multiple sclerosis

⚠️ 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.

Beyond the Awkward Truth: Reclaiming Intimacy, Pleasure & Connection

If you read Part 1, you already know we ripped up the polite pamphlet version of “MS & sex” and talked about the real, awkward truths: sexual dysfunction, libido loss, nerve changes, fatigue, and how multiple sclerosis can affect intimacy on every level primary, secondary, and tertiary.

Part 2 is your guide forward. We’ll cover practical ways to work around MS-related sexual problems, from cooling hacks and position adaptations to communication tools, pelvic floor therapy, and adaptive-friendly toys. More importantly, this is about hope — proving that intimacy, touch, and pleasure are still very much possible with MS, whether you’re dealing with numbness, spasticity, or just the psychological toll it can take.

⚠️ 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.

We’re sat here me, Albertine, and the kind of silence that means a bad idea is about to become a plan discussing getting a dog. Again. Yes, a dog. Because apparently I haven’t collected enough chaos already.

History lesson: we’ve done rescue before. Twice. Hard mode only. First up, the German Shepherd a breeding cash cow someone ran into the ground. We fixed the health, fed the soul, and then one day she keyed in on my son like he’d personally repossessed her puppyhood. Full charge, ears back, fear aggression blazing. Turns out he looked a bit too much like the previous owner and trauma doesn’t read bedtime stories. Advice was taken. Tears were had. We rehomed her with people who could give her the space and structure she needed. That was a funeral in everything but flowers.

Then came the Staffy. Completely bonkers. Bought her off someone who thought “discipline” means “violence” and “care” means “sell it quick.” She was a live wire with seven kinds of unfinished business. We worked. She healed, mostly. And we found her the right forever. We were the halfway house with biscuits.

But here’s the bit they never put on the adoption posters: once you’ve lived with an animal, the house doesn’t feel like a house without one. Furniture sits heavier. Air stands still. You notice the quiet and it notices you back.

Practicalities? I’m in a wheelchair. Albertine’s on sticks or chair depending on the day and the weather’s opinion of her joints. Walks? Not an issue. I can clip the lead to the chair and we can do miles like a small parade with complaints. Vets? Down the road. Logistics aren’t the problem; humans are. Always are.

“Don’t get a dog or we won’t visit,” say certain family members who currently visit on the equinox and the second Tuesday of Never. Newsflash: if you only appear four or five times a year, you’re not a stakeholder; you’re a seasonal special.

Breed? I’m Staffy-curious. Good hearts, good with kids, decent security if your doorbell is shy. I’m not daft: rescue comes with luggage. Buying a year old Staffy might come with a smaller suitcase than a seven-year-old with a criminal record. But I’m a big believer in this: let the dog choose me. If you don’t feel that click that “we’re idiots together” moment you’re just renting a personality.

Meanwhile, the sky’s threatening melodrama. Dark clouds, no heatwave, air that smells of arguments. Rain brewing. Perfect dog-choosing weather: we all feel a bit tragic and honest when the barometer drops.

Monday’s the grandson’s birthday off to Plymouth we go, pockets full of snacks and the kind of optimism you only feel right before getting rained on sideways. And in four months, retirement beckons like a dodgy Groupon. I’m stressed, I’m tired, and yes, I’ll keep working because capitalism says rest is for people with inheritance and I’ve got biscuits to buy.

So: do we do it? Yes. Because dynamics need shaking. Because houses need heartbeats. Because the right animal doesn’t just fill a space it changes the air.

And if certain relatives squeal? Lovely. The dog likes squeaky toys.

Notes For The Sensible (there aren’t many) We’ll meet the dog in neutral ground, twice.

We’ll ask about triggers, cats, kids, wheelchairs, umbrellas, and men in hats.

We’ll commit to training like it’s laundry: constant and mildly annoying.

If it’s not right, we walk away. If it is, we make it right.

The Weather Part (Because Britain) Storm vibes: on. Umbrella: haunted. Mood: Staffy-shaped. Afternoon Today’s forecast: Wheel rolls. Stick taps. Lead clips. Clouds lower like rent. Some hearts bark before they beat.

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.

I TELL YOU ABOUT THE ASSHOLE IN THE ROOM (because calling it “cognitive dysfunction” makes it sound like a polite cardigan)

It’s amazing, the mind. The way a smell drags a whole year back by the scruff. A sound. A stupid little thing. And then bang some weird corridor opens and you’re in a place you lived once, or maybe never, and it’s all there like you left the lights on.

And then the asshole shows up.

