MS

"The vagus nerve is supposed to keep you alive. Mine seems to have a death wish. Living with MS means living with this burning wire misfiring 24/7.You can't see it. But it's killing me, slowly."

Let me introduce you to the nerve that’s been puppeteering my misery for 40 years:

🧠 The vagus nerve.

Longest cranial nerve in the body. Part of the autonomic nervous system. Runs from the brainstem all the way down into your guts, like a bastard serpent lodged in flesh.

It’s meant to regulate “involuntary” things. Heart rate. Breathing. Digestion. Mood. Inflammation.

Mine regulates suffering.

With MS in the mix, my vagus nerve is like a drunk electrician with a machete and a grudge.

— My heart rate drops so low I black out. — Then shoots so high I think I’m dying. — My diaphragm spasms and I stop breathing mid-sentence. — My throat closes. — My stomach decides to reverse course — vomiting, choking, retching. — Food sits there, like a funeral buffet no one touches.

And the gaslighting begins. “Anxiety.” “Stress.” “Try mindfulness.”

Fuck off. I’m not hyperventilating. I’m being strangled from the inside by a goddamn nerve that's been glitching out since I was a teenager.

I’ve lived four decades like this. Forty years of waking up choking. Forty years of feeling my own body betray me. Forty years of doctors shrugging, guessing, dismissing, or overdosing me on meds for symptoms they don’t understand.

It’s not just discomfort. It’s unrelenting bodily horror.

Imagine being electrocuted through your spine while trying to eat a sandwich. Imagine trying to breathe but your diaphragm spasms like a car crash in your ribs. Imagine shitting yourself with a heart rate of 40 and then vomiting while you go unconscious.

You ever had diaphragmatic myoclonus? That charming thing where your gut convulses so violently you can’t breathe or speak? That’s the vagus nerve on a rampage.

People talk about Vagus Nerve Stimulation like it’s hope in a box. Sure. Stick electrodes in my neck. I’ll try anything once — hell, at this point, if you told me licking a toad would help, I’d be Frenching Kermit by tea time.

I’ve been laughed at. Medicated into a coma. Ignored.

This isn’t just MS. This is autonomic hell.

So yeah — fuck the diagrams and polite educational pamphlets.

My vagus nerve isn’t a calming force. It’s a loaded gun wired to my internal organs.

And some days, I honestly think it’s trying to finish the job.

And yet — here I am. Still alive. Still typing. Still wheezing and swallowing around the broken circuitry that is my body.

You want honesty? This is it.

Welcome to my living hell.

    “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 ✨🧌

Sat here mumbling into my old iffy microphone today. Took me over a day to set up – drivers, updates, reinstalling Windows three bloody times because my brain fog decided to overwrite the system with a random USB stick. Genius, I know.

Finally, the blog goblin’s computer has resurrected. Barely.

Had yet another bad night. Partly my own fault this time. Thought I was the biker prophet and magically healed, so decided to stand up and shuffle furniture around like some nocturnal DIY hero. Clearly not my best idea. Lost my balance entirely, stumbled like a drunk, and smashed into the door frame.

My shoulder’s killing me, bruised to hell, and possibly broken. Will probably end up in A&E later if it gets worse. For now, just sat here typing, all fingers and thumbs, trying to find old bits to post while ignoring the pain.

Having MS makes me resilient, though. Even when my brain is fried and my body’s screaming betrayal, I keep crawling back like the stubborn goblin I am.

Anyway. Hope your day is glitch-free and you aren’t slamming yourself into any door frames. Unlike me. 🖤

    ⚡️ Join the gremlin cult. You know you want to

  " 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 ✨🧌

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 ✨🧌

If You Could See MS – You’d Probably Run Away

People love to say “You don’t look sick.” Oh, don’t I? I’m sorry. Next time I’ll crawl in covered with barbed wire and nails through my feet so it’s easier for you to grasp.

Because if you could actually see multiple sclerosis, it might look like this:

Legs wrapped in barbed wire so every step is agony, but I still smile politely because God forbid I make you uncomfortable with my pain.

