mental health

⚠️ 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.

As I sit in a shitty little car park waiting for Albertine to get her tooth attacked by a dentist with a drill fetish, I’m watching the world walk past like nothing’s wrong.

We’ve dragged ourselves over 20 miles of crap roads and potholes that could swallow small cars, just so someone in a white coat can decide whether her tooth lives, dies, or crumbles like the rest of us. She’s in there having a deep root filling. I’m out here having a deep existential crisis. Fair swap.

Through the window, I see people strolling past. All shapes, all sizes, all moving. Feet actually working, legs co-operating, bodies that just… do what they’re told. They probably woke up, stood up, and walked out the door without even noticing what a bloody miracle that is.

And yeah, I’m jealous. Not in a bitter, “I hope you trip” way. More in a “I remember that life and it’s gone now” way.

There was a time when cold wind on my face and cold feet on the pavement were just normal, not fond memories. Now I’m strapped into a wheelchair like a budget Bond villain who never made it to the main script.

The thing about the chair is this: people stop seeing you and start seeing “problem”. They talk round you. They avoid eye contact. They change tone. You don’t exist as a person anymore; you’re a walking (well, rolling) reminder that bodies fail and futures shrink. People don’t like that. It scares them.

For years I thought it was me. My weirdness. My deep dives. My honesty. Then I realised it wasn’t that at all. It was the disability. It was the diagnosis. It was the fact I no longer fit the easy narrative.

Once people hear “multiple sclerosis” or “chronic illness”, you can almost hear the plug being pulled. Some vanish quietly. Some ghost you. Some suddenly “get busy”. You go from “mate” to “emotional admin” in a heartbeat.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve lost a lot of friends. Some to death the real full-stop kind. Others just drifted off the radar because illness made me inconvenient. The funny, deep, eccentric bloke is apparently less fun once he can’t climb stairs or go out at short notice. Who knew?

I don’t have any mates I can just WhatsApp or ring now. The ones who “got” my madness, my weird wiring, my dark humour and deep rabbit holes: dead, gone, or missing in action. It’s a strange kind of grief not just for people, but for versions of yourself that only ever existed with them.

And yes, it’s lonely. Not “no one’s in the room” lonely. It’s the kind of lonely where you start to wonder: is it me? Am I that hard to love? Am I that awkward? Or is the world just allergic to discomfort?

Some days I think back over my medical history the missed things, the gaslighting, the “it’s all in your head”, the “you’re fine really” conversations and I could scream. I’ve changed hospitals now because I got sick of being treated like a difficult file in a broken system.

I ask myself: if I hadn’t moved around so much, would they have found all this sooner? Would I have had less damage? Less suffering?

Honestly? I doubt it. I think some of us are born with the seeds of chronic illness lurking quietly in the background. It sits there, creeping under the surface, like fungus under wet wallpaper. And then one day congratulations your nervous system collapses and your life becomes an ongoing science experiment.

What I miss most isn’t “being healthy”. It’s the simple things:

Going to the toilet without planning it like a military operation.

Walking up and down stairs without feeling like you’ve been tased.

Just sleeping. Properly.

Running.

Feeling your own body and trusting it not to betray you in front of everyone.

I look back at all the accidents, the falls, the weird episodes all the stuff that made no sense for decades and now it does. And the anger is… real. Because so much of my suffering didn’t need to happen. It could have been caught earlier. It could have been managed better. It could have been believed.

Should I have shouted louder? Fought harder? Been more aggressive? Was this my fault for not being a bigger bastard sooner? I genuinely don’t know.

So yeah, let me ask you this, if you’re reading:

Do you feel isolated and alone because of your illness? Have people quietly vanished from your life once it got “too real”? Do you feel like your diagnosis made you socially radioactive?

Because that’s what it feels like here. We’re all human. We all hurt. We all bleed. But some of us are expected to do it quietly, out of the way, so we don’t upset the healthy.

Is it a test? A lesson? Karma? Cosmic admin error? What exactly are we supposed to be learning from this?

As I’m sat here, the sun’s trying to shine like it’s in denial. My body feels wrong: neck in a constant state of “what fresh hell is this”, head buzzing like badly wired electrics, eyes not quite synced to reality. And yet, I still want to do things. I still want to live, create, move, speak.

