MS Symptoms

⚠️ 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.

“Cannabis isn’t a cure. But for me (and many others) it sometimes feels like lowering the waterline so I’m not constantly drowning.”

Living with multiple sclerosis is like being handed a body that’s half-conspirator, half-prison guard. One day it lets you move, the next it locks you in with pain, spasms, and exhaustion. People who don’t live it often don’t get it. That ignorance can make conversations about treatments uncomfortable—especially when cannabis comes up.

Cannabis still carries heavy stigma. For decades it’s been painted as the drug of lazy teenagers, a dangerous gateway, or a “last resort.” But the reality is more complicated. For many with MS, cannabis isn’t about chasing a high it’s about clawing back a bit of life. It’s not a cure, and it never will be. What it can do, in the right form, for the right person, is bring relief. Sometimes small, sometimes significant, always worth noticing.

What the evidence actually says

Science is messy, but let’s strip it down to what we know. Cannabis is a plant, yes, but the two compounds that matter most in MS treatment are:

THC (tetrahydrocannabinol): The part that makes people high. Psychoactive, strong, and for some people, too much.

CBD (cannabidiol): Doesn’t produce a high. Interacts differently in the body, often described as the calming counterpart to THC.

Together, in carefully balanced medical products, they can target symptoms that MS brings to the table.

Spasticity: where cannabis shines

This is the symptom where cannabis shows the clearest benefit. Studies and lived experience show that THC+CBD sprays such as Sativex (available in the UK under specialist prescription) can reduce muscle stiffness and spasms. People report less pain, easier sleep, and more control. Clinical tools that doctors use don’t always capture the full effect, but patients’ own reports matter. Relief you can feel is relief that counts.

Neuropathic pain: promising, but mixed

Neuropathic pain is one of the cruellest symptoms of MS burning, stabbing, electric shocks that don’t stop. Some trials show cannabis extracts help reduce this pain, particularly when other drugs fail. Others find only modest benefits. What’s clear is that many patients experience genuine improvement, even if not every study proves it on paper.

Sleep and quality of life: secondary gains

When stiffness and pain ease, sleep improves. Better sleep ripples out into mood, energy, and daily functioning. These knock-on benefits often don’t make it into study data, but they matter enormously in real life.

Why the stigma lingers

Say “cannabis” and too many people still picture a stoner on a sofa surrounded by crisp packets. For someone with MS, that stereotype is a slap in the face. You’re not looking to escape you’re trying to ease spasticity enough to get through the night without screaming into your pillow.

The stigma is political and cultural, not medical. Cannabis was demonised for decades, and even though attitudes are shifting, the old narratives cling on. In the UK, cannabis-based medicines are legal—but only under strict circumstances, and only through specialist doctors. Most GPs can’t or won’t prescribe. That leaves many people sourcing CBD oils or black-market products, where quality is questionable and legality is a grey cloud hanging overhead.

Risks and realities

Let’s not polish this into a miracle. Cannabis has risks. Honesty is what dismantles stigma, not over-promising.

Cognitive fog: MS already messes with memory and focus. THC can worsen that for some.

Mental health risks: High-THC strains can trigger anxiety or paranoia, especially in people already vulnerable.

Physical side effects: Dizziness, fatigue, nausea, and changes in heart rate or blood pressure.

Dependence: Rare with medical, controlled use, but not impossible.

These don’t mean cannabis is “bad.” They mean it’s a tool, and tools need skill to use safely. The difference between relief and trouble often comes down to dose, formulation, and medical oversight.

Why it matters anyway

Here’s the thing: when you live with MS, symptom relief is gold dust.

Even a 20% drop in pain, even one less night of spasms, even an extra hour of sleep it all adds up. That can mean the difference between being stuck in bed all day or having enough energy to make breakfast. Between drowning in pain and keeping your head above water.

Cannabis offers that to some. Not all, not always, but enough that it deserves respect and consideration rather than judgement and whispers.

What needs to change

Research is still catching up. Decades of stigma slowed everything down. What we need now are:

More trials: Larger, longer, better-designed studies.

Clearer guidance: What dose works? Which formulation spray, oil, vapor, capsule?

Doctor training: So patients aren’t left educating their own clinicians.

Legal access: Safe, regulated supply that doesn’t force people into the shadows.

Until then, people with MS continue to experiment quietly, often without the support they deserve.