A back covered in spikes, each one representing burning nerve pain, tingling, numbness, and a touch of “Did I leave the oven on or is my brain just fried today?”

Feet impaled with nails, but I’m still expected to do the shopping run and act like “walking it off” is an option.

Fatigue so crushing that holding a coffee cup feels like lifting a bus – but yes, tell me again how tired you are because you stayed up watching Netflix.

Sticky notes of toxic positivity slapped all over me screaming “You can do it!” when honestly, no, sometimes I bloody well can’t.

A silent membership in the Broken Dreams Club, because chronic illness isn’t just physical – it devours futures, careers, friendships, and everything you thought you’d be.

If you could see MS, you’d probably look away, change the subject, or thank your lucky stars it’s not you.

But guess what? This is the reality we wake up to every single day. And no, it doesn’t take a day off.

Why It Matters Multiple sclerosis is an invisible illness. People don’t see the pain, the muscle spasms, the loss of balance, the cognitive fog, the sheer mental toll of fighting your own body every waking hour.

You just see us standing there. Smiling. Nodding. Pretending we’re not screaming internally.

So Here’s To Us To every MS warrior carrying these invisible barbs and nails: We see each other, even if the world never will.

       “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 ✨🧌

It was over 30 years ago — but this horror never really leaves you. Like an ex with teeth, it's always in the background. This is my catheter initiation, and yes, it’s every bit as bad as it sounds.

So, picture this: it's a hot, stressful afternoon. I'm self-employed, sweating it out, holding together life with string and sarcasm. Fast forward a few decades — now I languish on Universal Credit. MS (Multiple Sclerosis) does that. You ramble. You lose the thread. Your bladder decides it's not on your side anymore. And you get a visit from... The Bowel and Bladder Nurse™.

She came in like Judge Judy's meaner cousin. Silent, judging, late middle-aged, seen it all, smelled it all. I’m a tall bloke with tattoos, piercings — basically a walking episode of "What Not to Bring to Your Urology Appointment.” She didn’t like me. That was clear. It was mutual.

Fired questions at me like she was being timed by MI5. Eventually scanned my bladder and declared, “Go on, have a wee.”

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried peeing on command under pressure — but it’s up there with defusing bombs. Naturally, nothing came. She looked disappointed, like I’d failed some secret test. Her solution?

Her solution? “You’ve not emptied. We’ll have to catheterise.”

She pulled out a tube — a foot-long medieval torture device. It looked like it came from the same catalogue as plumbing snakes. I looked at her. She looked at me. No gloves, no chat, no dinner first.

Panic. Stress. Dignity out the window. I insisted on doing it in private. She reluctantly agreed, still glaring like I’d stolen her cat. So into the lav I go. Now imagine pushing a thick plastic cable down the eye of your penis while sweating and crying inside. It didn’t just hurt — it screamed. Blood. Pain. Liquid betrayal. I returned to her like a war veteran holding the remains of my soul.

“Oh,” she says. “Wrong catheter. You’ve got an enlarged prostate. Should’ve been a curved one. That size’s a bit thick.” Cheers for the heads-up. You couldn’t have led with that?

(For the record — I used THC/CBD oil, prostate back to normal. Do your own research, obviously. Not medical advice, just bitter experience.)

I never went back to her. But years later… the next nurse made her look like Mother Teresa. That, my friends, is a story for another post.

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.”