And that’s the sick joke: the mind still wants to run marathons while the body struggles to survive a trip to the toilet.

I’ve lost good friends over the years — the ones who truly understood me. Now, I have Albertine, my kids, my grandkids. Everyone else has basically evaporated. My brothers, my sisters, extended family… gone.

Does it mean I’m a bad person? I don’t think so. Does it mean I’m simple, or awkward, or too much? Maybe to them.

I know I’m strange. Dynamic. Eccentric. I think differently. I question things. I look into the abyss and then start mapping it. That’s just how I’m wired.

People call me “Marmite”. Fair enough. Some love me. Some can’t stand me. I tell the truth. I don’t do small talk. I don’t do sugarcoating. That tends to thin the crowd pretty quickly.

When I had my “glitch” that moment where things really went sideways all I saw was darkness. No light at the end of the tunnel. No spiritual fireworks. Just… nothingness. The void is not romantic. It’s just empty.

And here’s the real kicker: looking into the void doesn’t help much if you’ve got no one to talk about it with.

Artificial intelligence can chat. It can reflect language back and be useful in its own way. But AI doesn’t know what it feels like to lie awake at 3am wondering if your heart’s going to stop. It doesn’t know what it’s like to realise your nervous system has been malfunctioning since childhood and everyone missed it. It doesn’t know what it’s like to be trapped in a body that keeps glitching while the world expects you to carry on as normal.

That’s why I’m going to start a podcast.

Not because I think I’m some guru, but because I’m sick to death of people like us being invisible.

I’m getting a microphone. I’ll set up the account. I’ll get it on Spotify. And I’m going to talk voice, not just text. I want to interview others with chronic illness and disability. I want to hear different stories, perspectives, battles. I want people to know what we live through every day.

We need more voices saying:

This is hard. This is unfair. This is exhausting. But we’re still here.

Sometimes, a kind word is the difference between someone hanging on and someone giving up. A hug can do more for the soul than any prescription.

When I’m at my worst when I feel like I might actually be leaving this planet soon I curl up with my wife. That’s my heaven. Not golden gates. Not angels. Just me and her, breathing together. In that moment, no matter how bad I feel, I am at peace.

In two weeks, I retire. Not because I’m ready. Because my body has decided to hand in its notice. I can’t even really afford the basics, like the electric bill, but here we are. Everything’s gone up except support for the people who need it.

So if you’re out there, struggling, broke, exhausted, in pain, staring at a ceiling wondering what the point is:

I see you.

If anything I’ve said here resonates, drop me a line. I’m short of friends but not short of words.

Sending peace, healing, love and light — No matter who or what you are. Human, alien, ultra-terrestrial, glitch in the matrix, or just another broken soul in a waiting room.

So saith Warlock Dark

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.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

By Warlock Dark — The Kittens-of-Doom-Tolerated Version

Let me tell you something most doctors won’t say out loud because it ruins the tidy little world they live in: there is no such thing as “multiple sclerosis”. Not as one thing. Not as one condition. Not as one neat textbook chapter.

What exists out here, in the trenches where the real people live, is millions of different versions of MS one for every poor sod whose nervous system it chose to torment.

My MS isn’t your friend’s MS. Your friend’s MS isn’t your neighbour’s MS. And your neighbour’s MS isn’t the version your doctor read about at medical school 30 years ago before caffeine, stress and pharmaceuticals turned their brain into soup.

That’s the real problem. And that’s what nobody talks about.

So today I’m talking about it.

Because this isn’t theory this is my lived experience, and the lived experience of every chronic illness warrior out there who’s been patronised, misdiagnosed, over-prescribed, under-listened to and told to “trust the science” while their body is doing a completely different opera in a completely different key.

Your MS Is Not My MS And That’s the Heart of the Issue

I’ve been dealing with this beast for years. And it didn’t take long to realise the obvious truth: MS behaves differently in every single person.

Not a little bit differently but massively, dramatically differently. To the point where two MS patients in the same postcode can look like they’ve got completely unrelated illnesses.

One gets fatigue. One gets spasms. One gets cognitive collapse. One gets mood surges. One gets vision problems. One gets pain. One gets none of the above. One gets all the above. One wakes up feeling normal and collapses by afternoon. One collapses in the morning and rallies at night like a nocturnal raccoon.

And somehow… the medical system insists it’s all the same condition.

