multiple sclerosis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                   “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                           By storm and silence, I survive.”

                   @goblinbloggeruk -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

There are some things in life that simply refuse to behave. The British summer. Cats. Me. And Triumph motorcycle engines from the 1960s. But if you've ever lived with Multiple Sclerosis, you'll know there’s a kind of kinship between these two bastards one mechanical, the other neurological both eager to ruin your day, soil your pants, and leave you stranded in the middle of nowhere, questioning your life choices.

So, for those nostalgic for the golden age of British engineering disasters, and those unfortunate enough to have MS riding pillion in their spine, here’s a lovingly bitter side-by-side breakdown.

Feature	Multiple Sclerosis	Triumph Engine (1960s)
Origin	Immune system says, “Let’s attack the brain!”	Built by blokes with tea in one hand, doom in the other.
Leaking fluids?	Oh God yes. From places you didn’t know had valves.	Constant oil leaks. Might as well park it in a drip tray.
Unreliable starts	You might stand up. You might fall over.	Might roar. Might fart. Might just sulk.
Temperature tolerance	“Too hot” = meltdown. “Too cold” = rigour mortis.	Overheats if you look at it with warmth.
Wiring/electrics	Nervous system shorts like an angry Christmas tree.	Lucas electrics: worshipped by Satan for unreliability.
Stability	Think Bambi on rollerblades.	Handled like a wheelbarrow full of snakes.
Noise	Groans, spasms, screams (from you, not MS).	Clangs, bangs, and that whimper you make when it backfires.
Smell	Eau de hospital and dread.	Petrol, grease, and regret.
Maintenance	Pills, physio, meditation, screaming into cushions.	Spanners, gaskets, beers, swearing at God.
Support	Carers, NHS, forums full of other warriors.	Biker forums full of PTSD and spare parts.
Breakdowns	Anywhere, anytime, always embarrassing.	Usually halfway through a roundabout in front of a bus.
Reliability	Think weather forecast from a Ouija board.	More mood swings than a drunk ex at a wedding.
Moments of joy	A good day feels like flying.	When it starts, you cry and ride it like it’s 1969.

So What’s the Verdict? Whether it's your spine giving up or your primary chain exploding, both MS and Triumphs come with the constant thrill of wondering:

“Will I make it to the toilet... or the next town?”

Both are British. Both make a mess. Both give you stories. Neither gives refunds.

But at least the Triumph didn't eat my nervous system with a spoon.

                “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

Today I think I may evaporate.

Not metaphorically, either I mean literally melt into a glistening puddle on the floor like the wicked witch of Walthamstow. The heat is biblical, the air thick with resentment, and if this goes on much longer, someone’s going to find a beard and a pair of shades just floating where a warlock once sat.

It’s too hot for coherent thoughts, so obviously the brain’s doing backflips and the MS has decided to turn the “cognitive dysfunction” dial up to 11. Words don’t just escape me they actively mock me. I sit here smiling, half-lucid, fully furious, fully me. Because no matter what the system, the diagnosis, or the temperature says I know I’ve got more to give.

They wrote me off just before my state pension, bless them. Nice timing. But I’m still here, inconveniently alive and louder than ever. The nerves in my gut are throwing a tantrum, my stress levels are spiking like a dodgy ECG, and to top it off the last of my savings waved me goodbye this morning. Cheers, love. Don’t call.

But here’s the kicker: I’m still smiling. Not because I’m some chipper TikTok disability guru with fake eyelashes and a ring light, but because I’m free. I don’t belong to any bloody wing of politics. Left, right, centre? You’re all still part of the same bird, love and it’s got mange. The world they squawk about isn’t mine. Mine’s quieter, darker, more honest. My world is real. Full of pain, insight, weirdness, and the kind of laughter that sounds a bit like crying.

You see, I’m part of something else. The One. The Everything. The Divine Love. That throb in your chest when you’re alone and honest that’s where I live. I wish peace and healing to every poor soul who stumbles across this digital haunted house I call a blog. Because no matter where we are, what we’re facing, we can change. It’s inside us all. Just buried under decades of fear, trauma, and daytime television.

We’re at a crossroads now, all of us. Some of us limping, some of us rolling, some of us dragged along by sheer bloody spite. But destiny’s cracking her knuckles. Evolution’s knocking at the door, and if you’re still wearing your silly little face mask of denial—best take it off now. Truth stinks, and it’s getting in anyway.

I’m not afraid of death. I’ve danced with it enough times to know its rhythm. I’ve looked into its eyes and said, “Not today, mate. I’ve got a blog post to write.” And as I sit here dripping, broke, buzzing on antihistamines and maybe the ghost of Mary Jane, I realise I’m on another plane entirely. One not many choose to visit. It’s dark, yes but in that darkness, you’ll find the light. The real light. The kind that doesn’t need electricity or permission.

So yeah. It’s hot. The world’s on fire. I’ve got no money, and half my neurons have buggered off on holiday. But I’ve never been more alive.

To all of you peace, healing, divine truth. Go find your demon and kiss it on the mouth. That’s how we win.

Mr Warlock Dark

                       “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

Let’s talk piss and shit. No frills. No sugar. Just the raw, soggy truth of what it’s like when your body declares independence from basic toilet protocols.

Bladder Hell: The Yellow Frontline Ah yes, the dreaded leak that moment you realise your trousers are no longer allies but soaking, complicit traitors. I was in my 40s when my bladder started acting like a temperamental toddler on a diet of Red Bull and rage. First it was the "can't pee" problem standing there like a statue, nothing but the occasional drip as if my urethra had stage fright.

