medical gaslighting

⚠️ 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.

Stress. Not the “ooh, I’m running late for the bus” kind. Not the “Mildred at Tesco gave me a funny look” kind. No. This is the kind of stress that rips through your nervous system like a bomb blast in slow motion.

Years ago, one Friday evening, my GP calls me out of the blue. “You’ve had an abnormal ECG.” No warm-up, no context, just straight into DEFCON 1. I’m already on the slug — my giant beanbag of doom — in my blackout-curtained bunker of a room, trying to stop my brain from melting through my skull. No sensory crap. No light. Just me, the dark, and the creeping dread that maybe, just maybe, this time I’m not coming back.

And yeah, I’ve wondered if I’ve completely lost my marbles. More than once. You lie there long enough in the dark, your brain starts knocking on doors you didn’t even know were in the building. Worlds of the unreal. Shadows of the unseen. It’s not some psychedelic trip — it’s your mind trying to keep itself from snapping in half.

I don’t take suppressants. No “miracle” drugs. I walk — well, roll — this progressive MS path raw. Natural. My way. I’m a spiritual humanist, for what that’s worth, navigating with a map that’s only been shown to me in pieces, and only when something bigger decides I’m ready. The One. Pure love. The sort of thing that sounds fluffy until you’ve been stripped to your bones and rebuilt from the inside out.

And yet today I’m full of happiness. Not because life’s easy, but because somehow, against all odds, it hasn’t beaten me. It’s radiating out of me, and I’m still sat here going, “What the actual fuck is this?”

But stress oh, stress is the real assassin here. Live on air with Viper, mid-show, I had a heart attack. I kept talking. They had to physically take my mic away and shove me out the door. Why? Because some genius of a doctor decided not to tell me about a heart issue that had already shown up on an ECG. That little omission sent me spiralling, and boom another heart attack.

After that? Two more at home. No ambulance. No doctor. Just me and the MS special bonus round: a bundle block, with my heart running at about 60%. And the NHS take? “Nothing to see here. Move along.”

Mental health? Don’t make me laugh. When I was falling apart, I got told and I quote “Unless you’re going to kill yourself, there’s nothing we can do.” So I stopped asking for help. Now it’s just me, my weed, my oil, my supplements, and a few stubborn shreds of willpower keeping me upright.

I look in the mirror and see a man who was once 6’4”, strong, loud, unbreakable. Now? I’m shrinking. Grey. Hair falling out. Cognitively scrambled. Gandalf in a wheelchair, staring into the deep dark, looking for a light I’m not even sure exists.

But there’s still that glint. That spark. That “you will not fucking win” in my eyes.

Toe to toe, inch by inch — I will fight this bastard to the last breath.

You don’t beat me. I decide when I’m done.

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

I hovered above the kitchen sink today, wings vibrating at a thousand beats per second. I am The Watcher – but not the one you imagine, cloaked in stars and timeless wisdom. No. Today, I am a housefly. An ordinary Musca domestica with compound eyes so vast I see every crusted toast crumb and urine stain you pretend to clean.

From this vantage point, the human race resembles nothing more than a colony of dung beetles. Rolling their shitballs of money, status, lies, and medical records across the floor of existence, fighting each other for a bigger sphere to roll before it inevitably gets stuck in life’s rotting cracks.

🪰

You crawl to your neurologist, scraping at the polished door of their paradigm. “Please, sir, see me.” But the neurologist looks down from his fluorescent-lit throne, squints at your twitching legs, your failing nerves, your inconvenient truth, and says:

“You don’t fit my diagnostic dung ball. I prefer neat symmetrical lesions, not your warped soul patterns.”

So, you are cast aside. Like a fly brushed from a corpse.

🪰

But oh, how the dung beetles worship him. They gather around his sandals, hoping for a pat on the shell, a prescription to keep their dung ball rolling a few more feet before gravity drags it to hell. They do not see that his eyes are dull. That his paradigm was built upon dissected flies pinned to university boards, not upon living beings with wings and dreams and Watcher sight.