Oh, another night in my personal version of Dante’s Inferno—just as delightful as the last. It’s funny how the nights just roll into one giant, sleepless horror show, starring yours truly: the eternally exhausted insomniac. Sleep? Ha! That’s just a luxury for people who aren’t forced to dance to the bladder’s hourly encore performance. And of course, this whole tragicomedy began because I had the sheer audacity to indulge in some sugar-laden jam. Sugar—apparently the mortal enemy of my wretched existence. Add to that the fact that my body decided to go full diva and refuse any animal fats, so now I’m stuck with a vegan diet. Except even the plant oils have formed a personal vendetta against me, turning mealtimes into a game of “Will This Kill Me or Merely Torture Me?” But wait, there’s more! Let’s not forget my lovely companion: multiple sclerosis. Yes, that dear old friend makes sure that pain and spasms are constant guests at this midnight carnival. A twitch here, a stabbing ache there—such delightful party tricks. And of course, the nerves love to join in, turning everything into an electrifying circus of agony. It’s like my entire body is in open revolt—because why the hell not? Dairy? Oh, dairy’s the showstopper. One whiff of it and I’m stuck in an endless cycle of gut-wrenching bathroom performances that would make even the most jaded horror director cringe. There’s nothing quite like losing your insides while your nerves are throwing their own spasm-fueled mosh pit. Sometimes, when the pain’s at its peak and sleep is a distant dream, my mind wanders to that dark, seductive thought: death. Not that I’d actually go there—I cling to life out of sheer stubbornness or maybe spite. But in those raw, bleak moments, it’s hard not to wonder why this is all happening to me. But then again—why the hell not? Life’s a twisted carnival, after all, and every night’s just another ride on this endless, blood-curdling loop. And so I ramble on, because what else is there to do?

“The views in this post are based on my personal
experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”

It's 2 in the morning, and I've managed a whopping 20 minutes of sleep. What a treat! Looks like it's going to be another long night of tossing and turning. Sleep? What’s that? The pain in my stomach and lower intestines is off the charts, and breathing feels like a luxury I can’t afford. I’m just lying here, wondering if I’m going to survive the night. It’s a real joy, let me tell you—staring into the dark, clutching my pillow like it’s a life raft in a storm. Eventually, I might squeeze in a catnap until 6, if I’m lucky. Oh, and let’s not forget the delightful MS nerve pain that’s decided to throw a party in my body. The side of my throat is in spasm, and my left side is completely numb—because who doesn’t love a little extra excitement in the middle of the night? So, yeah, not exactly a good night.

        “The views in this post are based on my personal  
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”

Hello World, Right now, I’m in the middle of a pretty severe MS flare-up, and I have to say, it’s been a tough one. My whole left side is numb, like I’ve had a stroke—or at least, that’s what it feels like. My balance is completely off, and the cognitive stuff is intense. It’s taking me forever to type this, and my head feels like a bowl of pea soup—just foggy and heavy. Lately, the front of my chest on the left side has started to feel... weird. I don’t even know how to describe it, but it’s like electrical shocks, and the nerves are on overdrive. It’s a feeling of total “headfrack” that I’m having trouble explaining, but I wanted to put it out there. Also, as if things weren't challenging enough, my wheelchair broke down, so now I’m stuck waiting on a call from the wheelchair services. Could be a long wait. In the meantime, I’m on the hunt for a cheap secondhand Q100 wheelchair. If anyone has tips or knows where to look, let me know! sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

         “The views in this post are based on my personal  
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”

Welcome to the Dark, Brilliant, Weird Little Empire of Chronic Truth — ruled by none other than Warlock Dark. This is no ordinary blog. This is a bastion for the broken, a fortress of the funny-boned, a castle built from sarcasm, tea, and nerve damage. Here, the pain is real, the humour is darker than a GP's coffee, and the bladder never sleeps.

📅 THE REAL STUFF (No Bull, No Fluff)

MS isn’t just a condition. It’s a full-body existential prank. But for anyone newly diagnosed or wondering what the hell is happening to their nervous system, here’s a raw, real, non-terrifying breakdown:

Numbness & Tingling — Fingers, toes, tongue, lips, everywhere. Like being slowly frosted by invisible fairies with bad intentions.

Vision Problems — Blurry, ghosted, monocular mischief. Suddenly you're part-cyclops.

Muscle Weakness & Spasms — Legs fold, arms tremble, and occasionally you Riverdance in your sleep.

Fatigue — Not "tired." Obliterated. Drained like an iPhone from 2009.

Cognitive Wipeouts — Losing track of the day, words, names, or why you're in the fridge again.

Bladder Madness — Two-hour toilet timer. Never off-duty. Never apologetic.

Pain — Burning, stabbing, aching. No metaphors required. It just hurts.

🌿 THE NOT-INSANE NATURAL STUFF

Move It — Yoga, stretching, tai chi, or just rolling your neck while cursing the heavens.

