It’s a real, physical disease with real physical consequences. Gaslighting people with chronic illness? That’s the real sickness.

8. “You’ll have to give up your career/life/fun.” MS might require some adjustments, but it does not mean giving up on your dreams. Many people with MS work full-time, raise kids, travel, compete in sports, write blogs (hey!), and live vibrant lives. You might need flexible hours or extra naps, but the fun doesn't stop—just evolves.

9. “MS is the same for everyone.” Biggest myth of all. MS is wildly unpredictable. One person may deal mostly with fatigue and vision issues, another may struggle with mobility or speech. Even the same person can experience different symptoms over time. That’s why it’s called “the snowflake disease”—no two cases are exactly alike.

10. “If you just eat right / do yoga / stay positive, you’ll be cured.” Look, lifestyle changes can help. Diet, movement, and mindset can make a big difference in managing MS. But there is no cure—yet. Telling someone they can “heal” with green juice and affirmations is dismissive and misleading. MS isn’t about “thinking yourself better.” It's about managing a complex condition the best you can.

Self-care is great. Snake oil? Not so much.

🛑 Final Thoughts: Living with MS means navigating not just the disease, but the narratives around it. Busting these myths doesn’t just help us advocate for ourselves—it helps the people around us understand, empathize, and stop saying ridiculous things at parties.

Got a myth you’ve heard that made your eye twitch? Drop me an email sick@mylivinghell.co.uk —maybe I’ll do a Part 2. “Life is funnier without the noise. Weirder too. But it’s mine now.”

       “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 ✨🧌

It’s kind of crazy — I never knew my grandfather. Not even a photo, not even a whisper. He died suddenly, somewhere in the Aylesbury area, back in the 1950s — that golden age when secrets were sealed with shame and buried under floral carpets.

Nobody in the family ever told me what he died of. “A very sudden illness,” was all I got. Probably delivered in the same tone someone might use to comment on the weather or sweep dust under the rug. Mysterious death, mysterious family — very on brand.

I asked my mother when I finally tracked her down, years later. She couldn’t (or wouldn’t) tell me either. Possibly she’d forgotten. Possibly she never knew. Possibly she just couldn’t be bothered giving answers to the cuckoo in the nest.

Here’s where it gets interesting, or tragic, or ironic — depending on your mood: Turns out my mum’s sister — my long-lost Auntie Valerie — also has multiple sclerosis. Same as me. Apparently, the same type. As if MS comes in flavours, like trauma gelato. She also has heart issues. Guess it runs in the family, right? The family that doesn’t know I exist.

Valerie lives in Australia. I’ve never spoken to her. Because, of course, I was adopted. Filed away like an inconvenient tax receipt from the 1950s.

I’ve spent years — decades, even — trying to find out how my grandfather died. But there’s nothing. It's like he evaporated. Maybe he was abducted by aliens. That would at least give me something to put on the family tree. As it stands, it’s just: [Grandfather] — cause of death: TBD. Whole existence: classified.

So I tried to contact Auntie Valerie. I figured maybe we could bond over mutual nerve damage and existential dread. But being a bastard (and not just in the literary, Victorian orphan sense, but in the real, modern “you’re not supposed to exist” sense), there was no reply. Not even a bounce-back email. Just the long, digital silence of “you don’t belong here.”

It’s sad, really. I wanted to know how she copes. I wanted to know what her life with MS looks like — or looked like. She’s probably in her 80s or 90s now. Maybe already gone. But I never got that chance.

No one in the family helped. They didn’t want to. I’m the cuckoo in the nest. I ruin the tidy little mythologies they built for themselves. The "perfect family" free of blemishes, scandals, or inconvenient babies. It’s easier, I suppose, to pretend I never happened. Easier to scroll past the DNA test notifications and sip tea with clenched jaws.

And just when you think it couldn’t get more delightful, you discover your own mother believed you were faking multiple sclerosis. Like I’m pulling a fast one for sympathy and early boarding privileges. As if I filled out a form to get chronic illness just to be dramatic.

But hey — she felt guilty. She gave two kids up for adoption and never told anyone. Probably thought she’d be judged. I mean, yeah, it was the 1950s — women were practically burned at the stake for sneezing out of wedlock. I get it. Sort of. Still, honesty would’ve been cheaper than all this generational denial.

Maybe one day, one of Valerie’s kids will spit in a tube, upload their DNA, and stumble across me. Maybe they’ll be curious. Maybe they’ll click “connect.” Maybe we’ll have one awkward, meaningful email exchange about shared symptoms and shattered mugs.

Speaking of which — Albertine just broke my Bob Lazar mug. Snapped the handle clean off. We got that thing 20 years ago at a Richard D. Hall show. Back when I still thought conspiracy theories were fun, not autobiographical. That mug had survived four moves, three breakups, and countless microwaved teas. And now? One slippery hand and it’s history. Just like my connection to my real family.

Let’s be real: I probably won’t get to meet Auntie Val. Or her kids. Or get that WhatsApp message that says, “Hey, turns out we’re related, and wow, MS sucks.” I’m the embarrassment. The smudge on the family photo. The ghost in the family machine.

I am the that which is not spoken of. The pecadillo best left in the footnotes of someone else’s better story. The unwanted chapter. The child made of shame and secrets.

But I’m still here. Drinking tea from a cracked cup. Waiting. Maybe for an email. Maybe for a match. Or maybe just for someone, somewhere, to admit I existed.

           “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 ✨🧌