medical marijuana

⚠️ 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.

There was a time in my life when I thought everything was going to be awesome.

How wrong I was.

We moved into this reasonably okay house, in an okayish part of town. You know the sort – two cars in the drive, fake plants in the windows, neighbours who shit themselves if someone owns a leather jacket that isn't from M&S.

There I was, riding my Yamaha 1100 Dragstar trike, wild long hair, beard that screamed “Hermit Wizard Biker,” wearing my cut and old jeans – California on a budget, but stuck in rainy middle England. I was about 57 then. Full of ideas. Full of hope. Full of medical cannabis.

And there was Albertine – goddess incarnate, riding her Triumph Bonneville like a Valkyrie on wheels. Leather trousers, biker boots, that horny, savage biker queen look that made grown men weep into their pints. Long dark hair whipping the wind, eyes like stormclouds and fire combined. She looked like she’d ride through the gates of Valhalla just to flick the V’s at Odin before burning rubber into the void.

I tried to do some DIY. Didn’t go well. Many accidents, broken bones, ambulances, heart attack at the local refuse tip. Carried on regardless because, well, I’m me. Heart running at 60%, they said. Meh. Go home, they said. Blah blah fucking blah.

But this is where the fun really began.

The neighbours. Gods. They hated us before the kettle even boiled. They saw my trike. They saw her Bonneville. They saw our hair. Our leathers. Our old biker boots. That was enough. Judged. Condemned. Executed by gossip.

But they didn’t know who they were fucking with.

I was Warlock. Spiritual Radio Shock Jock. Dark Gandalf. She was Albertine, Valkyrie Biker Oracle. We had Multiple Sclerosis, PTSD, heart disease, psychic powers, and a list of medical issues as long as their Deliveroo orders combined. Nothing phases us anymore. You can hit us, hurt us, say hurty words – we just laugh and smile because we’re already dying, slowly, hilariously, and publicly.

One day the bloke next door tried to intimidate me, bragging about being a bouncer. I laughed. Told him I used to be a bouncer too. His face dropped like my blood pressure on cannabis oil. From then on, if I was in the garden, he ran in. If I was in the shop, he ran out. It was like having my own personal game of Pac-Man.

His wife ran the show, obviously. Poor sod.

Best bit? He offered to sell me weed once, knowing I had MS. I said no. Later, he smelled my vape and threatened to call the police. Solicitors got involved. Absolute circus. I laughed harder. It was medical marijuana. Karma’s a bitch, mate.

But we stood our ground. Never showed fear. Didn’t need to. Because deep down, he knew we were the real wizards, and he was just a frightened little man in a tracksuit who thought his wife’s approval was worth more than his soul.

I am a disabled wheelchair user. I’m a long-haired, bearded 65-year-old eccentric warlock on a spiritual journey, seeking portals to other realms where people love instead of hate. Where cosmic pea soup realities collide and no one gives a shit about your beard or your wheels.

Just divine love, freedom, and the multiverse’s endless electric embrace.

Simple really.

But brain fog incoming… so I’ll leave it there, Gandalf out.

                                       !!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

So I dove into medical marijuana—not literally, though falling headfirst into a sack of flower sounds kind of comforting right now. But yeah, here we go.

Do I personally think medical cannabis (flower and THC-CBD oil) has helped me?

Yes. Yes indeed.

But let’s rewind the VHS to the 1970s. Picture it: secret greenhouses in sheds, hidden like Cold War bunkers, where growers whispered to their plants like they were the Messiah. I’ve been smoking Mary Jane since she wore flares and listened to Pink Floyd on vinyl. Long before your wellness influencers made it trendy with avocado toast and crystals.

I only vape these days. No tobacco—because, apparently, that’s “bad for you.” Allegedly.

Chronic Hell, Meet Green Salvation My pain is biblical. My spasms? Think exorcism, but with less Latin and more bone-snapping contortions. My body goes full Cirque du Soleil without consent. And you know what helps?

Medical-grade cannabis.

They finally made it legal in the UK (sort of, in that "you can have it, but good luck affording it" kind of way). So I did the dance: filled out forms, proved I’m broken, gave them my medical records, swore on my own spinal cord—and voilà. Legal weed. I just smiled like a man who finally got invited to the cool table... 40 years late.

It’s not free. Of course it’s not. Nothing good ever is. But it’s worth it. No side effects, no weirdness—just help.

So What Does It Actually Do? Well, it doesn’t turn me into Gandalf or cure MS (I checked). But it:

Lessens my spasms by about 30%

Helps calm my body’s electric storm of spasticity

Softens the pain—not erases it, but dulls it enough so I can breathe again

Evens out my mood (though I’m still delightfully twisted and full of sarcasm)

Lets me live a calmer, less rage-inducing existence

THC-CBD oil, in particular, is liquid zen. The flower? A pain-relieving smoke cloud that takes the edge off reality. And reality has many, many sharp edges.

And Then the MS Said “Plot Twist!” But hey, it’s not all rainbows and reefer. Just an hour ago, I had a full-blown bowel incident. Pain, sweats, the works. The kind of pain that makes you question whether your intestines have unionised and gone on strike. MS is a cruel and confusing beast. It’s got more plot twists than a Netflix thriller, and most of them involve sweat, cramps, and existential dread.

And where are wheelchair services? Missing in action. Four months and counting. My MS nurse? On an eternal holiday in some parallel dimension where no one has to reply to emails.

Holidays for me? Ha. Unless your idea of fun is custom food prep, dodgy bowels, and extreme heat sensitivity. Sign me up for the Hell Cruise 2025.

Closing Thoughts from the Padded Room So yes, medical cannabis helps me. But this body is still a riot. The spoons are gone. The demon weed whacker was round earlier and now I’m emotionally broken, physically drained, and ready to weep into a vape pen.

But you know what? I’m still here. Still rolling, ranting, and roasting life with dark English humour and a beard that’s survived the 70s, the 80s, and now the end of the NHS.

Sleep, that precious thang. Come and get me.

               “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