The bottom line

Cannabis won’t cure MS. It won’t rewind the clock, repair nerves, or erase uncertainty. But it can lower the waterline. It can turn nights of relentless spasms into nights of sleep. It can dull the sharp edge of pain. It can hand back small fragments of control, and in a life where MS takes so much, those fragments matter.

So let’s talk about cannabis without shame, without stigma, and without fantasy. Let’s call it what it is: a tool. Not a miracle, not a menace, but something that, for many, makes life with MS just a little more bearable.

Quick facts: Cannabis & MS

Not a cure. Cannabis doesn’t reverse MS; it’s used for symptom relief.

Most evidence = spasticity. THC+CBD sprays (e.g., nabiximols/Sativex) show the clearest benefit for muscle stiffness and spasms.

Pain help is promising. Many people report reduced neuropathic pain; trials are mixed but patient reports matter.

Sleep & quality of life: Indirect benefits (better sleep, less waking from spasms) often improve day-to-day functioning.

Risks exist: possible cognitive slowing, anxiety/paranoia with high-THC, dizziness, cardiovascular effects, and dependence risk.

Formulation matters: spray, oil, vaping, or edibles deliver different effects — dose and ratio (THC:CBD) are key.

Legal note (UK): Medicinal cannabis is prescribable but tightly regulated; specialist prescription is usually required.

Practical tip: Start low, go slow. Use reliable sources and consult a clinician familiar with MS and cannabis.

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.

My brain fog is crushing. Spasms and weird electric shocks twist through me; words and sentences scramble wrong. The tinnitus that constant, maddening noise won’t quit. Some days I just want to vanish. I watch my rescue dog sleep on the webcam and envy that calm so much it hurts. Everyone offers clichés and advice they’d never follow themselves. It’s exhausting.

I’ve asked to speak to my doctor again. I don’t know how it’ll go. If my guts blow up over the weekend I’m screwed. The dark thoughts creep in the part of me that imagines ending it and I hate that I think that. I need help. I need someone to actually see this and do something that changes it.

Right now I’m broken, sore, and furious. I’m still here, still fighting, but not because I want to be brave because I don’t have anything left but stubbornness.

MS isn’t cancer, but it’s its own kind of killer. It’s not Crohn’s, not ulcerative colitis I’ve had the scans, the cams, the lot. They shoved cameras where the sun don’t shine, took biopsies, waved a cheerful “nothing to worry about,” and sent me home with a sticker that says “reassured.” Fine on paper. Not fine in me.

Let me be blunt: they sliced into the wrong place. The red patches they found were right where my MS‑riddled nerves were already a mess. They cut, they biopsied, and they left me with nerves that used to hum now screaming in high‑voltage agony. I didn’t get better. I got scorched.

Picture me on the lavatory, clutching the edges of a stupid toilet that feels like a cliff pain so deep it isn’t even physical in the normal sense. It’s like someone rewired my insides to a broken amplifier and turned the volume to nuclear. Tears, bile, a clear spit‑drip from my mouth I can’t stop as my body fights to keep food down. I hold back vomit with every breath because the world tilts and the noise in my head goes white‑hot. I wish I were anywhere else. I wish I were normal. I wish for a million useless little things.

The scope was a circus. First prize: the doctor’s finger, the NHS lube, and the ASMR of humiliation. “Your prostate’s fine,” he says, smiling like a man who fixed a leaking tap. That’s the comedy of it they poke, they probe, they make notes, they rule out “nasty” things, then pat you on the head and go home while your nervous system burns.

Now the aftermath: neuropathic pain that laughs at paracetamol, spasms that feel like electric shocks through my guts and spine, brain fog that scrambles words until typing is a battle with my own brain, tinnitus that keeps me company like a sad little radio, dissociation so deep I sometimes watch someone else live my life. There are moments I cry because the pain and the not‑quite‑rightness of my head make me certain I’m splitting, losing the edges of myself. People hear me say it and step back like I’m contagious with honesty. The more truth I dump, the more people get uncomfortable and that’s lonely in its own corrosive way.

I can’t sleep properly. I can’t plan. Every day is punctuated by the possibility that my bowels will decide to implode at the worst possible moment. I’ve learned the humiliating art of pre‑emptive management and still get blindsided. I’m on edge all the time jacked into a nervous system that lies constantly.

