medical cannabis

⚠️ 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.

Time is a drunk clown in cheap shoes doing cartwheels in my skull. Welcome to progressive MS, where your brain hits the brakes mid-thought and your day folds in on itself like a damp deckchair.

I’ve done the pharma carousel. Twenty to thirty pills a day, side-effects breeding side-effects like horny gremlins, needles for dessert. Result: zombie mode. Chair-bound, fogged, half a human. That’s not medicine. That’s chemical cosplay.

Then there’s medical cannabis oil and flower basic, honest, grown-in-dirt relief. It doesn’t cure MS (nothing does, spare me the miracle clickbait), but it calms the spasms, dulls the pain, gives sleep a chance, and lets me feel human without the opiate hangover. No “inspirational warrior” bullshit; just reality that works.

Benefits of Medical Weed (minus the brochure voice)

Pain Management Chronic pain and gnawing neuropathic nonsense stop chewing through my nerves. No opiate fog, no “what planet am I on?”

Mental Health Anxiety down, black dog naps. Depends on strain/dose, sure but I’m not staring at the wall planning my own funeral anymore.

Anti-Inflammatory Less swelling, less misery, less “scream into a cushion.” Crohn’s, RA—people report relief. “Early studies” say promise; my body says thanks.

Nausea & Appetite Chemo pukes? Weed body-checks them. Appetite returns without force-feeding pills and prayers.

Neurological CBD has receipts for seizures. For MS: spasms and stiffness throttle back. I can sit without my body re-enacting a mechanical bull.

Sleep Relaxation shows up, anxiety sods off, and I actually sleep before 4 a.m. Staring at ceilings is not a hobby.

Benefit	What NHS/Pharma Say	What Actually Happens (My Reality)
Pain Management	“May reduce discomfort.”	Spasms shut the fuck up. Nerve pain finally chills where opiates failed.
Mental Health	“Some report mild improvement.”	Anxiety eases, depression loosens. No death-stare at the wall.
Anti-Inflammatory	“Early studies show promise.”	Less swelling, less agony, fewer F-bombs per hour.
Nausea & Appetite	“Helps chemo-induced nausea.”	Vomitfest canceled; appetite returns without the pill pyramid.
Neurological	“May help seizures/spasticity.”	CBD reins in seizures; MS spasms stop playing rodeo.
Sleep	“Improves sleep in some cases.”	Real sleep. Not sedated oblivion. Actual rest.

Progressive MS + Weed: Straight from the trench

Spasticity: THC/CBD together take the edge off the iron-bar tightness. Oil for baseline, flower for flare-ups.

Neuropathic pain: The burning/zinging is less murderous. Not gone just not in charge.

Sleep: Indica-leaning strains knock me down gently. Not a sledgehammer, more a firm hand on the shoulder.

Mood/anxiety: Calmer. Not blissed, just steadier footing in a tilting room.

Fatigue: Mixed bag. Some days better, some days couch-glue. Timing + dose matter.

Cognition: Helps because pain/spasms back off. Too much THC? Hello marshmallow brain. Respect the line.

What it isn’t

A cure.

A halo.

A licence to hotbox yourself into next week. It’s medicine—treat it like one.

My takeaway

I’d rather be a weed-smelling goblin in an electric wheelchair than an NHS-approved opiate zombie. Weed doesn’t fix MS. It makes life with MS bearable. That’s the whole game.

(Standard sanity note: your body isn’t mine. Talk to a clinician who treats cannabis like medicine, not scandal. Start low, go slow, keep notes, don’t be a hero.)

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 professional help.

It’s Tuesday. Allegedly. My head swears blind it’s Sunday. Sometimes it feels like both at once, which is the joy of progressive MS brain fog. You don’t just lose track of time, you lose the bloody concept of time. Hours, days, weeks it all dribbles into one big puddle of confusion until you’re sat there thinking, what the fuck was I just doing?

That’s the real head-fuck. It’s not just forgetting your keys or leaving the milk out. It’s thought itself freezing mid-air, like someone slammed down a steel shutter in your brain. You go from “I’m making tea” to “Who am I? Where am I? Why does this kettle look like a spaceship?” in seconds. It’s surreal. It’s exhausting. And it happens over and over, until you stop panicking and just shrug: oh, here comes another blackout in my head.

And yeah, I knew these days were coming. You don’t get diagnosed with progressive MS without seeing the future written in big black letters: this will get worse. But knowing it’s coming doesn’t make it easier when it hits. It just means you sit in the fog muttering, ah yes, the prophecy is fulfilled.

That’s why I lean on AI now. Because my spelling’s shot, my coherence goes missing like a drunk in a hedge, and some days even stringing a sentence together is like trying to herd feral cats. So I use my AI mate to bang it into words. And it works. No fluff. No “inspiration porn.” Just my reality in print.

Meanwhile, real life keeps grinding on. Two weeks from now, I finally get a call from wheelchair services. Six months I’ve waited. Six months of struggling without a powerchair. Six months of suffering because someone’s paperwork sat in a pile. A phone consultation is coming because what I needed all along was more time sat still on my arse waiting for the system to remember I exist.

And the pain clinic? They’re fine. Professional. A bit of NLP-lite sprinkled in, which makes me laugh. You can’t gaslight me I’ve been gaslit more times than a Victorian street. They mean well, but until you live inside this mess, you don’t get it. You can nod. You can sympathise. But you don’t know.

Here’s what I know: I don’t want their “coping strategies.” I don’t want another rebrand of pseudo-science telling me how to breathe through my agony. I’ve done the pills 20, 30 a day. I’ve done the needles. I’ve done the zombie shuffle where you’re doped so heavily you forget you even exist. No thanks. I’ll take my medical weed, roll it up, and live in a way that actually calms the spasms without frying my brain into porridge.

I’m not delusional. I know there’s no cure. Death walks next to me every day like a bad smell that won’t piss off. And when you face death daily, not in the cinematic “battle cancer and win” way, but in the slow, grinding “death is waiting in the next room” way, it changes you. You stop being afraid. You start being blunt.

Friends? None. Illness strips them away. Chronic illness is a private club and only those inside it get the membership card. That’s not bitterness, that’s just reality.

And because the universe has a sick sense of humour, I’m plagued by bloody flies. Everywhere. The zapper’s gone on strike. Motorhead’s blaring loud enough to melt glass, but even Lemmy’s bass won’t fry a single one. So I’m left in the fog, swatting flies, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

So yeah. Tuesday. Sunday. Who cares? It’s another day in the trenches. Another day in the slow death suit. Another day where brain fog fucks with me, the flies mock me, and I carry on anyway.

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