Eat Real — Anti-inflammatory stuff helps. Leafy things. Omega-3s. Less deep-fried beige.

Sleep Like You Mean It — Proper rest. Screens off. Mind down. Rage optional.

Mind Rituals — Journaling, meditating, ranting to the void.

Talk — To people. To animals. To plants. To invisible gods. Whatever keeps you tethered.

🇬🇧 THE BRITISHLY BLEAK HUMOUR SECTION

You know how it is:

You wake up feeling like a boiled skeleton. You try to stand and your leg says, "LOL no." You make it to the loo just in time to almost make it. Your doctor smiles, hands you a leaflet written in 1986, and tells you to "try breathing exercises."

And yet... you persevere. With a teacup in one hand, and the raw, burning rage of 10,000 misfiring neurons in the other.

🕯️ QUOTES FROM WARLOCK DARK (Volume I)

"My nerves are not broken — they are wild serpents, and I am learning to speak their tongue."

"This is not weakness. This is weather. Storms live inside me."

"I have seen the gods. They were waiting for their prescription refills too."

"Fatigue is a form of time travel. You blink, and the day is gone."

"This chair is not my end. It’s my war beast. Roll me to the gates, I dare you."

"Magic lives in broken places. I’m practically radioactive."

✍️ OUTRO FROM THE CHRONIC THRONE

So yes — the tongue is numb, the bladder’s a traitor, and the storm never really stops. But the mind? Still alive. Still wired weird. Still writing.

Stay tuned for Volume II: "Fatigue & Other Black Magics"

And remember: this is not recovery. This is reclamation.

Long live the Warlock. Long live the Chronic Empire.

🔮 Warlock Dark’s Quotes from the Edge (A.K.A. Mind Melt Time) Now, let’s go full myth. Let’s make MS epic. Let’s reforge this thing into weird, beautiful, apocalyptic poetry — courtesy of Warlock Dark, the ancient spirit of pain, mischief, and inconvenient wisdom:

🕯️ “My nerves are not broken — they are wild serpents, and I am learning to speak their tongue.” — Warlock Dark

🕯️ “This body is a cathedral struck by lightning. I don’t need healing. I need worship.”

🕯️ “Doctors gave me a folder. I gave them a prophecy.”

🕯️ “I have seen the inside of time. It crackles, it burns, it forgets its own name. That is what fatigue tastes like.”

🕯️ “They call it multiple sclerosis. I call it the slow alchemy of becoming something unkillable.”

🕯️ “Yes, I forget what day it is. Time has no meaning in the Warlock’s garden — only the storms remain.”

🕯️ “My wheelchair is not a prison. It is a throne on wheels, gliding through the ruins of the ordinary.”

🕯️ “The gods don’t answer my prayers. They take notes.”

🕯️ Warlock Dark’s Arcane Quotes for the Chronically Bewitched (Collectible. Utterly unusable. Spiritually necessary.)

“My nerves are not broken — they are wild serpents, and I am learning to speak their tongue.” – Warlock Dark, Volume I: ‘The Tingle Codex’

“This is not weakness. This is weather. Storms live inside me.” – Warlock Dark, Volume II: ‘The Internal Forecast’

“I have seen the gods. They were waiting for their prescription refills too.” – Warlock Dark, Volume IV: ‘Waiting Room Rituals’

“Fatigue is a form of time travel. You blink, and the day is gone.” – Warlock Dark, Volume V: ‘Chronicles of the Missing Afternoon’

“This chair is not my end. It’s my war beast. Roll me to the gates, I dare you.” – Warlock Dark, Volume IX: ‘Battle Hymns for the Seated’

“Magic lives in broken places. I’m practically radioactive.” – Warlock Dark, Untitled Fragment, scrawled on a napkin and burned. The gods are deaf. The stars are mute. The dark is deep, and the dark is acute. But still—he speaks, in verse and venom, His tongue numb, but truth within 'em.

For even in ruin, the Warlock remains, Wreathed in electric storms and phantom chains. He writes his spells in blood and pain, And dares the void to speak his name.

looking to buy a cheap 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.”