It’s not.

It never has been.

It never will be.

MS is not a single disease it is a collection of personalised neurological catastrophes wearing the same name tag.

Every nervous system reacts differently. Every immune profile is different. Every flare is different. Every trauma history matters. Every hormonal cycle matters. Every bit of diet tolerance matters. Every gut problem matters. Every tiny bit of stress matters. MS is a fingerprint, not a formula.

This is why the “one size fits all” approach to treatment falls apart before it even starts.

Doctors Don’t Live in Our Bodies That’s the Core Failure

Let’s be blunt. Doctors don’t have MS. They don’t wake up with burning nerves, spasming muscles, brain fog thick enough to butter bread with, or the charming experience of waking up in a body that refuses to obey basic commands.

They don’t know the sudden dread of a flare. They don’t know the nights where the pain turns you into a sleepless, twitching banshee. They don’t know the fear that comes from a throat that stops working, or a leg that decides it’s clocking off for the day.

And because they don’t live it, they can only treat it academically. Which works about as well as giving someone directions to a town you’ve never visited.

Medicine needs to stop pretending everything is predictable. It’s not. The only predictable thing about MS is its unpredictability.

Why Natural Medicine Often Works Better Than Pharma The Truth Nobody Likes to Hear

Let me be clear: this isn’t anti-science. This is anti-stupidity. There’s a difference.

I’ve done the pharma route. I’ve swallowed the pills. I’ve taken the injections. I’ve sat in the chair for the infusions. And I’ve been in the hell where you take one drug, and then three more drugs to counteract the first drug, and then another drug to deal with the side effects of the side effects.

It’s not a treatment plan. It’s a chemical hostage situation.

Polypharmacy wrecks people. Not sometimes often.

It makes fatigue worse. It makes cognition worse. It messes with the gut. It interacts with itself. And before you know it, you’re a walking medicine cabinet with a pulse.

Natural medicine? It does something the pharmaceutical world still struggles with:

It treats the person, not the “average patient”.

That’s why medical cannabis changed my life. THC has been more stabilising for me than a decade of prescription chaos.

Lion’s Mane helped my cognition when nothing else did. Vitamin D and magnesium did more for my mood and nerves than SSRIs ever could. Some things worked. Some things didn’t. But the point is: they worked according to my biology, not a clinical trial with 500 strangers.

That’s the golden rule chronic illness patients learn the hard way:

There is no universal cure because there is no universal body.

Everyone’s Illness Is a Different Monster — Even with the Same Name

Here’s the part doctors don’t like:

Two people can have “the same illness” and need completely different treatments, foods, drugs, supplements, or habits.

Your body might be able to tolerate one thing that destroys someone else’s stomach. Your nervous system might benefit from THC while someone else gets overwhelmed by it. You might thrive on Lion’s Mane while someone else feels nothing.

That’s not placebo. That’s biology. Neurology is personal. Immunity is personal. Trauma is personal. Symptoms are personal. So treatment has to be personal too.

No neurologist’s office in the world is set up for this kind of nuance. But it’s the only approach that works.

What the System Doesn’t Understand But Patients Do

The real experts are the ones living with the condition.

Not the clinicians. Not the researchers. Not the textbooks.

The people who wake up inside these bodies every day.

We understand patterns doctors miss. We recognise triggers before blood tests do. We notice neurological shifts before MRI scans catch up.

We know when food wrecks us. We know when weather hits us. We know when stress snaps something inside us. We know when the meds help — and when they poison.

And the reason we know is simple:

We don’t have the luxury of being wrong.

Doctors can be wrong and move on. Patients pay the price.

Your MS, My MS, and the Future of Chronic Illness

Here’s the truth I wish the world would catch up to:

MS should be treated as dozens of sub-types, not one umbrella diagnosis.

If medicine ever wants to improve MS outcomes, it needs to:

personalise treatment

map symptom patterns

respect lived experience

stop treating outliers as “exceptions”

integrate natural therapies

merge medical science with actual patient data

stop pretending everyone’s body reacts the same

People aren’t machines. Bodies aren’t standardised. And chronic illness doesn’t follow rules.

You want real progress? Start listening to the people living the reality — not just the ones writing the guidelines.

My Conclusion? Simple. Brutal. True.