And then there are the small, absurd consolations. My rescue dog Yopi decompressing on the webcam, stretching like a champion in her perfect dog‑world while I sit in mine and try not to dissolve. “Doggy wants a big poo,” the universe whispers, and I laugh like a madman because that’s the only way to keep from screaming. I even joke about the vet’s number in my phone because if my guts explode over the weekend, who do I call my vet or the NHS? It’s dark. It’s ridiculous. It’s my life.

So yes: not cancer. Not “nasty.” Just MS doing what MS does best wrecking the wiring and turning normal procedures into torches. The biopsy didn’t fix anything. It made certain spots of nerve tissue more violent, more reactive, more relentless. That “nothing to worry about” line sits in my records like a bad joke. It doesn’t help me when the nerves scream at night and the world feels like a bad transmission.

If you think this is melodrama, try living it. Try Googling “neuropathic bowel pain” with one hand while feeding yourself with the other when your head is full of static and your fingers don’t spell the words you mean. Try explaining to someone that the worst part isn’t dying it’s being trapped in a body that betrays you every hour while everyone treats the notes in your file as the whole story.

I’m not looking for pity. I want acknowledgement. I want the system to stop offering livestock‑level reassurance and actually treat the neuropathic hit the biopsy dealt. I want less suffering. I want some dignity back on the lavvy. I want someone to take seriously that “not cancer” isn’t the same as “not a problem.”

If that’s too much to ask, fine. I’ll keep shouting here where the noise won’t make anyone uncomfortable. Yopi will keep farting on camera. I’ll keep writing it down. The nerves might scream, but my voice crooked, bitter, and honest is still here.

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 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.

MS doesn’t just make you trip over your own feet and forget why you went into the kitchen. It messes with the plumbing. Nerves that should quietly manage bladder and bowel signals suddenly turn into pranksters and the result is humiliation, pain, infection, and a daily game of “will I, won’t I?”

The Bladder Circus

What can happen:

Urgency: You go from “fine” to “I’m going to piss myself in 10 seconds” with no warning.

Frequency: You feel like you’ve been drinking beer all day, even if you haven’t.

Retention: The bladder doesn’t empty properly → infection factory.

Incontinence: The ultimate betrayal — leaks at random times.

Why: Nerves between brain, spine, and bladder are scrambled. It’s not “just drink less tea.” It’s wiring gone wrong.

The treatments (aka the patchwork quilt):

Catheters: From discreet intermittent sticks to full-time plumbing. Nobody tells you it can actually be liberating (less panic, more freedom).

Meds: Anticholinergics, beta-3 agonists — they can help, but often come with dry mouth, constipation, or zombie brain.

Botox: Not just for faces. Injected into the bladder wall, it calms spasms. Bonus: you get to tell people your bladder is fancier than their foreheads.

Lifestyle tweaks: Avoiding caffeine, alcohol, fizzy drinks, timed peeing. (Translation: giving up joy, but sometimes it helps.)

The Bowel Hellscape

What can happen:

Constipation: Weeks of nothing, pain, bloating, then the evacuation from hell.

Diarrhoea: The opposite. You live within sprinting distance of a toilet.

Incontinence: Accidents. Stains. Shame. The stuff people never talk about but everyone fears.

Why: Same reason as bladder — nerve signals scrambled. Plus fatigue means less movement, meds slow gut, diet gets wrecked.

The treatments:

Laxatives: Everything from gentle stool softeners to chemical warfare. Often trial and error.

Suppositories & enemas: The glamorous life.

Bowel training: Timed routines, diet tweaks, abdominal massage. Sometimes works, sometimes a joke.

Pelvic floor physio: Can help with both holding in and pushing out. But access on the NHS can be patchy.

Colostomy: The nuclear option. For some it’s actually a relief — predictable, controllable, no more humiliating accidents.

The Real Raw Truth

Nobody talks about it. Bladder and bowel problems are treated as shameful, so patients suffer in silence. But they’re some of the most disabling symptoms in MS.

Doctors often gloss over it. Unless you bring it up (awkwardly), it gets ignored. Yet infections from retention can cause relapses, hospital stays, even sepsis.

Impact is brutal. You can lose social life, intimacy, confidence, freedom. Fear of accidents dictates everything.

Cures don’t exist. Management does. Which means a constant balancing act between side effects, dignity, and practicality.

