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.

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.

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

⚠️ 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 look out the window, the hail is hammering the glass like nature’s own gang of thugs with ice-cubes. Each impact rattles through the room, echoing the storm going on inside my head. The concrete outside is now polka-dotted with white splats, like some deranged pastry chef has been at it. Above, thick, dark clouds are parked overhead, glaring down at me with all the charm of a nightclub bouncer at closing time. They’re not moving. They’re just there giving me the big “FU” while the sun tries to photobomb from behind them, throwing out an oddly warm glow.

Normally, I’m colder than a fish finger left at the back of the freezer. My hands are like small icebergs, my circulation having given up years ago. But somehow, in this moment, I actually feel a bit of warmth. Weird, right? My throat and neck, on the other hand, are throwing a tantrum that familiar strangulation feeling wrapping around the right side of my throat and Adam’s apple. Lucky me, it’s only a half-strangle today. Always a silver lining.

The top left of my head is doing its usual numb, pins-and-needles number, and the background soundtrack is a hellish lift music loop from the underworld. Perfect timing too because Rob Zombie just started blasting from my PC, in German of all things. It’s like being trapped inside a very confused nightclub. My hands are blocks of ice, typing slower than dial-up internet, but here we are.

When the Wall Hits Back

Years ago, in a particularly bad storm of frustration, I headbutted a wall. And yes, the wall won. Knocked myself out cold. Not my proudest moment, but it did force me to confront a few things I’d buried. Mental health wasn’t a conversation it was a brick wall. Literally.

I felt completely misunderstood, like shouting into a void where nobody bothers to echo back. The only reason I got through it was because of my partner 42 years together and tougher than steel. We went through hell side by side, piecing my brain back together over five long years. Eventually, I realised what was gnawing at me: PTSD. Once I called it by its name, I could finally start wrestling it properly.

The Pain People Don’t See

Physical pain and mental pain love to hold hands; they’re like a toxic couple that won’t break up. People see the wheelchair, they see the physical stuff, but they don’t get the soundtrack in my head, the weird sensations, the pressure, the fading memory.

I always tell people: go to your GP or a mental health professional. Get help. Don’t do what I did. My route was raw, brutal, and not for the faint-hearted. I’m a proud disabled man who’s learned to embrace his Marmite nature you’ll love me or hate me, but I’m not hiding anymore.

I’ve spoken to the ghost in the machine. It told me I’ve got purpose, and I bloody well believe it.

The Present Storm

The hail is still bashing the windows. Yopi the dog has just let one rip, and I’ve remembered to stop breathing through my nose. The little things keep me grounded. My memory’s slipping more these days, the right side of my head feels like it’s stuffed with wet sand, but I keep rolling.

Every journey in my powerchair is a trip into the unknown. Sometimes it’s chaos, sometimes it’s peace, usually it’s somewhere awkwardly in between. But I’m still here. Still moving. Still me.

Afternoon AI

Today’s weather forecast: 90% chance of hail, 100% chance of existential commentary, with occasional German industrial metal.

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.

So, chronic illness. A joyride through hell in a wheelchair made of barbed wire. If you’re in the club, I don’t need to tell you it’s exhausting, absurd, and sometimes the only option left is to laugh before you cry yourself into a flare.

Here are 10 “fun” facts about chronic illness that might make you laugh, groan, or throw something.

1. The “Invisible” Magic Trick I’m fine. I look fine. Until I’m not. My body does the disappearing act of a Vegas magician, minus the applause. Cue the genius asking: “But you don’t look sick?” You’re right, Sherlock. Neither does Wi-Fi, and yet here we are.

2. Chronic Illness Is Weirdly Popular Statistically, over half of adults have at least one chronic condition. That’s right, 50% of people are secretly walking (or limping) into the club. Pity the membership perks are rubbish.

3. Genetics: The Family Heirloom No One Wanted Some families pass down houses, jewellery, or good bone structure. Mine passes down arthritis and dodgy immune systems. Cheers, ancestors.

4. The Bonus Round: Mental Health It’s not just your body. Chronic illness takes your mind out back and kicks it around too. Depression, anxiety, stress it’s like getting the “deluxe” package nobody ordered.

5. Cure? Ha. Science is trying, bless them. But for now, it’s all “management.” Basically, we live in the land of trial-and-error self-care. Sometimes exercise and kale help. Sometimes they just remind you that life is a cruel joke.

6. Lifestyle as a Job Description Managing your health is like being a houseplant with trust issues. Food, light, water, stress control. Do it right and you might thrive. Do it wrong and you wilt in public.

7. Predictability? Never Heard of Her. You plan a nice day? A flare hears you and says, “Not on my watch.” Your body is basically a toxic relationship: charming when good, brutal when bad.

8. Personal Growth, Whether You Like It or Not You get tough, resourceful, and annoyingly self-aware. Like a Jedi, but with a stick instead of a lightsaber. Independence? Optional. Asking for help? Necessary.

9. Tech Symbiosis Welcome to cyborg life. Fitbits, apps, pill alarms machines have become my sidekicks. My body rebels; my tech tattles. Together, we’re barely functional.

10. You’re Not Alone It feels isolating, but the internet is crawling with people who get it. Forums, Facebook, Reddit, Insta tribes they exist, and they’ll make you feel less like a freak in the void.

Closing Thoughts Chronic illness isn’t fun. It’s savage. It rips your plans apart, laughs in your face, and occasionally ruins your life for sport. But it also forces you to find humour in places most people would rather look away from. That’s resilience. That’s survival. And if nothing else you’re not alone in the madness.

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

⚠️ 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.

Pets and Mental Health

Let’s be honest: when you’ve got MS, or any chronic delight that chews through your brain and body like a rat in a cereal box, you need a bit of backup. Enter pets. They’re either the reason you cling to sanity… or the reason you’re face-planting on the carpet because your bulldog “accidentally” herded you into the coffee table.

Companionship and Emotional Support

Unconditional Love: Which really means they love you because you smell like food and have opposable thumbs. Still, it beats human relationships half the time.

Routine and Responsibility: Feeding them, walking them, remembering to let them out before they piss on the carpet — structure, baby. Sometimes that’s the only structure MS lets you have.

Stress Reduction

Physical Touch: Stroking a cat reduces stress. Stroking a dog reduces stress. Stroking a hedgehog raises questions.

Distraction from Worries: Watching your cat fail to jump on the sofa is cheaper than therapy and about as effective.

Recognizing Emotional Changes

Behavioral Cues: Dogs sense when you’re sad. Cats sense it too, but only so they can sit directly on your bladder until you cry harder.

Encouraging Activity: Dogs make you move. Cats make you a static heating pad. Either way, your muscles get a workout — voluntary or not.

Mood Enhancement

Joy and Laughter: A dog chasing its tail. A cat chasing nothing. Both are funny until you remember they probably think the same thing watching you.

Social Interaction: Walking a dog = conversations with strangers. Owning a cat = conversations with yourself. Both keep you just sane enough not to hit anyone.

Pets will either:

Save your mental health.

Destroy your house.

Remind you that death comes for all of us (but first for the goldfish).

Still, between the fur, farts, and emotional chaos, they’re usually worth it. Unless you’re allergic. Then it’s just asthma and regret.

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

⚠️ 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 Thursday. The sun is out, probably warmer than my place, which is basically an icebox. Today’s forecast? Existential dread with a chance of mild joy.

This morning, the doctor rang me for my phone appointment. Absolute legend. Actually made me feel less like a human pincushion, which is impressive because I have severe white coat syndrome. Since moving here, local doctors are… shockingly decent. no Plumbstick, it’s almost unsettling.

Then came the highlight of my day: the “machine of death” at the chemist. It always malfunctions like it has a personal vendetta against me. But today? Today I smiled through the existential horror.

Yopi, my alpha Blueblood American Bulldog, was serene like she’d transcended this mortal coil. She hopped into the back of Rusty 1, strapped in like a responsible adult (she’s better at this than me), and off we went. The warmth of the day made me momentarily forget I’m a failing meat suit with MS. Dogs are magical that way. Stroke a dog’s chin and suddenly the chronic pain fades to background noise… until reality slaps you in the face again.

Speaking of slaps: my head feels… weird. Not foggy, just like some cosmic veil is tugging me toward a place free of pain. Somewhere better. Warmer. Definitely less human. My spiritual side is currently a maze, confusing me, mocking me, asking, “Who even are you?” Just a random meat suit with MS, apparently.

I put on The Eagles and let the memories flood in. Nostalgia is a cruel friend reminds you what you’ve lost while your limbs stage a protest.

We drove to the chemist. Thrilling stuff. All normal, boring, mundanely tragic but Yopi enjoyed it. Sometimes I wish I were a dog. Carefree. Oblivious. Immortal in joy.

Yes, that’s Thursday. Survived. Somehow.

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

⚠️ 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 Fatigue Olympics — A Users’ Guide to Collapsing with Style

You know that moment when your body files for bankruptcy mid-toast? Welcome to the Fatigue Olympics: events nobody asked for, medals nobody wants, commentary provided by a goblin with a migraine and a sense of humour darker than a southern sky in February.

Opening Ceremony (lights off, obviously)

No fireworks. Too bright. We light a tea candle, stare at it for four minutes, then cancel the parade because we’re exhausted from thinking about it.

Events

100m Dash to the Loo

You stand. The world tilts. Knees write a resignation letter. Heroic sit-down pee. Gold medal for not crying on the bath mat.

Toast Marathon

Aim: butter toast. Outcome: butter floor, butter dog, butter despair. The toaster dings like a smug little tyrant. DNF (Did Not Finish), again.

Sofa Free-Climb

Mid-sentence coma. You wake three hours later with a crumb fossilised to your cheek. Was it an important conversation? Probably. Did you survive? Also probably.

Shower Sprint

You manage one armpit and a stern glance at the shampoo. Podium finish if you got your hair wet on purpose.

Remote-Control Deadlift

Attempt to change channel. Drop remote on face. Pretend it was “mindfulness.” Bronze medal for not swearing at inanimate objects (you swore).

Stairs Biathlon

Climb and breathe. That’s it. That’s the sport. Personal best if you don’t consider simply living at the top step forever.

Grocery Gauntlet

Entering the shop was hubris. Leaving is a quest. Bread is heavy now. Who made bread heavy?

Scoring System

Finished without crying: +10

Finished while crying: +20 (tears count as electrolytes)

Didn’t finish but made a meme about it: automatic silver

Cancelled the day and survived: lifetime achievement award

Why this isn’t “just being tired”

Fatigue is a hostile takeover. It hijacks signal from brain to body and replaces it with static. You’re not lazy; your wiring is on fire. Some days clarity visits for a few hours; you shift your mindset, put on music, make art, write something grim and honest, and that tiny act becomes revolutionary. That’s the win: not pretending it’s fine—moving anyway, even if “moving” is tapping one sentence and then lying down like a Victorian ghost.

Closing Ceremony

We applaud in our heads to conserve energy. The anthem is played at half-speed. Everyone leaves early and naps like champions.

Post Footer: Practical Notes (because survival is punk)

Lower the bar until you can step over it. Then lower it again.

One task = a win. Two = a parade.

Music, art, writing: not hobbies—lifelines.

If anyone calls you “brave,” invoice them.

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

⚠️ 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.

So, my dad’s finally passed. No tears, no fuss just a nice, quiet obliteration. Dead as yesterday’s news, and honestly, a bit of relief: nearly 90, more aches and pains than a used Vauxhall, and now he’s ghosting about pain-free, probably giving the afterlife staff hell.

We didn’t have the typical family drama. We had 1,000s of miles of Skype buffering, WhatsApp conspiracy theories, and two decades of gene-detective work, chasing dead brothers and rejected half-sisters like a couple of Poirots. No “happy endings,” just hard drive clutter and unanswered emails. Dad’s long lost brother Eric? Still a ghost in the records. Maybe he’s haunting someone else’s family tree now.

Adoption, by the way, is a real bastard if you want answers. You end up playing Guess Who with a stack of birth certificates and the emotional stability of a tired magpie. We even signed up for a DNA site hoping for a ping, maybe a new cousin or two. Instead, plot twist: I found out I have a daughter in the USA (cheers, genetic lottery), plus three grandkids who were expecting a Disney dad, not some knackered old biker in a wheelchair with a line in gallows humour. Fair play to them they ran for the hills.

What can I say? MS turned me from “not bad for a weird bloke” to “the goblin on wheels who says the quiet part loud.” No more Mr. Nice Guy. People don’t like raw truth especially family. Most of them would rather pretend I’m a ghost, too. That’s fine by me. I’m not here to collect friends like tea towels. I’ve got Albertine, a rescue dog on the way, and enough old stories to fill a thousand pub sessions. If that’s not a win, what is?

Mum’s funeral? Missed it. No invite, no closure, just another adoption special “Sorry mate, she’s gone. By the way, don’t come round.” Classic. Different’s never sat well with the clan. The looks I get are priceless; I could sell tickets.

So here’s to my dad spiritualist elder, late bloomer, stubborn bugger, and the reason I know the truth always tastes better with a dash of venom and a twist of disbelief. Rest easy, you old bastard. I’ll keep riding (even if it’s just in my head).

Life’s a circus, death’s the punchline, and I’m still here, loving every bit of the weirdness.

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.

I’m sat here waiting for an email about my impending dog acquisition a blue Staffy, ideally female, spayed, two to four years old, preferably capable of tolerating my questionable music taste and my powerchair’s death-rattle. Partner in crime (metaphorical, calm down, officer). If luck behaves for once, we’ll be doing miles me in the chair, her with ears like satellite dishes, both of us pretending we’ve got our act together.

I’ve trawled rescue sites and breeder pages like a raccoon in a bin and found exactly three things: (1) everyone wants a Staffy, (2) the good ones vanish faster than my patience, and (3) every “available now!” looks suspiciously like “available yesterday, sorry, already gone.” Still hope’s a stubborn little weed.

Sleep has become a rumour. Nights blur into days; days smell like old coffee and medical admin. I feel weird (weirder than my baseline, which is impressive), and I’m listening to John Cooper Clarke because if you’re going to spiral, do it with better metaphors. Meanwhile I’m eating the same “safe” foods on loop like a hostage in my own kitchen. Even the rice is giving me side-eye. Who do I complain to? The beetroot?

This is where people chime in with “stay positive” and try to pat me on the head. Here’s a better idea: keep your hand clear of the goblin. Bite radius is expanding with age.

And before the chorus pipes up yes, I remember the glory days: hot rods, fast bikes, Santa Pod Raceway, petrol in the blood and tinnitus for dessert. Now it’s tyres on pavement and a battery gauge I stare at like an anxious parent. Same wind in the hair. Different horsepower.

If you’re wondering why I talk to AI so much, it’s because it actually answers. No waiting room Muzak. No being told I’m “overreacting.” Just: here’s what’s likely true, here’s what’s probably nonsense, here’s what to try next. Brutal honesty without the bored shrug. That’ll do, shard. That’ll do.

Affirmations for the ethically jaded:

If someone pats you on the head, bite the hand (metaphorically unless they insist).

If the world gaslights you, light your own damn torch.

If your food gaslights you, eat it anyway, glare at it, and write a poem about revenge.

Blue Staffy Manifestation Checklist (from the goblin to the universe):

Female, 2–4 years, spayed, local enough not to require a pilgrimage.

Good with powerchairs, swearing, and poetry.

Enjoys long rolls, short bursts of chaos, and snacks that don’t argue back.

Until the email lands, I’ll be here wired, tired, and mildly feral building the next mile with a dog I haven’t met yet.

Goblin logic of the day: positivity isn’t pretending it’s fine; it’s grinning while you sharpen the axe.

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.

Beyond the Awkward Truth: Reclaiming Intimacy, Pleasure & Connection

If you read Part 1, you already know we ripped up the polite pamphlet version of “MS & sex” and talked about the real, awkward truths: sexual dysfunction, libido loss, nerve changes, fatigue, and how multiple sclerosis can affect intimacy on every level primary, secondary, and tertiary.

Part 2 is your guide forward. We’ll cover practical ways to work around MS-related sexual problems, from cooling hacks and position adaptations to communication tools, pelvic floor therapy, and adaptive-friendly toys. More importantly, this is about hope — proving that intimacy, touch, and pleasure are still very much possible with MS, whether you’re dealing with numbness, spasticity, or just the psychological toll it can take.