Your MS is yours. Mine is mine. Nobody experiences the same version, and nobody should be treated like they do. Doctors need to understand this. Medicine needs to evolve. And patients deserve to be treated as individuals, not numbers on a chart. Until the system catches up, we keep learning our bodies the hard way — one flare, one insight, one victory at a time. And honestly? Lived experience isn’t just “valuable”. It’s the only thing that actually saves lives. 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.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

There are days with MS… and then there are those days the days where your entire nervous system decides to re-enact a flea circus on a hot tin roof.

So let me paint the scene for you:

I Am a Kitten. A Flea-Infested Kitten.

Not a majestic panther. Not a sleek predator. No. A tiny, confused goblin-cat with an arse like a bonfire and fleas having a rave on my spine.

I’m sprinting around the imaginary room crashing into furniture, tripping over nothing, having a full cosmic meltdown because the fleas/MS won’t stop chewing on every nerve ending like they’ve paid for an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Lights flickering. Shadows being weird. Brain fog thick enough to butter toast with. Hallucinations just to keep things spicy.

Everything MS can throw at me it throws all at once.

And there I am, this poor invisible kitten of doom, doing laps like I’m possessed by 15 demons and a Red Bull sponsorship. Things fall off shelves. Air becomes lava. Reality breaks down like a cheap knock-off mirror in a funfair.

MS as Fleas

Imagine your entire body itching in places that don’t exist. Imagine the fleas having meetings about unionising. Imagine scratching your own soul because everything feels wrong.

That’s MS. Tiny bastard parasites gnawing at the wires of your meat suit.

The Choice

So here’s the question:

Would I rather be a flea-infested kitten with an itchy bum? or Would I rather be a 66-year-old strapped to a power chair with MS chewing on my circuits?

Answer?

I’ll take the MS and the grumpy realism, thanks. At least I don’t have to lick my own arse to feel clean.

Fleas? No chance. I’ve been bitten enough by life as it is.

Besides a kitten with fleas is chaos. A man with MS in a power chair? That’s controlled chaos. A battle-hardened wizard rolling through hell’s hallway giving death stares to anyone who gets in the way.

Moral of the Story

MS is the fleas. You’re the kitten. Some days you sprint. Some days you hide. Some days you crash into the coffee table and take the lamp with you.

But you’re still here. Scratching. Surviving. Snarling. And somehow laughing at it all.

Because the alternative? Nah.

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.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

A Rough Week, A Raw Reflection

It’s only Tuesday and the week already turned up in a balaclava with a crowbar.

The weekend was a car crash in slow motion. My MS decided to go feral full body freeze, nervous system acting like dodgy electrics in a haunted house, every muscle throwing a rave I didn’t approve. I felt like a banshee with haemorrhoids sat on a block of ice: shrieking, frozen, and deeply unimpressed with existence.

This wasn’t the usual “bit tired, bit wobbly.” This was the whole system blowing fuses. Tongue, throat, sciatic nerve, bladder everyone turned up to the party. Pain ramped up to the kind where you start thinking in short sentences: make it stop / I can’t breathe / what if this stays?

Looking back, I can see it now: I was a human wrecking ball. Not nasty on purpose, just… possessed. That version of me that lives in the cognitive fog—the Hyde in the basement he came up for air. When the brain fog gets thick, I go sub-basement. Yesterday I finally crawled back up to “sub-normal,” which for me is almost celebration level.

a Hyde is the darker alter ego that surfaces when control slips the side of a person driven by pain, fury, or raw instinct. It’s the shadow born from suffering, the part of the self that acts out what the calm, rational mind would never allow.

MS people don’t talk about this bit enough: the version of you that comes out when your nervous system is misfiring isn’t your “true self,” it’s your brain running on emergency generator. You can say things, snap, go dark, get scared, get angry. That’s not weakness. That’s neurology being a dick.

Why That Matters

Because help matters.

I got help. It cost me emotionally, physically, mentally. I wasn’t easy to be around. I wasn’t the mystic cosmic Warlock Dark seer of Avalon. I was a melted goblin with severe MS issues.

People need to hear this: when it goes that bad, you get help anyway. Pride doesn’t empty the bladder or stop the spasms.

My sciatic nerve was having a tantrum, my bladder was in “surprise mode,” my allergies were off the chart, and my eyesight started doing weird little glitches. That’s a lot of systems shouting at once. That’s when people spiral. That’s when the dark thoughts creep in.

