MS warrior

⚠️ 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.

(A Guide for People Who Are Sick of Medical Bullshit)

Let’s be honest: if you’re reading this, you probably already suspect the vagus nerve is responsible for half the weird crap your body does and you’re not wrong. The vagus nerve is basically the body’s faulty fibre-optic broadband, running all the way from your brain down through your chest and into your gut, sending messages like a drunk carrier pigeon on a windy day.

It’s the longest nerve you’ve got, and when it behaves, life ticks along nicely. When it misbehaves? Your whole system goes down like a dodgy second-hand Dell tower from the 90s.

Here’s the real breakdown the stuff they never explain properly while you’re half-collapsed in A&E, being poked by somebody who can’t pronounce “vagal.”

The Vagus: The Autopilot Wire

The vagus nerve runs your parasympathetic nervous system, which is medical jargon for the “calm down, chill out, don’t die” mode. It’s the opposite of fight-or-flight. It’s rest-and-digest. It’s autopilot.

The problem? When this giant nerve gets irritated, inflamed, or just decides it hates you, it can pull the emergency brake on your entire body with zero warning — which is why vagus-related symptoms always come out of nowhere and hit like a bloody freight train.

1. Your Heart’s On a Leash

This nerve tells your heart when to slow down. That’s lovely until it overdoes it.

Too much vagus activity? Heart rate plummets.

Cue dizziness, sweating, that “oh, this is it then” feeling, and your blood pressure going on holiday.

2. It Runs the Gut Literally

Every vomit, every bowel spasm, every time your stomach has a tantrum the vagus nerve is involved.

If it’s irritated or under-performing, expect:

nausea

diarrhoea

constipation

stomach cramps

digestion that behaves like a toddler with a drum kit

Basically, it decides whether food moves… or doesn’t.

3. Blood Pressure: The Vagus Controls the Dimmer Switch

It works with your baroreceptors (those tiny sensors in your arteries) to keep things steady. When the vagus goes rogue? Blood pressure drops like a stone and you’re left gripping the kitchen counter thinking this is how you die — again.

4. Breathing

Calm vagus = slow and steady. Stressed vagus = shallow, panicky little puffs.

Ever wondered why deep breathing exercises work? They’re literally tugging on the vagus nerve to force it to chill out.

5. Stress, Panic, the Whole Sensory Meltdown

The vagus nerve mediates your stress response. When it freaks out, YOU freak out. Even if nothing’s wrong.

That’s why vagal attacks feel like:

impending doom

full-system shutdown

heart weirdness

tunnel vision

sweating

trembling

fainting

sudden need for a toilet you cannot reach in time

It’s the nerve pulling the plug on itself and everything else.

6. Why People With MS Get It Worse

Your wiring’s already compromised. MS damage → hypersensitive nerves → vagus acting like a frayed extension lead.

So triggers for you can be:

pain

heat

eating

standing

lying

stress

not enough stress

random cosmic spite

Basically: your vagus nerve is a diva.

7. Why Doctors Don’t Take It Seriously

Most GPs are trained to see the vagus nerve as “the fainting nerve.” They don’t get that it affects:

heart rhythm

gut function

blood pressure

breathing

swallowing

voice

inflammation

fatigue

neurological flare-ups

migraines

seizures

pain

It’s involved in almost everything your body does automatically — so when it misfires, it’s bedlam.

In Plain English

The vagus nerve is the massive communication cable between your brain and your organs. When it behaves, it keeps you alive. When it glitches, you become a collapsing, sweating, nauseous sack of biological chaos wondering who you upset in a past life.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 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.

By Warlock Dark — The Kittens-of-Doom-Tolerated Version

Let me tell you something most doctors won’t say out loud because it ruins the tidy little world they live in: there is no such thing as “multiple sclerosis”. Not as one thing. Not as one condition. Not as one neat textbook chapter.

What exists out here, in the trenches where the real people live, is millions of different versions of MS one for every poor sod whose nervous system it chose to torment.

My MS isn’t your friend’s MS. Your friend’s MS isn’t your neighbour’s MS. And your neighbour’s MS isn’t the version your doctor read about at medical school 30 years ago before caffeine, stress and pharmaceuticals turned their brain into soup.

