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⚠️ 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 this may be a confusing read. AI help with written content
Good morning, fellow humanoids, NHI, accidental visitors and whatever else may be reading this blog from behind the veil.
It is Saturday morning, so I wish you all a happy weekend or at least a weekend involving fewer neurological catastrophes, unreliable taxis and near-death descents on mobility equipment than mine.
Yesterday was a Friday from hell.
Admittedly, it eventually developed into a rather pleasant Friday afternoon, but only after spending the morning enthusiastically dragging me through several circles of Dante’s accessible parking area.
The MS Curse Awakens
I woke at my usual time of six o’clock with the entire left-hand side of my body giving me its customary warm welcome.
By “warm welcome”, I mean terrible pain.
The sort of pain that makes opening your eyes feel like an administrative error.
My blood pressure had also decided to explore the lower levels of human survival. I felt dreadful before getting out of bed, and considerably worse once I attempted the ambitious medical procedure known as “standing up to get some food”.
I remember thinking:
Well, this is a promising start.
It was clearly going to be one of those days when my body cancelled all scheduled activities without consulting management.
I took my prescribed medical cannabis and THC/CBD oil. I also had vitamin D with K2, vitamin C and magnesium.
Gradually, things began to improve or at least retreat from “immediate exorcism required” to “possibly fit for limited public viewing”.
My head still felt as though it had been posted to another dimension and was being repeatedly struck with a cosmic mallet.
Then came the existential dread.
People often tell you to remain positive. This is excellent advice when your nervous system is not behaving like a condemned Victorian electrical installation.
Sometimes positivity is possible.
Sometimes your brain merely replies:
Absolutely not. Today we shall stare into the abyss.
I call it the MS Curse.
It is the strange natural law by which every carefully arranged plan is immediately attacked by pain, fatigue, dizziness, spasms, brain fog or some entirely new symptom released as part of the latest neurological update.
Taxi? Did Somebody Call a Taxi?
The previous day, Albertine had booked a taxi to collect us at 11:30 and take us to the tattoo studio for my midday appointment.
At 11:30, we were outside the bungalow waiting.
There was no taxi.
At 11:40, there was still no taxi.
By 11:45, the taxi had apparently entered the same mysterious dimension as my functioning nervous system.
Albertine telephoned the company and was told that the driver was still around half an hour away. They could not reach us for at least another twenty minutes.
My appointment was at twelve.
Marvelous.
This was especially inconvenient because Albertine had almost chopped the top of her finger off on Tuesday. It had been left hanging on by a small piece of skin, which is generally considered a poor condition in which to operate a motor vehicle.
She had already needed treatment from the plastic-surgery team and was therefore unable to drive.
I was feeling dreadful and could not safely drive either.
The taxi company, meanwhile, had apparently adopted the philosophical position that time is merely a social construct.
I became rather angry.
I had been trying to arrange this tattoo for a long time. I had finally found the right tattooist, and I did not want to waste her time or fail to turn up.
There was only one option left.
Unfortunately, it had three wheels.
My Saviour: The Three-Wheeled Trolley of Death
We went into the garage and unplugged the three-wheeled scooter of death from its charger.
I looked at it.
It looked back at me.
Possibly.
I had around ten minutes to reach the tattoo studio.
“Please,” I thought, “do not let me down today of all days.”
I climbed aboard, pulled the throttle back and unleashed the full, terrifying fury of approximately eight miles per hour.
Off I went.
Not so much roaring down the road as trundling towards destiny with a shopping basket.
I must have looked completely demented: a wobbly man hurtling through the streets on a three-wheeled mobility scooter, travelling at top speed while simultaneously going nowhere particularly quickly.
It was the slowest high-speed pursuit in British history.
Somehow, despite feeling dreadful, I reached the tattoo studio at around twelve o’clock.
The trolley of death had not missed a beat.
I parked it outside with a wry smile.
For once, a piece of equipment in my life had performed exactly as intended.
Naturally, I found this deeply suspicious.
At the Tattoo Studio
I climbed off the scooter and walked into the studio with the help of my stick.
I was extremely determined.
I was also extremely wobbly.
Each step carried the exciting possibility of an unscheduled meeting with the floor. Thankfully, it was only a short distance, although being knocked over outside the shop would have added a pleasingly dramatic final act to the morning.
The tattooist greeted me warmly and immediately put me at ease.
She was friendly, gentle and extremely knowledgeable. The entire experience was fantastic and one of the most pleasant things I have done in a long time.
The tattoo itself is amazing.
Honestly, it is perfect.
She was so gentle that I barely felt a thing. Of course, when you already have reduced sensation in your hand, getting tattooed becomes one of the few occasions when neurological numbness comes with a customer benefit.
It felt like little more than a faint pinch.
Things have changed considerably since my last tattoo. The equipment and techniques have moved forward, and I was surprised by how calm and comfortable the whole procedure was.
After a morning dominated by pain, low blood pressure and transport incompetence, sitting in a tattoo studio somehow became the restful part of the day.
Life is peculiar like that.
Going Home: Oh Dear God
I left the studio, climbed back onto the three-wheeled trolley of death and admired my new tattoo.
It looked absolutely awesome.
There was no pain. No trouble. Nothing.
For a brief and dangerous moment, I believed things were going well.
Then I attempted to go home.
The road from the tattoo studio leads down a fairly steep hill. Unfortunately, I took the wrong turning and became completely lost.
I spent around ten minutes riding in circles, wondering where the hell I was.
Everything looked the same.
Every building appeared to have been copied and pasted by a bored simulation designer.
I eventually went up a slight incline, believing it would lead to the main car park.
It did not.
Instead, it delivered me to the top of a narrow and extremely steep hill, barely wide enough for one car.
I asked a nearby woman for directions to the main car park.
She looked at the hill.
She looked at my scooter.
Then she looked at me with the unmistakable expression of someone preparing to become a witness.
She explained that the hill was extremely steep and seemed genuinely uncertain whether I would reach the bottom safely.
This was reassuring.
As regular readers may know, the brakes on the three-wheeled trolley of death are not its strongest feature.
They are less “precision braking system” and more “polite written request to reduce speed”.
Nevertheless, down I went.
Slowly.
Precariously.
Possibly accompanied by the distant laughter of Death, who had apparently taken the afternoon off but was still checking his emails.
Somehow, I reached the bottom without overturning, colliding with anything or becoming a local-news item.
From there, I found the car park and eventually made my way home.
A Friday of Two Halves
The day began with terrible pain, low blood pressure, neurological misery and the familiar feeling that MS had torn up my plans for its own amusement.
Then the taxi failed to appear.
Albertine could not drive because of her injured finger.
I was forced to race through town at eight miles per hour on a three-wheeled mobility scooter.
I got my tattoo.
I became lost.
I descended a hill on brakes apparently designed by someone who disliked disabled people.
And somehow, I got home safely.
All in all, it was quite an experience.
The morning came directly from hell.
The afternoon, unexpectedly, was rather lovely.
And the three-wheeled trolley of death?
It performed magnificently.
I may have to promote it to Three-Wheeled Trolley of Mildly Reckless Salvation.
But let us not get carried away.
It still has those brakes.
Survival Report Pain: ★★★★☆ Brain Fog: ★★★★★ Near-Death Experiences: 2 Taxi Reliability: -3/10 Scooter Heroics: Legendary Humour Level: Still Operational.
Today's Lesson: Never trust a taxi. Always trust the Three-Wheeled Trolley of Death. MS doesn't make appointments... it cancels them.
wishing everyone peace healing love and light no matter who you are
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.)