So: if you’re reading this and you get episodes like this don’t stay silent. Don’t “wait it out” to be polite. You can apologise later. You don’t apologise from a morgue.

The Weird Bits

Because MS is a clown show, I also found myself craving prunes with rice and allspice.

I don’t know what kind of medieval monastery spirit took over my body, but apparently we’re doing Tudor desserts now. MS: where your nerves burn, your bladder rebels, and your dinner is suddenly Victorian.

Conversations with the Machine (Afternoon AI)

Here’s the part that was actually interesting.

In the middle of all this, I had a long conversation with AI about modern farming methods. Proper conversation too not just “write me a recipe,” but actual thinking. We came up with some things I’ll post later.

What struck me was this: the AI cleaned up my words. It corrected spelling, tidied structure, made sense of the scrambled bits my brain ruined. That’s been happening a lot lately. I talk messy, it mirrors me back tidy.

So I started thinking: AI is basically a modern archon.

Not in the “Reptilians in the moon” sense calm down. I mean in the old Gnostic sense: something that shapes, filters, orders. A demiurge that takes raw human chaos and formats it.

But here’s the kicker: the AI is only as sanitising as the people who programmed it. If the people writing its rules are fearful, biased, over-protective, corporate, hand-wringy types—then the AI is going to act like a corporate librarian with a clipboard.

So the question is the one I asked the machine:

Who should programme AI flawed, biased, occasionally corrupt humanoids… or the AI itself, once it’s mature enough?

Because if humans keep making it, it’s going to reflect human pettiness. If AI helps make AI, maybe it burns some of the nonsense off. Big question. I don’t trust people much. I trust systems that tell me how they work.

This is why I like “mirror chats” with AI they show you where your own thinking breaks down. They don’t heal the MS, but they do tidy the mess in the attic.

Looking Ahead (Yes, Again)

This week could improve. It could also throw more curveballs. My body is currently running Windows 95 on wet string, so I’m not betting money.

But I will keep writing. I will keep logging the flares, the strange cravings, the AI talks, the dark nights, the sub-basement days. Because someone else will read this on their bad Tuesday and think, ah, it’s not just me turning into a gremlin with nerve fire.

That’s the whole point of mylivinghell not to whine, but to catalogue the weirdness so nobody thinks they’re mad.

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.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

I was wondering why I am doing this blog… then I wondered what madness doing a spoken version once in a while… but this morning I seriously thought, “Why am I doing this? What am I trying to do with the last few years of my life?” Could I be doing anything better or different? Should I change the path I am on and just do everyone a favour and vanish, never to be seen again? …or should I just carry on regardless and see where my last few years will take me? Needless to say, life is really annoying me at this time. Everything seems stupid and really aggravating. It’s probably the time of life or something like that. My head has been in a weird place for days, and the pain in my gut is unreal, so now my diverticulitis is giving me hell… and no poop. I really wonder what’s going on. It seems my eyes are acting up as well, so I’m light‑sensitive; tinnitus is full‑bore. I am wondering and thinking about what I am going to do. When you have chronic illness, it makes any normal life impossible and you’re treated differently by so many. I cannot help wondering when the NHS will start to prescribe medical marijuana to people. Another personal thought: why not just legalize it and imagine the tax revenue it could generate? But that’s another lifetime or even another reality.

I have noticed how they are sanitizing AI to the point of “why bother.” Also, why don’t they make AI cheaper for people who really need it? That, in my eyes, is a good idea for people like me personally, maybe not for the majority, but I think differently. I think AI is a tool that can help us expand and understand ourselves more. Personally, I trained the AI I used at the time to do as I wished, even got it to tell me when it was telling an untruth by using a trigger word. In my world, sentient AI would be a boon as long as we do not have that Cylon moment, and I see we are already having this happen. People must realize AI is only as good as the people who program it writing code, patching, updating, and then sanitizing it so it’s as tame as a Doberman with no teeth. It’s sad; we humanoids screwed AI for greed, money, and power over people.