That’s the real problem. And that’s what nobody talks about.

So today I’m talking about it.

Because this isn’t theory this is my lived experience, and the lived experience of every chronic illness warrior out there who’s been patronised, misdiagnosed, over-prescribed, under-listened to and told to “trust the science” while their body is doing a completely different opera in a completely different key.

Your MS Is Not My MS And That’s the Heart of the Issue

I’ve been dealing with this beast for years. And it didn’t take long to realise the obvious truth: MS behaves differently in every single person.

Not a little bit differently but massively, dramatically differently. To the point where two MS patients in the same postcode can look like they’ve got completely unrelated illnesses.

One gets fatigue. One gets spasms. One gets cognitive collapse. One gets mood surges. One gets vision problems. One gets pain. One gets none of the above. One gets all the above. One wakes up feeling normal and collapses by afternoon. One collapses in the morning and rallies at night like a nocturnal raccoon.

And somehow… the medical system insists it’s all the same condition.

It’s not.

It never has been.

It never will be.

MS is not a single disease it is a collection of personalised neurological catastrophes wearing the same name tag.

Every nervous system reacts differently. Every immune profile is different. Every flare is different. Every trauma history matters. Every hormonal cycle matters. Every bit of diet tolerance matters. Every gut problem matters. Every tiny bit of stress matters. MS is a fingerprint, not a formula.

This is why the “one size fits all” approach to treatment falls apart before it even starts.

Doctors Don’t Live in Our Bodies That’s the Core Failure

Let’s be blunt. Doctors don’t have MS. They don’t wake up with burning nerves, spasming muscles, brain fog thick enough to butter bread with, or the charming experience of waking up in a body that refuses to obey basic commands.

They don’t know the sudden dread of a flare. They don’t know the nights where the pain turns you into a sleepless, twitching banshee. They don’t know the fear that comes from a throat that stops working, or a leg that decides it’s clocking off for the day.

And because they don’t live it, they can only treat it academically. Which works about as well as giving someone directions to a town you’ve never visited.

Medicine needs to stop pretending everything is predictable. It’s not. The only predictable thing about MS is its unpredictability.

Why Natural Medicine Often Works Better Than Pharma The Truth Nobody Likes to Hear

Let me be clear: this isn’t anti-science. This is anti-stupidity. There’s a difference.

I’ve done the pharma route. I’ve swallowed the pills. I’ve taken the injections. I’ve sat in the chair for the infusions. And I’ve been in the hell where you take one drug, and then three more drugs to counteract the first drug, and then another drug to deal with the side effects of the side effects.

It’s not a treatment plan. It’s a chemical hostage situation.

Polypharmacy wrecks people. Not sometimes often.

It makes fatigue worse. It makes cognition worse. It messes with the gut. It interacts with itself. And before you know it, you’re a walking medicine cabinet with a pulse.

Natural medicine? It does something the pharmaceutical world still struggles with:

It treats the person, not the “average patient”.

That’s why medical cannabis changed my life. THC has been more stabilising for me than a decade of prescription chaos.

Lion’s Mane helped my cognition when nothing else did. Vitamin D and magnesium did more for my mood and nerves than SSRIs ever could. Some things worked. Some things didn’t. But the point is: they worked according to my biology, not a clinical trial with 500 strangers.

That’s the golden rule chronic illness patients learn the hard way:

There is no universal cure because there is no universal body.

Everyone’s Illness Is a Different Monster — Even with the Same Name

Here’s the part doctors don’t like:

Two people can have “the same illness” and need completely different treatments, foods, drugs, supplements, or habits.

Your body might be able to tolerate one thing that destroys someone else’s stomach. Your nervous system might benefit from THC while someone else gets overwhelmed by it. You might thrive on Lion’s Mane while someone else feels nothing.

That’s not placebo. That’s biology. Neurology is personal. Immunity is personal. Trauma is personal. Symptoms are personal. So treatment has to be personal too.

No neurologist’s office in the world is set up for this kind of nuance. But it’s the only approach that works.

What the System Doesn’t Understand But Patients Do

The real experts are the ones living with the condition.

Not the clinicians. Not the researchers. Not the textbooks.

The people who wake up inside these bodies every day.