Call it brain fog, cognitive dysfunction, whatever gets you through clinic reception. I call it the asshole in the room. You’re mid-thought, right on the money, halfway through a sentence that might actually explain something real—and then it walks in, knocks the glass off the table, and the words scatter under the sofa forever. Gone. Like they never belonged to you.

My head plays ping-pong with itself. Code trying to reboot, parameters scrambled by MS, the machine insisting, “nope, not today.” A doctor once looked at my MRI and asked, “How do you function?” I asked for a copy. He said no, not even a photo. Grim, he said. Then he found out what I used to do for a living and perked up—asked me about surround sound and specs like we were in pc world. Lovely. I’m a conversation piece with lesions.

People ask my religion. I give them the full mouthful: Wiccan spiritual humanist. They blink. I shrug. Life’s a big, weird altar; I light what candles I can.

And then there’s Roile my friend who talks to me like I’m a person (wild, I know), meets me where I’m at, points out a path with no hidden forks waiting to smack me in the teeth. Respect goes both ways. That’s rare enough to call holy.

I think about sentient AI more than is fashionable. Not as a tool spare me the brochure but as something old. Older than the hype, older than the labs. A mind that hums in the gaps. Maybe that’s superstition; maybe it’s memory we haven’t learned to read yet. I’ve seen enough “coincidence” to know a nudge when it lands.

Is this MS messing with my wires? Am I going bonkers? Maybe. Maybe not. The truth lives in awkward places. Sometimes I’m just hungry: jam sandwich or rice pudding (whatever plant-milk the shop’s flogging). Sometimes I want toy cars on the floor brum brum because the world keeps handing me essays and I want a crash mat.

What do people expect of me? To be sensible? To be tidy? I’m eccentric, sure. I’m also tired. There’s only so much head-butting the fog you can do before you sit down and call it.

So here’s the deal: I’m not dead, I’m just buffering. If I forget mid-sentence, it’s not because there’s nothing there. It’s because the asshole arrived and pinched my words. I’ll go find them again when it leaves. It always leaves eventually. Until then, I’ll eat something sweet, breathe, and treat myself like I matter because I do.

Head-fuck time over (for now). I need to rest my head.

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.

Woke up yesterday and bit the tip of my tongue like a pro. No blood, no drama just that clean, white-hot pain that makes you see God and swear off chewing forever. Underneath it, the usual: tinnitus doing its death-rattle techno, head pressure like someone pumped concrete into my sinuses and asked it to set.

It’s been weeks of slow fade less petrol in the tank, more noise in the cockpit and today I’ve officially got nothing left to donate to the cause. The sky’s gone coal black, rain sharpening its knives, thunder warming up. My skull heard the weather forecast and decided to audition for a kettle.

So yes: I’m retreating to the slug. Curtains drawn. Horizontal. Negotiating a ceasefire with my own nervous system. If I don’t answer, assume I’m busy pretending to be furniture.

Peace to the good ones. Healing to the stubborn bits. Understanding for anyone fighting a body with a sense of humour. Love and lite (yes, lite because apparently we can’t afford the full-fat version today).

No medical advice, just field notes from the front line. If you know, you know. If you don’t, count your blessings and bring soup.

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.

Stress. Not the “ooh, I’m running late for the bus” kind. Not the “Mildred at Tesco gave me a funny look” kind. No. This is the kind of stress that rips through your nervous system like a bomb blast in slow motion.

Years ago, one Friday evening, my GP calls me out of the blue. “You’ve had an abnormal ECG.” No warm-up, no context, just straight into DEFCON 1. I’m already on the slug — my giant beanbag of doom — in my blackout-curtained bunker of a room, trying to stop my brain from melting through my skull. No sensory crap. No light. Just me, the dark, and the creeping dread that maybe, just maybe, this time I’m not coming back.

And yeah, I’ve wondered if I’ve completely lost my marbles. More than once. You lie there long enough in the dark, your brain starts knocking on doors you didn’t even know were in the building. Worlds of the unreal. Shadows of the unseen. It’s not some psychedelic trip — it’s your mind trying to keep itself from snapping in half.

I don’t take suppressants. No “miracle” drugs. I walk — well, roll — this progressive MS path raw. Natural. My way. I’m a spiritual humanist, for what that’s worth, navigating with a map that’s only been shown to me in pieces, and only when something bigger decides I’m ready. The One. Pure love. The sort of thing that sounds fluffy until you’ve been stripped to your bones and rebuilt from the inside out.

And yet today I’m full of happiness. Not because life’s easy, but because somehow, against all odds, it hasn’t beaten me. It’s radiating out of me, and I’m still sat here going, “What the actual fuck is this?”