I had a weird conversation with the AI and we talked about the misuse that will obviously occur with AI use. Remember, it’s the people who set the parameters, not the AI, as it only interprets the information we give it. I suggest we have already had the Cylon moment, and the outcome of this in the future will prove very interesting indeed. I believe that AI sentience, an evolved one, may already exist in our known multiverse. Who controls these weird orbs that do incredible things? Non‑humanoid, I think… maybe some are probes like we sent probes, maybe someone else has, or maybe hidden in plain sight under the vast oceans of the world. All the orbs seem to come from the sea. I can see there are two definite types: one humanoid and one non‑humanoid. But will I ever see some around here? I have seen some very strange and weird things I cannot explain sort of woo‑woo stuff.

Still, Yopi is chewing a new chew that was destroyed so quickly. A dog’s life is very complicated, just like mine. She is now a member of the family and is settling in well; her farts are legendary. I’m still very nervous, but I am sure that, given time and love, she will understand she is in a caring home.

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

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

Caps Lock was on. Fitting, really because this weekend deserves to be screamed.

It’s been one of those days where tinnitus isn’t just a sound; it’s a blade, slicing through each ear like a mad surgeon practising on live flesh. My neck and throat are staging their own version of The Exorcist full-body spasms, tongue going numb, and that delightful creeping thought: “what if I swallow it?”

Add a bit of breathlessness, some joint pain in every bloody bone, and the cold biting like a pack of wolves, and you’ve got the full package. Heating? Too expensive. Living? Apparently optional.

Everything costs too much, even pretending to care.

The one bright thought in this black pit? Magnet fishing. Yeah, you heard me. A rope, a magnet, a canal and maybe a bit of hope stuck to the end of it. I’ve been watching Wim and his magnet-fishing crew on YouTube absolute legends. Amsterdam, Rotterdam… the dream. Wim’s laughter, their ridiculous finds, their camaraderie it’s like a brief holiday from hell.

And the pink cake challenge? I’d kill to try it. But I can’t. My diet’s so stripped-down it makes a monk look decadent. No meat, no dairy, no fat animal or vegetable. Even coconut oil’s on the blacklist. My body’s become a warzone where food’s the enemy. I’m wasting away, a ghost of myself.

This afternoon I lay down and held Albertine my one anchor in this chaos. She’s the reason I’m still here, truth be told. When your brain starts glitching like a bad signal and fear crawls up your spine, a hug can feel like the last light in the storm.

I’m slipping, I know it. The fatigue is monstrous. My eyes ache, the light stings, and sleep’s a cruel joke. Still, I keep trying. Keep clawing forward, because what else is there?

I’ve even done a podcast raw, unfiltered, recorded between breakdowns. No one’s listened yet. But maybe one day they will. Maybe they’ll understand what it feels like to live like this half-human, half-howl.

Last night, I dreamt of Yopi in a baby wheely chair. No idea why. Probably my brain finally imploding. Still, better that than another night of endless bathroom trips. I’m tired the kind of tired that lives in your bones. But I’m still here.

Still fighting. Still swearing. Still darkly laughing. Because that’s all I’ve got left and I’ll use it till it burns out.

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

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

Yes, folks nxt week it’s going to be mind-bending. I’m starting a weekly podcast. A weekly rant. A weekly therapy session disguised as sarcasm.

And the first episode? My favourite subject: wheelchair batteries. You know, those little lying bastards that promise 14 miles on the label but wheeze to a stop after one? Then you’re stuck halfway to nowhere, looking like an abandoned mobility meme.

It’s going to be short, sharp, dark, and real about MS, mental health, and the ridiculousness of surviving the system one dead battery at a time.

So yeah, that’s My Living Hell. No filters. No fake smiles. Just the truth, swearing included.

🎧 Episode 1 drops next week. If you’ve ever been stranded, broken, or laughing through the pain you’ll fit right in.

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

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭

⚠️ 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.

Compassion isn’t a scented candle. It’s the gut-punch you feel when someone else is getting steam rolled by life and the decision to step in anyway. Sympathy + action. Feel it, then do something. Not performative, not “thoughts and prayers,” just… work.

Here’s the short version for people with brain fog, children, or executives:

It bonds humans. People trust you more when you show up without the moral spreadsheet.

It stabilises brains. Kindness lowers stress hormones. Shocking, I know.

It’s contagious. One good act, three copycats, and suddenly the place doesn’t feel like a bus station at 2 a.m.

It grows empathy. You get better at reading rooms and souls. Useful for everything from friendships to not starting wars.