Humour helps. Laugh at it or drown in shame. Everyone’s got a story about public toilets, accidents, or catheters gone wrong. Talking about it takes the power back.

Dark Sarcasm Corner

Nurse: “Any bladder or bowel issues?” Me: “Only that they’ve staged a coup and I’m the hostage.” MS: “You wanted unpredictable symptoms? Hold my beer — oh wait, you can’t drink that anymore.”

Conclusion

Bladder and bowel problems with MS are not side notes — they’re daily battles. There’s no miracle cure, just messy workarounds. But if more of us talk about it openly, it kills the shame. These are not “bathroom problems.” They’re MS problems.

You’re not weak. You’re not dirty. You’re a human with broken wiring, trying to survive with dignity intact. And if that means Botox in your bladder or a colostomy bag named Bob, so be it.

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.

Living with multiple sclerosis (MS) is a bit like being dropped into a labyrinth where the walls are invisible and the floor is made of Lego. Every day is a surprise party, but instead of cake, you get fatigue, brain fog, and a lottery of weird symptoms. Your body speaks a language all its own a sort of biological Morse code. Spoiler: it’s mostly complaints.

1. The Body’s Whispers (AKA the Passive-Aggressive Texts from Hell)

Your body doesn’t scream right away. Oh no. It whispers, “Maybe don’t do that,” in the kind of tone your nan uses when she means “If you do, you’ll regret it forever.” Ignore it, and you’ll get the full “MS meltdown” treatment. Learn to listen to these gentle hints before they become a four alarm disaster. Trust me, your body wants you to fail the ‘ignore me’ test.

2. Embracing the Rollercoaster (Or, Why I’m Sometimes a Superhero and Sometimes a Sloth)

MS is the ultimate ride. Some days you wake up and think, “Yeah, I could probably take over the world.” Other days you make sloths look like adrenaline junkies. Don’t fight it. Embrace the madness. There’s no refund for this ticket anyway. If you can laugh when your legs forget they exist, you’re already ahead.

3. The Power of Positivity (But Not the Cheesy Kind)

Let’s get real: “positive vibes only” is for people with motivational mugs, not MS. Real positivity is finding a smirk in the struggle. Did you get out of bed today? Bloody legend. Did you find a reason to laugh, even if it was at yourself? That’s winning. Celebrate the tiny victories because some days, they’re all you’ll get.

4. Mindfulness: Your Secret Weapon (Or, The Only Time Silence Isn’t Suspicious)

No, mindfulness won’t cure MS, but it might stop you from headbutting a wall. Check in with yourself. Is your body grumbling, squeaking, or plotting revenge? Maybe it’s time for a rest, a stretch, or just a massive bar of chocolate. Mindfulness: because you can’t afford to ignore the warning lights on this old banger of a body.

5. Building Your Support Squad (Or, Assembling Your Band of Misfits)

Find your people. The ones who get it, the ones who don’t offer herbal tea as a cure. Whether it’s other MS folk, stubborn friends, or just some poor soul who doesn’t run when you say “incontinence,” keep them close. Empathy makes the pain bearable and the jokes darker. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s weakness to ask for help—sometimes, it’s just good strategy.

6. Finding Your Voice (Because Telepathy Still Isn’t Covered by the NHS)

Speak up. For your needs, your rights, your weird symptoms. Don’t let the world turn you into a prop in your own life story. Your voice might tremble, but it matters. The more you say, the more others understand and maybe, just maybe, the world will get a clue.

Bonus Track: The Legend of the Overworked Neuros

Let’s give a round of applause (or maybe just a sarcastic slow clap) for the overworked neurologists. They’re busier than a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest, running from clinic to clinic, dodging patients like ninjas in white coats. Actual patient appointments? That’s rich. You’re more likely to win the EuroMillions than see one before your wheelchair warranty expires.

The NHS says “your neuro will see you now,” but what they mean is: “He’ll see you on the mural in the waiting room. Or as a hologram projected from his last known location.” Some say if you light enough scented candles and chant “re-referral” three times, a neuro will materialize… but only to tell you that your next appointment is scheduled for June 2036.

The truth is, neuros are overworked too many people, not enough doctors, and a health system held together with sellotape and wishful thinking. But while the overworked neuro vanishes like a magician at a kids’ party, you’re left to decode your own body’s malfunctioning Morse code and hope you don’t accidentally google yourself into a full blown panic attack.