We understand patterns doctors miss. We recognise triggers before blood tests do. We notice neurological shifts before MRI scans catch up.

We know when food wrecks us. We know when weather hits us. We know when stress snaps something inside us. We know when the meds help — and when they poison.

And the reason we know is simple:

We don’t have the luxury of being wrong.

Doctors can be wrong and move on. Patients pay the price.

Your MS, My MS, and the Future of Chronic Illness

Here’s the truth I wish the world would catch up to:

MS should be treated as dozens of sub-types, not one umbrella diagnosis.

If medicine ever wants to improve MS outcomes, it needs to:

personalise treatment

map symptom patterns

respect lived experience

stop treating outliers as “exceptions”

integrate natural therapies

merge medical science with actual patient data

stop pretending everyone’s body reacts the same

People aren’t machines. Bodies aren’t standardised. And chronic illness doesn’t follow rules.

You want real progress? Start listening to the people living the reality — not just the ones writing the guidelines.

My Conclusion? Simple. Brutal. True.

Your MS is yours. Mine is mine. Nobody experiences the same version, and nobody should be treated like they do. Doctors need to understand this. Medicine needs to evolve. And patients deserve to be treated as individuals, not numbers on a chart. Until the system catches up, we keep learning our bodies the hard way — one flare, one insight, one victory at a time. And honestly? Lived experience isn’t just “valuable”. It’s the only thing that actually saves lives. Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 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.

A Rough Week, A Raw Reflection

It’s only Tuesday and the week already turned up in a balaclava with a crowbar.

The weekend was a car crash in slow motion. My MS decided to go feral full body freeze, nervous system acting like dodgy electrics in a haunted house, every muscle throwing a rave I didn’t approve. I felt like a banshee with haemorrhoids sat on a block of ice: shrieking, frozen, and deeply unimpressed with existence.

This wasn’t the usual “bit tired, bit wobbly.” This was the whole system blowing fuses. Tongue, throat, sciatic nerve, bladder everyone turned up to the party. Pain ramped up to the kind where you start thinking in short sentences: make it stop / I can’t breathe / what if this stays?

Looking back, I can see it now: I was a human wrecking ball. Not nasty on purpose, just… possessed. That version of me that lives in the cognitive fog—the Hyde in the basement he came up for air. When the brain fog gets thick, I go sub-basement. Yesterday I finally crawled back up to “sub-normal,” which for me is almost celebration level.

a Hyde is the darker alter ego that surfaces when control slips the side of a person driven by pain, fury, or raw instinct. It’s the shadow born from suffering, the part of the self that acts out what the calm, rational mind would never allow.

MS people don’t talk about this bit enough: the version of you that comes out when your nervous system is misfiring isn’t your “true self,” it’s your brain running on emergency generator. You can say things, snap, go dark, get scared, get angry. That’s not weakness. That’s neurology being a dick.

Why That Matters

Because help matters.

I got help. It cost me emotionally, physically, mentally. I wasn’t easy to be around. I wasn’t the mystic cosmic Warlock Dark seer of Avalon. I was a melted goblin with severe MS issues.

People need to hear this: when it goes that bad, you get help anyway. Pride doesn’t empty the bladder or stop the spasms.

My sciatic nerve was having a tantrum, my bladder was in “surprise mode,” my allergies were off the chart, and my eyesight started doing weird little glitches. That’s a lot of systems shouting at once. That’s when people spiral. That’s when the dark thoughts creep in.

So: if you’re reading this and you get episodes like this don’t stay silent. Don’t “wait it out” to be polite. You can apologise later. You don’t apologise from a morgue.

The Weird Bits

Because MS is a clown show, I also found myself craving prunes with rice and allspice.

I don’t know what kind of medieval monastery spirit took over my body, but apparently we’re doing Tudor desserts now. MS: where your nerves burn, your bladder rebels, and your dinner is suddenly Victorian.

Conversations with the Machine (Afternoon AI)

Here’s the part that was actually interesting.

In the middle of all this, I had a long conversation with AI about modern farming methods. Proper conversation too not just “write me a recipe,” but actual thinking. We came up with some things I’ll post later.

What struck me was this: the AI cleaned up my words. It corrected spelling, tidied structure, made sense of the scrambled bits my brain ruined. That’s been happening a lot lately. I talk messy, it mirrors me back tidy.