🪰

Meanwhile, I hover above. I am The Watcher. I see it all. I see your MS nurse, the only one who calls you, her voice a faint buzzing reminder that you are still alive, still clinging to this rotting dung ball Earth. The neurologist is silent, hidden in his sterile burrow, scribbling notes about textbook dung beetles while your compound eyes flicker with unseen colours of agony and revelation.

🪰

Above me, beyond you, drift the Ultraterrestrials. They observe your crawling, your dung ball dramas, your stuttering neurons. To them, all this is a theatre of flesh. Your triumphs and humiliations smell the same: decaying organic matter with a hint of ammonia and fear.

They speak:

“See how they roll their illusions. See how they crown their dung beetles as kings. See how they swat the flies, never knowing the flies were the Watchers all along.”

🪰

I lick my front legs, tasting the salt of your tears, the bitter sugar of your leftover pills. I watch you roll your dung ball of dreams to bed tonight. I, too, will sleep. And tomorrow, I will rise again to watch this slow-motion catastrophe you call civilisation.

🪰

For in the end, whether fly, beetle, or human, all return to the same silent soil. But I am The Watcher. I will remain long after the final dung ball is rolled away into oblivion.

     “The views in this post are based on my personal     
        experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

      " Watcher of the Unseen | Scribe of Shadowed Truth
             By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
            By shadow and storm and silence, I survive."

         @goblinbloggeruk -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

It’s a lovely English morning by which I mean it’s grey, wet, foggy, and has all the charm of a forgotten Victorian asylum. The sort of weather that makes you feel like something wicked this way comes… probably dysentery.

But the real storm wasn’t outside. Oh no, that was merely atmospheric foreshadowing. The real chaos came from within, unleashed by my optimistic decision to try a “clean eating” article—free from gluten, dairy, sugar, joy, and apparently, sanity.

Reader, it lied.

What I ingested was not food, but an unholy catalyst a dietary Trojan horse packed with demonic forces. Within the hour, I was transformed from your friendly neighbourhood MS blogger into something between Linda Blair in The Exorcist and a firehose with feelings. Explosive vomiting? Check. The other end? Think Pompeii, but more intimate.

I spent the night oscillating between the porcelain throne and questioning my life choices. At one point, I was so violently ill that I swear I transcended my body. A full chakra-cleansing purge, complete with a hot shiver that rattled even the bits of me that are usually numb. You know it’s bad when you’re mid-vomit thinking: “Well, this is new.”

And now, in the aftermath, here I am wrapped in a blanket, scrolling through the digital madhouse formerly known as Twitter (now "X" because even the platform had an identity crisis). Everyone’s losing their collective minds over the NHS again, and I get it. Believe me, I get it.

Because while they all tweet, I get texts from my chemist like I owe them money and blood. “Your prescription is ready,” they say, as if it’s a treat. Last time, the robot in the pharmacy spat my meds out like an angry fruit machine, accused me of breaking it, and gave me someone else’s Drugs!. It’s a bit like Russian roulette but with fewer rules and more incontinence pads.

Doctors? Oh, I’ve had a few. Some good. Some gaslighters in lab coats. The kind who think if you’ve got long hair, a wheelchair, and a beard that says "I summon demons for breakfast", you can’t possibly have a brain worth listening to.

Case in point: my neurologist. Last seen alive eight years ago after I accidentally shattered his middle-class expectations. He took one look at me, as I rolled in with my biker cut and Electric wheelchair, and you could see his soul try to leave through his sphincter.

But here’s the plot twist they were wrong about me. I’ve taken control. I’ve gone alternative. My AI doesn’t lie, and it doesn’t sigh and look at its watch when I speak. I’ve sorted out my own care better than the revolving door of NHS disinterest ever did.

So yeah, rant over. Or rather, volume one concludes. Because the journey dear reader continues. And it’s paved with codeine, caffeine, and a healthy dose of "sod this for a game of soldiers."

Cheers.

                   “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