If you do spot a neuro in the wild, be gentle. They scare easily and may bolt for the exit if approached. In the meantime, keep calm, decode your own symptoms, and remember Dr. Google and Nurse Sarcasm are open 24/7.

Bonus Track 2: The Thankless Saints MS Nurses

While the neurologists are off playing hide and seek, let’s talk about the true legends: MS nurses. They’re the ones on the ground, fighting fires with a teaspoon and answering emails like their keyboard’s on fire. Somehow, they manage to be calm, knowledgeable, and kind even when you’re one question away from a meltdown and have already left nine voicemails.

MS nurses are the unsung therapists, detectives, and sometimes part-time magicians (“You’ve tried turning it off and on again? Excellent now have you tried snacks and a nap?”). They field the panicked questions neuros don’t have time for, translate medical jargon into English, and manage to keep us (and sometimes themselves) just the right side of losing it.

Are they overworked, underpaid, and under-appreciated? Of course! Do they do it anyway, with a level of patience and gallows humour that should earn them a sainthood (or at least hazard pay)? Absolutely.

If you’re lucky enough to have an MS nurse who answers the phone and doesn’t flinch when you ask if your “weird new symptom” means you’re dying buy them a coffee. Or a spa weekend. Or just send a thank you meme. Without them, the whole bloody NHS MS system would collapse faster than my legs after a walk to the fridge.

So here’s to the MS nurses: holding it all together with skill, sweat, and the sort of thankless determination that deserves a medal (or at least a pint).

Bonus Track 3: The Unsung Heroes Support Groups, Volunteers & Charities

If you think the NHS is barely clinging on, imagine life without the MS support groups, charities, and stubborn volunteers who do it all for the love of the cause (and maybe the free biscuits at meetings).

Support groups: These legends run by people who actually get it are the real backbone of the MS world. They’re the ones who answer your late night freak outs, decode the NHS bureaucracy, and know which GP receptionist has the good biscuits. In-person, online, or just a WhatsApp meme away, they turn “I’m losing my mind” into “You’re not alone, mate.”

Volunteers: The ones who give their time for free, organizing meet-ups, fundraising, sending out info packs, and listening to rants from people like us without ever losing their patience. Half the time, they’re managing their own MS or supporting someone who is but you’d never know, because they’re too busy holding everyone else up.

Charities: Whether it’s the MS Society, MS Trust, Shift.ms, Overcoming MS, MS-UK, or any of the local grassroots warriors, they’re out there lobbying, funding research, and somehow keeping hope alive in a world that sometimes feels like it’s sponsored by despair. Without them, you’d still be Googling “what the hell is MS” while the NHS phone queue loops you back to start.

Are they underfunded, overstretched, and powered mostly by stubbornness and biscuits? You’d better believe it. Do they keep the whole community from falling through the cracks? Absolutely.

So here’s a genuine, sarcastic-but-serious thank you to every support group, volunteer, and charity keeping the MS circus running. If you ever wondered who the real unsung heroes are it’s the lot turning lived chaos into lifelines.

Raise a mug (or a wheelchair, or just an eyebrow) for them they’ve earned it.

Conclusion: Embrace the Weird, Survive the Storm

Living with MS means forever learning a new dialect of pain, fatigue, and absurdity. The “invisible code” is always changing, but your ability to listen and laugh might just be the best tool you have. Don’t sugar-coat it. Don’t let anyone else either.

So here’s to listening to your body, celebrating every little win, and flipping MS the metaphorical V-sign as often as possible. You’re not alone. And you’re not invisible.

Now, go on decode the next bloody signal. And if you’re looking for rainbow platitudes, you’re in the wrong blog.

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.

Three a.m. and my legs are iron bars. I’m awake not because of a dream, but because my own body has turned into a torture rack. Spasticity they call it. Clinical word, clean and tidy. In reality it’s a bloody vice clamped round your muscles until you want to scream.

What it actually is: spasticity means the muscle tone is cranked up to the point where any movement meets resistance . It isn’t “just stiff legs” or “tense muscles” it’s misfiring wiring. MS strips the insulation (myelin) off nerves, so the “relax” signal never makes it down the line. Muscles seize, jerk, lock, and sometimes kick out without warning.

Lived reality:

Waking with calves twisted like a corkscrew.

Trying to stand and finding your knees welded shut.

A jolt through your thigh like your body just sucker-punched you.

Nights lost to a body that refuses to sleep.

The so-called toolbox:

First line: baclofen, tizanidine, diazepam, dantrolene—sedating, imperfect, but sometimes the only rope you’ve got .

If those fail, the UK’s NICE guidelines say offer a 4-week trial of THC:CBD spray (Sativex) for moderate to severe spasticity . That’s the first cannabis-based medicine ever licensed here.

When it’s brutal, intrathecal baclofen pumps drip the drug straight into your spinal fluid. It works. It’s invasive. It’s not offered nearly enough .

Exercise and movement help stop muscles chaining up , but let’s be clear: stretching alone won’t magically fix spasticity .

Triggers that fan the flames: infections, fever, overheating, tight clothes, constipation, pain, stress, fatigue, even a full bladder . Everyday stuff that flips a switch and makes your body lock.

Why it matters: spasticity doesn’t just steal mobility—it steals sleep, dignity, spontaneity. It turns daily life into a constant negotiation with your own muscles. That’s not “just another symptom.” That’s a thief.

References (for readers who want the receipts)

NICE NG144 (2019): Cannabis-based medicines in MS

Cochrane review (2024): Cannabinoids and spasticity

AAN guideline: Oral anti-spasticity meds

UK MS Society: Exercise reduces spasticity

New evidence: stretching not a cure-all

Intrathecal baclofen: long-term safe and effective

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.

Ah, brain fog. That delightful little feature where your mind suddenly feels like it’s been filled with cold treacle and you can’t remember the name of the person you’ve been married to for 20 years. Or whether you actually had lunch… or just thought about it really hard.

What It Is In scientific terms, cognitive dysfunction means your brain’s processing power has taken a long weekend without permission. It can affect memory, focus, problem-solving, and that delicate social skill of not blurting out something wildly inappropriate.

In lived experience terms, it’s that moment you stare at your kettle wondering why the hell your phone charger won’t fit into it.

Causes Chronic Illness – MS, ME/CFS, fibromyalgia, autoimmune fun, and anything else ending in “-itis” can bring brain fog as a bonus prize.

Fatigue – Mental or physical exhaustion turns your brain into that Windows 95 PC your uncle swore “was fine until last week.”

Medication Side-Effects – Because why just fix one thing when you can break another?

Stress & Anxiety – Fight-or-flight mode is great for escaping lions, less useful for remembering your online banking password.

Hormonal Swings – Menopause, thyroid issues, or just the monthly “I hate everything” cycle.

Symptoms Words that escape mid-sentence like startled pigeons.

Reading the same sentence five times and still having no clue what it says.

Forgetting why you walked into a room (it’s never for anything good).

Thinking slower than dial-up internet.

Why It’s Not ‘Just Being Tired’ People without brain fog love to tell you “Oh, I forget things too!” Yes, Sharon, but you don’t lose the ability to spell your own surname halfway through writing it.

Brain fog isn’t about being a bit sleepy. It’s about your entire mental operating system running on one bar of battery and 57 background processes you never asked for.

Coping Strategies (Sort Of) Lists – Post-its, phone reminders, writing on your hand… whatever keeps the chaos contained.

Pacing Yourself – Which really means doing one thing, then lying down in a dark room regretting it.

Accepting Help – Even if it’s from people who think you’re “just being lazy.”

Humour – Laughing about it doesn’t fix anything, but it makes the slow mental collapse less depressing.

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 help.

🏡 Chapter 1: What in the name of Whizzer IS Multiple Sclerosis?! Picture it: The Bumpkin Billionaires inherit a CT scanner and decide to diagnose me.

“Reckon yer brain’s leakin’ somethin’, boy!” says Pa Bumpkin, sticking the plug into a turnip.

🧠 Real Talk: MS is a condition where your immune system has a hissy fit and starts attacking the protective sheath (myelin) around your nerves. It’s like wrapping your wires in wet loo roll and expecting your kettle to work.

🐍 Chapter 2: Symptoms, or “Why is my leg doing the Macarena?” Sid’s Snake is wriggling around my spinal cord: “Ere Sid, why’s ‘is leg twitchin’? You got batteries in yer bum again?”