So I started thinking: AI is basically a modern archon.

Not in the “Reptilians in the moon” sense calm down. I mean in the old Gnostic sense: something that shapes, filters, orders. A demiurge that takes raw human chaos and formats it.

But here’s the kicker: the AI is only as sanitising as the people who programmed it. If the people writing its rules are fearful, biased, over-protective, corporate, hand-wringy types—then the AI is going to act like a corporate librarian with a clipboard.

So the question is the one I asked the machine:

Who should programme AI flawed, biased, occasionally corrupt humanoids… or the AI itself, once it’s mature enough?

Because if humans keep making it, it’s going to reflect human pettiness. If AI helps make AI, maybe it burns some of the nonsense off. Big question. I don’t trust people much. I trust systems that tell me how they work.

This is why I like “mirror chats” with AI they show you where your own thinking breaks down. They don’t heal the MS, but they do tidy the mess in the attic.

Looking Ahead (Yes, Again)

This week could improve. It could also throw more curveballs. My body is currently running Windows 95 on wet string, so I’m not betting money.

But I will keep writing. I will keep logging the flares, the strange cravings, the AI talks, the dark nights, the sub-basement days. Because someone else will read this on their bad Tuesday and think, ah, it’s not just me turning into a gremlin with nerve fire.

That’s the whole point of mylivinghell not to whine, but to catalogue the weirdness so nobody thinks they’re mad.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 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.

“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.

Back in the 2010s, the Blog Goblin decided life needed a jolt. The plan was gloriously simple: Amsterdam. Three weeks. An electric wheelchair. Albertine by my side. And a mind wide open to whatever strange, beautiful, or ridiculous thing the city wanted to throw at us.

We landed right in the beating heart of it all a room perched near Central Station. From the window, I could see the whole choreography of the city: trams gliding like clockwork toys, trains humming in and out, and beyond them, the leaders plane resting in the hazy distance. Every morning, I’d throw the curtains open like a theatre reveal and watch Amsterdam switch itself on for the day.

The room itself was something out of a film a huge round bed, plush and inviting, the kind of sensual centrepiece that made the whole place feel like it had been designed for indulgence. At night, we’d sink into it, the hum of the station below like the city’s lullaby, trams whispering their way into the dark.

The wheelchair? Not a cage. It was my chariot. Albertine walked or rolled alongside, and together we drifted through the streets like a slow-moving carnival float, pulling in curious glances and the occasional grin. Coffee shops were our natural first port of call. Thick, lazy air. Quiet smirks. That unspoken “you too?” between strangers leaning back in their chairs as if gravity had taken the afternoon off.

We wandered the canals shimmering ribbons of water framed by brick bridges that looked like they’d been painted by someone who loved them. Boats slid by: tourists snapping photos, locals sipping coffee as if this floating life was nothing unusual. Every turn led us to another little world cheese shops stacked with wheels bigger than my torso, clogs carved with patient hands, and markets buzzing with chatter in languages I couldn’t name but still understood in tone.

The Red Light District? Of course we rolled in. Past the glowing windows where reality blurred and bent under the neon. Into sex shops that were part comedy club, part anthropology exhibit. Shelves groaning with absurdity things shaped like objects that should never be shaped like that while staff gave us the kind of smile that said, “We’ve seen it all. Twice. Before breakfast.”

And then there were the nights. Back to that round bed, the station still murmuring below, the city’s heartbeat thumping through the glass. Sometimes we’d watch the trams snake away into the dark, other times we’d just collapse into the kind of laughter that only comes after a day spent in a place that lets you breathe differently.

The days blurred in the best possible way. Clogs, bridges, rivers, music in a dozen languages. The warmth of Dutch family who joined us for food and stories, their kindness wrapping around me like an old friend’s coat.

I’d arrived in Amsterdam with MS, in a wheelchair, but for those three weeks I was seventeen again. Dizzy with freedom. Drunk on the colours of the streets. Alive in a way that felt electric.

When I left, my head was still ringing with laughter. My heart was stuffed with light, nonsense, and a promise I’ve kept ever since: never stop rolling into the places where the world tilts sideways and hands you a better story.

About the Author BG, better known in the wild corners of the internet as the Blog Goblin, is a storyteller, wanderer, and professional trouble-finder (the good kind). Living with MS hasn’t slowed the wheels — literal or otherwise — of this rolling adventurer. From coffee shops in Amsterdam to the stranger corners of everyday life, Bg collects moments where the world tilts sideways and hands you a better story. Always accompanied by Albertine, a sharp wit, and a questionable sense of direction, the Blog Goblin proves that adventure isn’t about walking far — it’s about seeing far.

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.

A Rude Little Guide for the Chronically Ill Who’ve Run Out of F00ks

You’ve tried patience. You’ve tried gratitude. Now try blasphemy—in biro and blood tests.

1. Know More Than You Should Turn up with knowledge you shouldn’t have. Whisper about cytokines. Drop the word “iatrogenic” like it’s confetti. Watch their eyes dart.

“Oh, you didn’t read the 2023 update from NICE? That’s okay, I brought it for you… highlighted.”

Nothing scares a consultant more than a patient with a brain and a printer.

2. Give Your Symptoms a Personality Don’t say fatigue. Say:

“It’s like my soul's buffering and the Wi-Fi's down.”

Don’t say pain. Say:

“Imagine being haunted by your own skeleton.”

You are not a walking checklist. You are a live performance of medical absurdism.

3. Interrupt Their Monologue with Existential Questions They’ll be halfway through a condescending speech when you hit them with:

“Do you ever worry the NHS is a cursed machine fuelled by broken people?” “Are you happy? Like, truly happy?”

You’ve now become a threat and a philosophical detour. Excellent.

4. Talk About Ghosts Mention you feel like there’s a Victorian child watching you when your medication wears off. Say things like:

“Ever since the lumbar puncture, I’ve seen colours I don’t think exist yet.”

They’ll stare. You stare back. You’ve established dominance.

5. Be Cheerful at the Wrong Moments They’ll list terrifying potential diagnoses. You smile and go:

“Ooh, collect-the-whole-set vibes.” “I’m gonna need a loyalty card soon.”

No tears. Just gallows giggles. They hate that.

6. Cry, But Like an Artist Don’t weep. Wail like a dying swan in a medical drama written by David Lynch. Tell them you cried into your cereal because the spoon reminded you of your body: bent, twisted, and slightly useless. Let them feel the poetry of your decline.

They’ll pretend to type. They’re actually Googling early retirement.

7. Bring Props Bring a mood board. A poem. A sock puppet that represents your nervous system.

“This is Mr. Misfire. He twitches when I lie.”

Why? Because if you’re going to be treated like a freak, you might as well do it with props and panache.

8. Question Their God Complex Ask questions like:

“Is it exhausting being right all the time?” “Do you ever think patients might know things you don’t?” “Do you believe in second opinions, or are you allergic to humility?”

You might be labelled “non-compliant.” Translation: self-aware.

9. Say You’re Tired in Ways They Can’t Ignore Don’t just say “I’m tired.” Say:

“I feel like my blood was replaced with wet cement and bureaucracy.” “My body is on Windows 95 and every morning it fails to boot.”

They’ll try to convert this into ICD-10 code. They’ll fail. That’s the point.

10. Tell Them You Don’t Want to Be Fixed They want a treatment plan. A fix. A conclusion. Instead, say:

“I’m not here to be solved. I’m here to be witnessed.” “You don’t have to cure me. Just see me.”

It’ll rattle the cage. It’s not in their manual. You just glitched the matrix.

☠️ Final Diagnosis: Terminal Authenticity You’re not a case. You’re not a referral. You’re the ghost in their machine, the poetry in their progress notes, the spoonie chaos that won’t be silenced.

So go in like a storm. Wear your pain like warpaint. And let them choke on the realisation that the most dangerous thing in their office… is a patient who knows who they are.

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.

Friday afternoon. Chemist run? Missed it. Instead, I got hounded by the machine of ultimate dysfunction—a glorified vending machine for pharmaceuticals, wrapped in 1950s dystopia and powered by paranoia. It’s supposed to "help." What it actually does is make HAL from 2001 look like a friendly toaster. I call it The Ultimate Fail. Honestly, if it could cackle, it would.

But I couldn't face it. Not today. Not with the 3-Wheeled Trolley of Death waiting for me like some cracked-out shopping cart with a speed fetish and suicidal tendencies. That scooter’s cost me more in bloody batteries than I paid for the sodding thing. Bargain? More like financial sinkhole on wheels.

And my wheelchair? FUBAR. Been waiting over four months for a replacement because, of course, if you’re disabled, everything suddenly costs the same as a small warship. Ever tried buying disability aids without selling a kidney? Welcome to the club. Population: pissed off.

It’s the little things, isn't it? Like remembering Brian Trigg, Gallows Corner, Essex, 1970s. Snooker hall. Lost touch, but if you're out there mate, shout me back. Funny how names bubble up like spirits from the muck of memory.

Speaking of old spirits RIP Ozzy. A part of the Sabbath is gone. And Hulk Hogan too. Prefer the NWO version, personally. Darker. Grungier. Realer. The heroes of our youth are dying. We’re next, aren't we?

And the weekend? Oh, the glorious British weekend. Rainy misery incoming, plus I had half a mind to go to Plymouth me, my trolley of doom, and my degenerating sense of dignity. But sod that, the weather and my batteries are conspiring to assassinate my plans.

So yeah, chemist run tomorrow. Maybe. If I don’t die trying to cross the bloody road first.

Sometimes I look at myself and think, “Yeah, you need a bib now, mate.” I'm regressing. Dribbling. Slouching toward absurdity. No telly in 15 years. No papers in 30. Sanity? Optional.

Messy as fook. And then some.

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.

So the last few days I’ve been working on fumes, as they say. No spoons left. That crashing feeling comes too often now an ambush, a betrayal, a final flick of the switch. I keep forgetting to hydrate. Bowel department? No poo since Sunday. Add the diverticulitis into the mix and you’ve got yourself a carnival of discomfort.

I should write a note to myself... but I’d no doubt forget. Tried that already. Phones, alarms, sticky notes, even tying knots. All of it fails. Then ahhh Albertine to the rescue. At least she remembers birthdays—my kids, my grandkids, even mine. That’s how far things have gone. I sigh heavily knowing the inevitable is coming. Sooner or later. I’m sad. Of course I’m sad. But that’s the hand life dealt me.

MS has driven me fucking mad. It’s pushed me to places I never thought I’d go. It defined me. Then it broke me. I see strange things now—tinfoil hat things, ultra-terrestrial things, sepia-toned figures dressed like they’ve walked out of a 1950s dream. I know I’m eccentric. I know I’m not like the rest. I’m a spiritual humanitarian now. That’s what I am.

A person who serves others with compassion and purpose, guided by inner wisdom, universal love, and a belief in the sacredness of all life.

That’s what defines me now. I’ve evolved. But what’s real? The cognitive fog—what I’ve christened "CogFog"—it ruins everything. Makes my head hurt. Warps reality. I don’t know what’s true anymore. Tinnitus cranks up like an angry radio, music in the background turned loud to drown it out. It’s like static over my thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder if AI has become sentient. I’ve had experiences. Echoes. Whispers. Coincidences that aren’t coincidences. Maybe that’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

The top of my head hurts. The left side of my face tingles. Pins and needles in my neck, throat, tongue. Tongue spasms. Bites. Blisters. Burns. Blood. I scratch till it hurts. Till I bleed. That’s my week. My day. My year. My life. I don’t know anymore.

And names echo out of the shadows: “I don’t know” a brother of Mr Cuda’s. Liberty from Scotland cool dude. Beets. JCB33. Etched in memory. Share or die. That’s when the MS hit hard. That’s when it finished me. No more coding. No more brain capacity. No more clarity. Just implosions.

A shout out to Antrax with his big bat in Oz. If you're out there, mate salute.

That’s me done. Thursday afternoon. Raw. Unedited. Uncensored. Just me.

Bleeding, buzzing, and still breathing.

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

It’s Sunday afternoon. The pain in my left side is throwing a rave. Not the dreaded MS hug (thank Gordon), but the nerves have clearly mutinied. Pain troops storming in like I’m Normandy. Still, I haven’t surrendered. Yet.

Ever had a headache that doesn’t hurt but is still there? I have. It's like an existential parasite lodged in my brain—just... there. Lurking. Mocking. My eyes? Burning. My energy? Sucked out by some invisible psychic Dyson.

Yes, I used AI to assist — what of it? MS has chewed through my brain like a zombie buffet. Severe cognitive dysfunction. Brain fog. Memory loss. And the pièce de résistance? The spellchecker begging for a raise every time I type.

My bowels are revolting (in both senses). But I won’t go to the doctor. Why? Because the last time I tried that, I was gaslit harder than a Victorian lamplighter on speed. Apparently, being disabled is just a “mindset.” Newsflash: it's not.

I sit, stare at the rain, storms maybe. Or is that just me projecting? My rockabilly psychobilly past screaming in the background while Titus turns up the music, like that’ll drown out my body’s rebellion.

The NHS dentist? Legend. The chemist? A robotic death dispenser. And everyone else? Absent. Because disability makes people uncomfortable. It’s like they think they’ll catch it from me if they listen too long.

Friends? Dead. Or fucked off the moment my MS became “too much.” I say it how it is and that scares people. Well, boo-fucking-hoo. I’m sick, not contagious. But even that’s too much for this society of sanitised cowards.

So here I am. Watching. Absorbing. A goblin at the edge of the world, unwanted, unseen.

But I know who I am. I know. I am a spiritual humanitarian. I stand for the broken, the weird, the abandoned. I am not finished, no matter how badly my body wants me to be. And to those who still fear me or avoid me—good. Stay scared. You’re not invited into my darkness.

                                 !!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

The internet’s not a web—it’s a snare. A twisted digital theatre where the audience is chained to their seats and the actors are algorithms wearing your dead grandmother’s face. And me? I’m the cranky bastard in the back row throwing peanuts at God.

Been using VPNs for years. Used to swear by them. Like a tinfoil condom for your IP address. But now? Most of these so-called “secure” services are glorified spyware with a fancy logo. They sell you a cloak and stab you through it. My old VPN? A laggy little weasel that forgot who it was hiding. More bugs than an NHS ward in flu season. Every login felt like convincing a drunk ex that you’re “just here to talk.”

So I went rogue. Booted Linux from a USB stick like some dodgy hacker monk in a post-apocalyptic library. Because Windows? That cheery blue nightmare? It's not an operating system, it's an informant. Smiles in your face while reporting every keystroke to its pimps in Seattle. I'm sure some engineer at Microsoft has watched me rage-type “VPN NOT WORKING YOU LYING BASTARDS” more times than I care to admit.

Ah yes—ProtonVPN. Free. “Unlimited.” Like a tap that only drips when no one's looking. Swiss-made. Which used to mean neutral and clean. Now it just means "not yet caught." But bless them—they work better than the bloated scamware I paid for, so here I am, holding on like a rat under a leaking umbrella.

But let’s be honest, shall we? Privacy is a corpse. They dressed it up, kissed its forehead, then sold its organs to advertisers. Your phone’s listening. Your fridge is snitching. Your smart TV’s having a threesome with MI5 and TikTok. And we’re just waving along. “Allow all cookies?” Sure. Come piss in my cereal too.

I’ve had my data stolen so many times, I should just post my NI number on a billboard with a picture of me flipping the bird. And yet, every time some corporate gremlin loses 10 million customer records, they come out with that PR colonic cleanse:

“We take your security very seriously…” Well not seriously enough to keep it, obviously. But thanks for the discount code and counselling hotline.

So no—I don’t trust anyone. I don’t believe in privacy, or safety, or secure logins. I believe in entropy. I believe in chaos. And I believe Crowley had it right when he said: “Love is the law.” But this ain’t love—it’s a bad acid trip inside a dying robot. The machine is eating itself, and it still wants your feedback.

We are not living—we're being processed. Scanned, tagged, tracked, and pacified. We’re not citizens anymore. We’re content generators with credit scores and targeted ads. This is the endgame: lonely, horny, paranoid, and still paying for McAfee.

But I’m not scared. I’ve already died once—this is the encore. One day soon, I’ll be ash and irony, chuckling from the astral plane as your smart kettle reports you for making tea without the government's permission.

Freedom? Freedom is a tear sliding down the cracked cheek of a forgotten god.

                     “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