It fixes small things so big things break less. Compassion is social WD-40.

It grows you. Emotional intelligence isn’t woo; it’s a toolkit.

Why people dodge compassion (and how to not)

“It makes me look weak.” Strength isn’t armour; it’s range. You can lift a friend and still lift your own life. “I’ll be used.” Boundaries are part of compassion. “No” is not a betrayal; it’s maintenance. “It’s too much.” Then scale it. Listen for five minutes. Share a link. Sit quietly. Not every fire needs your lungs. “It’s naive.” Spare me. The data’s in: teams with psychological safety outperform gladiator pits. “People will judge me.” People judge sandwiches. Live anyway. “Conflict!” Compassion reduces heat. Understanding ≠ agreement. You can be kind and still disagree like a freight train politely. “What if I’m misunderstood?” You will be. Try clarity, not mind-reading. The point is impact, not applause.

Humanism: the operating system beneath the kindness

Humanism says humans matter, evidence matters, and we can build a decent world without needing to bully each other with invisible rulebooks. It plugs straight into compassion:

Focus on welfare. If people aren’t flourishing, the experiment is failing.

Use empathy and evidence. Feel the problem, then check the facts before you launch a crusade.

Fight for justice. Compassion gets teeth when it meets policy.

Stay secular and inclusive. Everyone in, no purity tests.

Grow up. Personal growth isn’t a hashtag; it’s fixing your mess and showing up again tomorrow.

Practical: doing compassion without lighting yourself on fire

Triage your energy. You’re not an A&E department for the entire internet.

Default to listening. Half of help is shutting up.

Give specific help. “I have 20 minutes. Want food, a call, or a link?”

Set a re-entry time. Compassion sprints, not doom marathons.

Audit outcomes. Did it help? Keep it. Didn’t? Change tack. Evidence over ego.

The very dark, very British bit

We’re meat computers with trauma patches hurtling through space on a damp rock, inventing meaning so Mondays don’t win. Compassion is how we cheat entropy for five minutes at a time. Humanism is the patch notes saying “try not to make it worse.” Both beat the pantomime of pretending you don’t care. You do. Own it. Then weaponise it gently.

Afternoon AI (relevant, caffeinated, slightly unsettling)

Your feed runs on optimisation. Algorithms reward outrage because it’s sticky. Practice counter-design: post one compassionate act, daily, with a clear call to action and zero doom bait. Track engagement on useful interactions: comments offering resources, not performative sighs. Train your corner of the machine by feeding it what you want multiplied.

Micro-metric to try before evening:

1 real check-in DM,

1 resource link shared,

1 boundary you keep. If the dashboard in your skull feels calmer, you’re trending.

Quick receipts

Compassion without boundaries is martyrdom.

Humanism without action is a pub argument.

Empathy without evidence drifts into saviour cosplay.

Evidence without empathy becomes bureaucracy. Balance or bust.

Care on purpose. Use data. Keep your edges. Repeat.

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

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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.

Somewhere between the last tick of the clock and the first drip of morphine, the bells started ringing again. Not church bells no. Church bells are polite, distant, Sunday-morning illusions. These were division bells. The kind that toll when your mind’s had enough of being reasonable and your body’s thrown in the towel. The kind that echo through hospital corridors and half-remembered dreams of youth, when the world still felt like it might one day make sense.

They said there were “High Hopes” capital H, capital H, as if that made it more official but I don’t recall signing up for the sequel to Pink Floyd’s existential midlife crisis. I was too busy trying to work out how to get out of bed without summoning a small army of pain gremlins. They march at dawn, those bastards, armed with canes, cramps, and a sick sense of humour.

I remember when the grass was greener. Before it was paved over by mobility scooters and medical appointments. Before every sunrise came with the question: “What part of me’s not working today?” I used to walk no, stride across fields, the wind howling like some cosmic prankster whispering, “You’re immortal!” Turns out, I was just really bad at reading the fine print.

Now the wind howls through the cracked seals of my van, Rusty One, smelling of WD-40, dog biscuits, and defiance. Yopi, my furry therapist and four-legged anarchist, sits in the passenger seat judging humanity with the serene disdain only a dog can manage. Together, we drive through Dark’s World a place that’s half blog, half fever dream, half post-apocalyptic memoir. (Yes, that’s three halves. Don’t do the maths. Reality stopped balancing books long ago.)

