ms brain fog

⚠️ 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 help.

I wasn’t always like this. I used to be strong. Fast. Loud. Capable. I used to eat food without fear. I used to walk — walk — without planning it like a goddamn military operation. Now?

Now I’m a husk in a wheelchair.

Today I spent over an hour staring at a folder on my computer — trying to find a simple book. Something about natural supplements. Something I used to read all the time. Something I knew was there.

But I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t remember.

Do you have any idea how that feels? To look at a screen like it’s an alien language? To feel your mind slipping, like water between cracked fingers, and no matter how hard you concentrate — it’s gone?

That’s what MS does. That’s what this silent, creeping parasite does. It doesn’t just rob you — it laughs while you try to pick up the pieces.

I tell people to hydrate. To eat right. To care for themselves.

You know what I forgot today?

Water. Something so basic. And I forgot. Again. Because I’ve been sweating through heatwaves like a corpse left on a radiator, and food — if you can even call what I consume food — feels like an enemy waiting to betray me. I’m vegan, not out of choice, but because my gut is now a trauma victim reacting to flavour like it’s a war crime.

You smell the wrong fat, and your body explodes. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Literally.

I’ve shat myself in public. I’ve thrown up so violently I burst blood vessels in my face. I’ve passed out mid-meal. And still, people say,

“But you look okay.”

“You’re just being dramatic.”

“Have you tried yoga?”

I’ve begged for help. The NHS? Overrun. I’ve asked for face-to-face support, and they treat me like I’m asking for the moon. Phone calls only. Delays. Waitlists. Voicemails that never get returned.

I’m still waiting for the wheelchair team. Still waiting to move like a human again.

My independence is shrinking by the hour, and the only thing anyone offers is “understanding” — but never action.

Let me tell you a little story. A receptionist once told me to “take a seat.” I rolled in, in a wheelchair, and she still had the nerve to look at me and sneer. She knew what she was saying. She knew exactly what she was doing. I looked at her and said:

“Do you ever get off your commode?”

Then I rolled out.

With a smile that cost me a week of energy and a lifetime of grace.

You want to know what it's like?

Let me ruin your day.

I hold my grandchildren and feel nothing. Not joy. Not pride. Not even skin. My arms are numb. Their warmth doesn’t reach me anymore.

I touch my face sometimes just to check I’m still there.

I speak, and my voice comes out slurred and slow like I’ve been bottle-feeding on gin all night.

My brain? Electrical storms. Static. Confusion. A battlefield of thoughts that never reach the finish line.

My legs betray me.

My bladder abandons me.

My stomach punishes me for trying to enjoy anything.

And my bowels? They’re on their own sick timeline.

I piss myself. I shit myself. I cry silently. And I survive.

And do you want to know the real kicker?

I don’t want this.

I never asked for this.

But I’m stuck in this skin.

And the world doesn’t care. Not really.

I don’t get empathy. I get pity if I’m lucky — disgust if I’m honest.

I don’t want your sad smiles. I want my fucking life back. But it’s gone. And I’m still here. And this is what’s left.

So no — this isn’t some “inspirational post.” This is not a lesson in gratitude or some Pinterest bullshit. This is a war cry from the ruins. This is rage. This is grief. This is me — raw, cracked, hollowed, and still showing up.

Hate me? Fine. Dismiss me? Go on. But you don’t get to pretend this isn’t real.

This is chronic illness. This is my living hell. And it does not come with a refund.

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

When MS hit, it hit fast. Whammo. It started real bad back in the ’80s, a slow burn that turned into a wildfire. By 2000, my cognition was in total meltdown — fuses blowing left and right, circuits frying. It took a couple more years for the full collapse.

Friends like Morpheus, Stumuzz, Granty Boy, Liberty, Loobz, Shoggy, Beets, JCB33 and a few more whose names slip my mind They were there. I remember every one of them with great fondness. Those were the real ones. The crew who stood by me before the fog swallowed everything.

But then there was Mr Cuda. My best mate. My oppo. He was different. The kind of guy who burned too bright, too fast. And when his fire went out… well, it broke something in me.

He committed suicide. Sad, really sad. His ghost still haunts me.

That ghost is a shadow that never leaves— It follows me in the silence between thoughts, It whispers in the fog that clouds my mind, It’s the weight on my chest in the dead of night, And the ache that never quite fades.

Losing him was like losing a piece of my own soul. Sometimes I swear I can still hear his laugh echoing in the corners of my mind— A reminder of who I was, and who I’ve lost.

The world keeps spinning, but for me, time stopped the day I lost him. And in the chaos of MS tearing me apart—body and brain—it’s that ghost that keeps me tethered to something real.

So this blog? It’s not just my fight against MS. It’s my way of holding on—to my past, my friends, and to the fragments of the man I used to be. It’s a memorial. A scream. A war journal.

Because even broken, even lost, even haunted—I’m still here. And I’m still dangerous.

The Warlock is dead—but the ghost has Wi-Fi.

              “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