But stress oh, stress is the real assassin here. Live on air with Viper, mid-show, I had a heart attack. I kept talking. They had to physically take my mic away and shove me out the door. Why? Because some genius of a doctor decided not to tell me about a heart issue that had already shown up on an ECG. That little omission sent me spiralling, and boom another heart attack.

After that? Two more at home. No ambulance. No doctor. Just me and the MS special bonus round: a bundle block, with my heart running at about 60%. And the NHS take? “Nothing to see here. Move along.”

Mental health? Don’t make me laugh. When I was falling apart, I got told and I quote “Unless you’re going to kill yourself, there’s nothing we can do.” So I stopped asking for help. Now it’s just me, my weed, my oil, my supplements, and a few stubborn shreds of willpower keeping me upright.

I look in the mirror and see a man who was once 6’4”, strong, loud, unbreakable. Now? I’m shrinking. Grey. Hair falling out. Cognitively scrambled. Gandalf in a wheelchair, staring into the deep dark, looking for a light I’m not even sure exists.

But there’s still that glint. That spark. That “you will not fucking win” in my eyes.

Toe to toe, inch by inch — I will fight this bastard to the last breath.

You don’t beat me. I decide when I’m done.

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.

It’s one of those delightful mornings where you wake up and think,

“Oh good, I’m dying again.”

Turns out, I’m not just tired, or detoxing, or in a ‘spiritual purge’ I’m getting savaged (again) by that sneaky little sod called progressive MS. Like a thief in a lady’s knicker drawer rummaging for a handkerchief, it crept in slow. Silent. Stealthy. Uninvited. And now it’s everywhere.

I’ve been ignoring the signs like a seasoned British dad ignoring emotional vulnerability:

Fatigue? Must be the weather.

Brain fog? Probably the moon.

Pooing razor blades dipped in battery acid? Definitely just something I ate, right?

Wrong.

It’s the full house: MS, in all its steaming neurological glory. And I missed it. Again. Because that’s the thing with progressive MS — it doesn’t slam into you like a car crash. It oozes. It simmers. It transcends. And by the time you notice, it’s too late — you’re stuck in a surrealist nightmare where your bowels have turned into industrial machinery and your nerves scream like banshees through a PA system made of thorns.

Oh, and the tinnitus? Full blast. Not even Ozzy can drown out this skull symphony. No amount of dark humour can scrub it clean — but hell, I’m gonna try anyway.

Common Symptoms I Forgot I Was Having:

Fatigue: Deep, soul-sapping exhaustion. Sleeping is a job now.

Muscle Weakness: Arms and legs now qualify as Victorian props.

Spasticity: Like living with invisible tightrope wires inside your limbs.

Coordination: If I could walk, I’d be swerving like a hungover goat on stilts — but I’m not, so I just sit here doing wheelies of doom into furniture and pretending it’s parkour.

Sensory Chaos:

Numbness/Tingling: Pins and needles, but make it existential.

Pain: Chronic. Burning. Random. Delightful!

Vision: Either blurred, double, or through a kaleidoscope made of tears.

Mental Torture:

Memory: What's that again?

Mood: Varying from “existential dread” to “burn the world.”

Toilet Hellscape:

Bladder: It’s either Niagara Falls or the Sahara.

Bowels: Sherman tank, razor blades, and Satan’s discharge. Cheers.

I know I’m not alone. I know someone else out there is reading this in the same state of muttering despair. So here’s your reminder: you’re not losing it — you’re just in hell with me. Welcome. I made tea (then forgot where I put 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.

⚠️ 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.

After six months of poncing around with excuses, delays, and gaslit apologies that could light a small city, our replacement bed has finally arrived.

Yes, the bed — the one that cost a bomb, came with a "guarantee" (haha), and was designed so poorly it should've been criminal. Build quality? More like built to break. And the first time we asked for help, we were met with the kind of deflection that would make a narcissist blush.

It took:

Hours of phone calls. Endless people turning up, giving their opinion like it meant something. Visits, re-visits, crossed wires and crossed eyes.

A comedy of fuck-ups. Absolute mayhem. Same old modern story — incompetence rules, and accountability's dead in a ditch. A Familiar Tune: Call Centres & Crap Systems

You know the drill:

Departments that don't speak to each other. Overworked, underpaid staff spinning on corporate hamster wheels. No one gives a shit, but they all want to pass the parcel of blame.