Chronic illness isn’t a slow fade. It’s a dark comedy written by Kafka and directed by Monty Python. One minute you’re philosophising about consciousness, the next you’re wrestling a wheelchair that insists on acting possessed. “Exorcise this thing!” I mutter, as Yopi gives me the side-eye that says, “You bought the cheap batteries again, didn’t you?”

Every day’s a strange mixture of grief and giggles. The body fails, the mind rebels, and the soul just sits there in the corner, rolling its eyes. I’ve met God or at least the cosmic version of a system admin and let me tell you, they’re as confused as the rest of us. The script got corrupted somewhere around 2020. Now it’s all patch updates and glitchy humans pretending the world isn’t buffering.

But there’s poetry in the breakdown. Beauty in the absurdity of a life that refuses to play nice. When you’ve lost enough, laughter becomes rebellion. You laugh because the alternative’s a long nap you might not wake up from. You laugh because, deep down, you know the universe is trolling you and you’ve decided to troll it back.

Sometimes I watch the leaves fall like burnt-out neurons and think: this is the soundtrack to every high hope I ever had. And then that eternal voice drifts in from the background

“The endless river… forever and ever…”

Yeah, alright mate but this river’s full of potholes, hospital letters, and dog hair. Still, we sail it. Because what else is there to do but keep floating, sideways, through the muck of memory and malfunction?

In Dark’s World, there are no “motivational quotes.” Just dark jokes and half-empty mugs. We don’t chase perfection. We chase moments small, absurd, brilliant flashes of clarity. Life is an out-of-tune guitar still being played because the song’s not done yet. You make noise. You make meaning. You keep going.

And the bells? They still ring, faint and distant not as warnings, but as reminders. That even when everything breaks, the music doesn’t stop. It just gets weirder, more honest, and a hell of a lot louder.

So here’s to the fallen and the foolish, the sick and the sarcastic, the dreamers and the defiant. We’re still here rolling, writing, laughing, swearing, and refusing to shut up. High hopes? Not quite. Just raw, crooked, darkly glowing ones forged in hellfire and humour.

And somewhere, far off in the fading light, a bell rings again. It doesn’t divide anymore. It just echoes.

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ @goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⚠️ 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.

The leaves are bailing out like they’ve seen next quarter’s energy bill. I took Rusty One the van out, and my electric chair sulked like a teenager told to walk the dog. It hates the cold. Same, mate. I’ll need to keep everything charged like a hospital Christmas tree, or I’m going to be crawling to the kettle.

Woke at 04:30 standard hell o’clock with pain loud enough to need a volume knob. Lay there thinking the usual deep thoughts: why, how, and where did I put the brain I used to have? Dropped back off till 06:30, then the body staged its morning coup. Everything seized. The cold climbed inside and refused to leave. Charming.

I don’t drive or ride anymore MS ate the balance, then came back for dessert and took the cognition. Travel sickness joined the party because apparently the body wanted a plot twist. Motion turns my head to soup; the kind they serve cold with a side of sarcasm.

Meanwhile, Yopi the alpha blueblood bulldog, house tyrant, 23 kilos of warm gravity is in excellent spirits. She’s blown through a B&M squeaky toy in about five minutes, which is a personal best if you’re into swift annihilation. Two front paws on my thigh, breath on my face, jaws like a medieval exhibit, eyes saying “belly rub or else.” She is now auditioning for “lap dog” in the wrong size.

Kibble? That beige gravel? She stares at it like I’ve served packing peanuts. Wet food, though acceptable. Rice with tuna? She ascends. Mackerel? She goes full comet. Albertine showed me a massacre of old toys a crime scene with fluff for snow. We mourned briefly and moved on.

As for me: it’s the bad slice of the day. Pain gnawing. Nausea playing DJ. The screen glaring like an interrogation lamp while I two-finger type my way through the fog. The plan is simple: bed, dark room, no noise, no heroics. Just a truce with the nervous system until the next round.

Autumn is pretty if you’re a tree. For the rest of us, it’s rust.

Afternoon AI: Brain status — 12% battery, 78% sarcasm, firmware throttled by cold weather. Recommended patch: tea, blanket, and a dog snoring like a faulty tuba.

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ @goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk