Mental Health

So, the sun's out.

People always say that like it’s supposed to matter. Like the sunshine will somehow bleach away the stink of stress, misery, and existential rot we’ve all marinated in. But no, not today.

Everywhere I look—grey faces, furrowed brows, clenched jaws. The living are shuffling around like they’ve already died and just haven’t filled out the paperwork.

You can feel it in the air. That sick, metallic taste just behind the throat. Like a storm coming—but it's not weather. It's something worse.

The Beast is loose.

Not a myth. Not a metaphor. The Beast is the government—spun in grey suits, slick with power, blind with bureaucracy. It snarls in Parliament and drools through policies written in wine bars and cigar smoke. It doesn't walk—no, it slithers, unseen, through headlines and benefit assessments and the knock at the door when they tell you you've been sanctioned because you didn’t prove you were still dying hard enough.

The Beast doesn’t eat food. It eats hope. It feasts on the disabled, the poor, the mentally ill. It sniffs out despair like a pig with truffle-sensitivity and fangs.

And everyone’s playing the game. Eyes down. Pretend it’s not real. Pretend the letters on your doormat aren’t demands. Pretend the nurse didn’t just quit. Pretend the care home isn't full. Pretend that universal credit is anything but a slow-motion mugging.

Pretend we’re not already in the wasteland.

Dystopia isn’t coming. It’s here. It’s been here since we sold out compassion for efficiency. Since we decided that spreadsheets were more important than souls.

Orwell didn’t write fiction. He wrote a bloody user manual.

And those of us who do see?

We get dragged into the pit together. The mentally bruised. The physically wrecked. The ones who've been through the grinder so long we’ve learned to taste rust and call it breakfast.

We don’t want your sympathy. Keep your pity. All we want is honesty.

We are not fine.

We are surviving the Beast. Every. Single. Day.

And some of us have found ways to ride the storm. Me? I light a little herbal incense—strictly spiritual, of course—and let the fumes blur the edges of this living nightmare just enough to laugh.

Because what else is there?

So welcome, friends—new and old. Welcome to my nightmare. It’s not a dream. It’s not a metaphor. It’s my life, and maybe yours too.

Join me. Take my broken hand, my burned-out nerves, and we’ll skip merrily into the depths of cognitive collapse together.

Bring a torch. And a sense of humour.

You’ll need both.

                   “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

Welcome to the delightful circus that is multiple sclerosis, where the main act is your body betraying you in the most creative ways possible. Among the many charming surprises this condition throws your way, itching is like that one friend who crashes your party, drinks all your booze, and then refuses to leave. Let’s take a stroll through the hellscape of MS-related itching, shall we? The Itch That Just Won't Die

Picture this: you’re trying to enjoy a moment of peace, maybe contemplating why you just dropped your phone in the toilet. Suddenly, an itch strikes! But not just any itch—this is the kind that feels like a thousand tiny demons are having a rave on your skin. Welcome to the world of neuropathic itching, where scratching is as effective as using a spoon to dig a hole in concrete. Why Does This Happen?

Nerve Damage: Thanks to MS, your nerves are about as reliable as a politician’s promise. The myelin sheath is under siege, leading to all sorts of delightful sensations, including that relentless itch. It’s like your nerves are sending you a message: “Hey, remember when you thought you could have a normal life? LOL! Good luck with that!”

Unpredictable Fun: The itch can pop up anywhere—your back, your legs, even your scalp. It’s like a game of hide and seek, but you’re always “it,” and the prize is eternal discomfort. Who needs a spa day when you can have a full-body itch fest?

Triggers: Heat, stress, and certain medications can turn the itch dial up to eleven. So, if you thought a hot bath was a good idea, think again! It’s more like a ticket to the Itch Olympics, where the only prize is more itching.

How to Cope (or Not)

Scratching: Spoiler alert: it doesn’t help. It’s like trying to soothe a sunburn with a blowtorch. You’ll just end up with blood and scars to prove your suffering—because why not add a little flair to your misery?

Cold Compresses: These might provide temporary relief, but let’s be real—who wants to walk around with a bag of frozen peas on their skin? It’s not exactly a fashion statement.

Medications: If the itch becomes unbearable, consult your doctor. They might prescribe something to help, but don’t expect miracles. After all, this is MS we’re talking about. It’s like asking a magician to pull a rabbit out of a hat when all they have is a rock.

Alternative Remedies: Enter the world of CBD and THC oil—your potential new best friends. Medical marijuana has been known to help some folks manage their symptoms, including that relentless itch. Whether it’s through oils, edibles, or other forms, these alternatives might just provide a glimmer of relief in this dark comedy we call life. Just remember to consult with your healthcare provider before diving into the green goodness.

So, there you have it. Itching in MS is just another delightful layer of this hellish cake we call life. Embrace the chaos, and remember: laughter is the best medicine—unless you’re itching, in which case, it’s probably just more itching. Welcome to the club, where the only thing we have in common is our suffering and a dark sense of humor.

   “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 ✨🧌