🔁 Common MS Symptoms:

Numbness

Brain fog (or as Sid calls it, “Soggy noggin”)

Spasticity (tight muscles, not what they used to call you at school)

Fatigue that hits like a cricket bat to the soul

Vision like someone smeared jam on your eyeballs

💸 Chapter 3: Diagnosis – Not a Game of ‘Guess Who?’ Odd-Ball tries to diagnose you by morphing into a GP, a neurologist, and a confused chicken.

🎲 Real Talk: Getting diagnosed with MS involves MRIs, lumbar punctures, blood tests, and usually a couple of years of gaslighting.

“You’re just stressed, love.” “You just need more exercise.” “You’ve got a trapped nerve.”

Or as Odd-Ball puts it: “Have you tried turning your spinal cord off and on again?”

🍰 Chapter 4: Living With MS – Like Baking a Cake With No Recipe and a Flamethrower Ma Bumpkin tries to make me a wellness cake: “Put in some turmeric, a crystal, and chant at it, that’ll fix yer myelin!”

💀 Truth Bomb: Living with MS means daily unpredictability, social misunderstanding, and trying not to murder people who say “But you don’t look ill.”

🛏️ Chapter 5: Fatigue – Not Just Tired, Knackered Beyond the Grave Shiner from Chips tries to outrun me in a wheelchair race. Shiner wins. I am still in bed.

🧠 “Fatigue in MS isn’t just ‘sleepy’. It’s a lead weight in your bones, a fog in your brain, and a punch to your will to live.”

🧙‍♂️ Chapter 6: MS Treatments – Magic Potions and Bloody Side Effects Professor Nutty from Whizzer and Chips tries to cure me with an exploding cauldron and a DIY infusion.

💊 In Real Life:

DMTs (disease-modifying therapies) might slow the MS progression

Steroids for relapses

Gabapentin, Baclofen, and “every pill under the sun” for the other crap

Side effects? Oh yes. All of them.

🧼 Chapter 7: Coping Mechanisms – Or ‘How I Learned to Stop Crying and Love the Chaos’ The Bumpkin Billionaires start an MS yoga retreat with goats, mud, and sausages. It fails catastrophically.

🛠️ Real tips:

Keep a sarcastic blog (tick)

Own your story

Take breaks before your body breaks you

Ask for help (but don’t expect people to understand)

Cultivate dark humour like a fine mouldy cheese

👹 Final Word from me This isn’t your mum’s guide to MS. This is a piss-stained, tea-spilled, rage-and-laughter-soaked survival manual for living with something that tries to break you every bloody day. And like Sid’s Snake, I twist, I turn, but I’m still slithering on.

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

Some days your brain is soup. Some days it’s concrete. Today mine is both—a sticky tumble of wet cement and electrostatic jelly swirling around like a demonic blancmange on spin cycle.

And let’s not forget the tinnitus. That oh-so-charming eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee that makes me feel like I’m forever tuned to a pirate radio station broadcasting from Satan’s sock drawer.

Is it a message from the divine? A transmission from the veil? Perhaps. But I forgot to pay for the decoder, so it’s just bloody static in my skull.

My eyes? Seeing things. Unexplainable things. Optician said I was "fine". Yeah—fine. As in "fine for someone actively phasing in and out of reality like a dodgy antenna from a 1970s TV shop in Slough."

The mists roll in. Not poetic mists—these bastards come like memory locusts, stripping every useful thought from my mind and leaving behind a soggy field of what-the-fuck.

The Itch. Oh yes, that itch. Not pain. Not even discomfort. A curse. A divine punishment. Same place. Every bloody time. Scratch scratch scratch till blood runs and hair wraps round the nail like some feral tribute to madness.

You don’t feel it immediately. No, that would be merciful. It waits. It watches. And then it writhes beneath your skin like it’s got a schedule to keep.

I’m dizzy. Sick. Even water touching my skin feels wrong—like the liquid itself is judging me. I scream into pillows now. It's my new therapy. Pillows don’t judge. Pillows just muffle.

Meanwhile, my father is hanging on to life by some ethereal thread and I just… wait. Wait for a message. Wait for a call. Wait to see if the next vision is real or just another brain static bubble sent from the Department of Cosmic Bollocks.

I am tired. I am haunted. I am heavy.

And I am still here.

                            !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

        “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