MedicalGaslighting

Ah, the NHS. Our beloved national institution where you enter with symptoms and leave with a prescription for “just try yoga.” Here are the top ten gaslighting moments brought to you by the experts in “it’s all in your head.”

1. “Your Bloods Are Normal, So You’re Fine” Because apparently if your blood test is fine, so is your life. Chronic fatigue, pain, cognitive dysfunction? Irrelevant. Your veins are thriving, love.

2. “Have You Tried Losing Weight?” Yes, because my demyelinating neurological condition will obviously resolve itself if I just drop two stone. Thank you, Dr. BMI.

3. “It’s Probably Anxiety” The holy grail of dismissals. Broken leg? Anxiety. MS relapse? Anxiety. Spontaneous human combustion? Must be anxiety.

4. “At Least It’s Not Cancer” Because that’s the only measure of suffering. You’re not dying of cancer, so kindly shut up about your daily pain, fatigue, and neurological decline.

5. “You’re Too Young for That” My cells didn’t get the age memo, apparently. They’re just here for a good time, not a long time.

6. “You’re Probably Depressed” Wouldn’t you be? Living in a malfunctioning body while being told you’re imagining it is basically a depression starter pack.

7. “It’s Just Part of Getting Older” Ah yes, at the ripe old age of 27. My joints, nerves, and cognitive function just decided to fast-track me to 97.

8. “We Don’t Normally Do That Test” Translation: We could investigate your symptoms properly, but we’d rather not.

9. “You Seem Fine To Me” Thank you, Doctor, for this enlightening diagnosis based solely on my ability to brush my hair and not scream during this five-minute consult.

10. “Come Back If It Gets Worse” Spoiler alert: It will get worse. And you still won’t listen.

Conclusion So there you have it. Ten glorious NHS gaslighting hits. Remember, your symptoms don’t count unless they’re easily fixable, life-threatening, or profitable.

     “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 ✨🧌

So I’ve been thinking — I know, shocking — but let's face it, MS really does blow chunks.

You walk into a doctor’s surgery, tell them what's going on, and they're glued to their computer screen like they're checking the footie scores or writing a memoir. You wait for the questions, but it’s just nodding. Half-arsed. Then they look up at you like you’re the inconvenience.

Let me paint the scene:

I rock up in my wheelchair, scraping the doorframe because apparently, accessibility is still a mythical concept in parts of the UK. It’s one of those surgeries that's older than most of the patients — falling apart, steeped in the smell of wet plaster and resignation. I apologise for the door. It's that bad.

I wheel in and the doc looks at me like I’ve just insulted his nan. I’ve found that neurologists in particular have a real flair for hating me — probably because I ask awkward questions that don’t come with a neat textbook answer. Their reaction? Condescension, mostly. “This is how you should feel,” they say. Oh, should I? How enlightening.

To be honest, I didn’t want to be there. Waste. Of. Time.

I’m sitting there trying not to blow a fuse while they judge me like I’m auditioning for Britain’s Got Neurological Issues. These days, though, I’m lucky. I moved. New docs. Better vibes. Now I hand over a list — symptoms, patterns, the works. I sit back and let them squirm.

Still, I suffer from white coat syndrome so I’m already stressed the moment I see the antiseptic blue of NHS decor. But hey, the list helps. Unless you get that one GP who glances at your entire medical history like it’s a Wikipedia article they can’t be arsed to read.

Everything, apparently, is caused by MS. I could sprout a second head and they’d say “Ah yes, classic MS.”

So what have I learned?

Being me — unapologetically, sarcastically, chronically ill me — is actually kinda liberating. I say it like it is (within reason… ish). I watch the world spin, watch my life fade out into this mad oblivion — and I keep fighting, whether it’s through brain fog, pain, or a poorly designed doorway.

I’m sick as fuck, but such is life. And I’ll keep going — until my last breath or brain cell. Whichever taps out first.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

          “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.”

"MS blows chunks. I keep fighting."