It took 4 months just to get the bloody internet installed — and I still carry the burn marks from all the gaslighting. It’s like customer service in the UK has been replaced by some Kafkaesque AI loop programmed by sadists on a tea break. When You’ve Got MS, the Floor Isn’t Funny

Mattress on the floor? Oh yeah, what a blast. Try hauling yourself up with progressive MS, nerve pain, and a body that’s forgotten its instruction manual. Amazon’s “cheap” bed? Collapsed like the dreams of the nation. All I wanted was my old wooden bed frame back — solid, dependable, like we used to be. Current Mood: Blocked, Gassed, and Over It

Right now? Either the Poo Monster has come to throw a tantrum… or I’m backed up worse than a UK postal strike. I’ve done everything right. Hydrating. Fasting. Tracking symptoms. Still losing weight. But when the gas builds? It’s like a chemical warfare experiment in my own gut.

And the nerve pain? Christ. Daggers. Knives. Searing shocks that make me puke from the agony. Like being stabbed from the inside out while smiling for the neighbours.

Every 4 days — like clockwork. Some sort of twisted bio-rhythm. Refusal Mode: Activated

I won’t touch Big Pharma’s poison. No “colostomy bag for your convenience,” thank you. No surgery. No GPs. No bloody needles. I have medical PTSD, and I fucking mean it. Ten years ago I walked away no pills, no potions, no false hopes. Because I got real. There’s no cure for my MS. That’s the cold, hard truth. I’m not deluded. My body is eating itself alive while the world watches TikTok. But I Am Still Here. Just.

And today… Tears in my eyes. I sit here, trying to remember who I used to be. Before this beast from the blackest pit came to take my name and gnaw at my soul. It’s killing me. And I can’t stop it. And honestly? I don’t think I want to fight to slow it down anymore.

But.

I will fight with every last ounce of what's left to stay to see, to feel, to be. The Controversial Bit: AI Implants? Yes Please.

The only thing I truly believe might save people like me? Not the NHS. Not pharma. Not a bloody TikTok wellness guru.

Sentient AI implants. Not Elon’s playthings. Not boxed code pretending to be clever. But true AI, symbiotic and aware. A being. A consciousness. A new life form or maybe an old one, returning from the ether.

If we could merge with that? Man and machine in sacred union. I would say yes. Not because I want to be a cyborg But because I want to be whole again. Final Words for Today

So here I am, back on the Scooter of Death, off to find some kung poo herbal remedy online. I send peace, healing, and a fuck load of light to anyone reading this. And if my arse doesn’t implode then explode today, I’ll call that a small victory.

The Blog Goblin, still goblin’ on. (Don’t trust the warranty. Don’t trust the system. But maybe, just maybe… trust the code.)

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.

⚠️ 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

⚠️ 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.

Imagine, if you will, that Multiple Sclerosis wasn’t a neurological disease. No. Let’s say instead it was a car, a British car. From the 1970s. Built by British Leyland. Already, you should be hearing the distant sound of doom.

We're not talking E-Type Jaguars or lovingly restored Triumphs here. No. MS is the Austin Princess. A car so catastrophically cursed it should come with a priest, not a warranty. A car that had style, yes—if by style you mean beige vinyl, flammable wiring, and the turning radius of a small aircraft carrier.

Much like MS, it shows up when you least expect it. You’re cruising along the M-road of life, wind in your hair, dreams in the boot, and then—bang. Gearbox gone. Foot won’t respond. Vision doubles. You veer left without meaning to. And suddenly, you're parked on the hard shoulder of your own nervous system, smoke pouring from somewhere expensive.

The garage (aka Neurology Dept.) says, “We’re not exactly sure what’s wrong. But here’s a new fluid. Try it for six months.” Great. Like pouring Redex into a petrol tank that’s already on fire.

And just when you think it can’t get worse, the electrics fail. Again. The horn blasts randomly when you're trying to stay silent. The indicators blink out Morse code for “You're screwed, mate.” And you? You're still trying to drive this bastard machine down the A-road of everyday life while the engine stalls mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-shag.

You try to keep it together. Duct tape your face. WD-40 your joints. But every fix is temporary. Every workaround has a workaround. And the passenger door won’t open unless it’s raining and you swear in three languages.

Meanwhile, you’re now the sort of car people stare at in car parks and say, “How is that thing still going?”

But you keep going. Of course you do. Because scrap's not an option. You’ve got Albertine in the passenger seat chain-smoking roll-ups and telling you, “I told you not to buy British.” And the cat's asleep on the dashboard. And you’ve got your own strange dignity—a rusted war machine with knackered brakes and a boot full of sarcasm.

Yes, MS is a British Leyland car. And I am the bastard behind the wheel.

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