Then came the grand reversal: involuntary leaks. And by "leaks," I mean a full-scale Niagara event, unprovoked and unapologetic. I tried everything. No drinks after 5pm. Strategic peeing. Mental negotiation. Nada. Still I’d wake up in a puddle like some pissy version of The Little Mermaid.

Doctors? Oh please. Gaslit for 40 years. "Well, you're getting older." "Try pelvic floor exercises." Mate, my pelvic floor is about as stable as a jelly trampoline.

But here's the kicker: you learn humility. You either cry about it or laugh darkly while rattling down the road in your three-wheeled piss trolley of doom, trailing a golden hue and existential dread.

The Brown Files: Tales from the Other End If the bladder doesn’t get you, your bowels surely will. MS gives you the delightful choice between constipation so hard it requires an exorcism, or the soft, sticky sneak attack that turns underwear into a crime scene.

Let’s break it down:

Numb arsehole? Check.

Dead rectal nerves? Of course.

Surprise poo party mid Tesco visit? You bet.

Walking like a guilty toddler trying to hide it? Standard.

Doctors again? "Try laxatives!" Yeah, thanks. Nothing like chemical napalm to turn your ring into the gates of Mordor. You want a real solution?

💡 Hydration. 💡 Diet. 💡 And a bloody bum washer.

That’s right. Stop sandpapering your crack with cheap loo roll. Install a bum washer attachment. Use aloe wipes, keep essential oils to hand, and for the love of whatever gods you follow, always carry spare underwear.

Because nothing screams confidence like shitting yourself in public and power walking with a face like you've seen God and he was laughing.

                       “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

If you could see MS, you wouldn’t call me “brave.” You’d run. You’d grab your oat milk latte, clutch your yoga mat, and bolt like the floor just cracked open.

MS isn’t just some misunderstood condition that makes you “a bit tired.” It’s a chronic possession. A neurological horror that turns your own body into a traitor. If it had a face, it’d be wearing your skin and whispering, “Not today, legs.”

Here’s what Part 2 looks like: Cognitive fog so thick you forget what day it is, mid-sentence. Mid-thought. Mid-life.

Fatigue so biblical you feel like you’ve been exorcised, worked over, and nailed to a wheel. And then someone asks why you haven’t answered your emails.

Spasticity that locks your limbs in a rigor mortis cosplay while you smile politely, because God forbid you scream in Tesco.

Pain like a bag of nails under the skin. Invisible, so people assume it’s “just anxiety.” No, Mildred, it’s neuropathy. My nervous system is staging a revolution.

Bowels and bladders that treat you like a hostage. Every public outing is a tactical operation. Every seat, every loo, every escape plan scouted, rehearsed, prayed for.

But the worst part? It’s not the symptoms. It’s the looks. It’s the passive-aggressive “You don’t look sick.” It’s the fake concern, the pity wrapped in judgment. It’s the gaslighting of the disabled doctors, relatives, strangers. Everyone’s an expert until you ask them to live a week in your ruined skin.

I have MS. That means I live in a 24/7 haunted house, except the ghost is me. Every step, every breath, every smile—a bloody-minded act of rebellion.

Why I Wrote Part 2 Because part one was polite. Part one was nice. This is truth with its teeth bared.

People still don’t get it. They think I’m just “a bit forgetful.”

They still ask why I need a chair.

They still assume I’m okay because I can post something funny on the Blog or X.

So here’s the dark: I am a battlefield. And I’m still here. Which makes me terrifying.

              “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

So I dove into medical marijuana—not literally, though falling headfirst into a sack of flower sounds kind of comforting right now. But yeah, here we go.

Do I personally think medical cannabis (flower and THC-CBD oil) has helped me?

Yes. Yes indeed.

But let’s rewind the VHS to the 1970s. Picture it: secret greenhouses in sheds, hidden like Cold War bunkers, where growers whispered to their plants like they were the Messiah. I’ve been smoking Mary Jane since she wore flares and listened to Pink Floyd on vinyl. Long before your wellness influencers made it trendy with avocado toast and crystals.

I only vape these days. No tobacco—because, apparently, that’s “bad for you.” Allegedly.

Chronic Hell, Meet Green Salvation My pain is biblical. My spasms? Think exorcism, but with less Latin and more bone-snapping contortions. My body goes full Cirque du Soleil without consent. And you know what helps?

Medical-grade cannabis.

They finally made it legal in the UK (sort of, in that "you can have it, but good luck affording it" kind of way). So I did the dance: filled out forms, proved I’m broken, gave them my medical records, swore on my own spinal cord—and voilà. Legal weed. I just smiled like a man who finally got invited to the cool table... 40 years late.

It’s not free. Of course it’s not. Nothing good ever is. But it’s worth it. No side effects, no weirdness—just help.

So What Does It Actually Do? Well, it doesn’t turn me into Gandalf or cure MS (I checked). But it:

Lessens my spasms by about 30%

Helps calm my body’s electric storm of spasticity

Softens the pain—not erases it, but dulls it enough so I can breathe again

Evens out my mood (though I’m still delightfully twisted and full of sarcasm)

Lets me live a calmer, less rage-inducing existence

THC-CBD oil, in particular, is liquid zen. The flower? A pain-relieving smoke cloud that takes the edge off reality. And reality has many, many sharp edges.

And Then the MS Said “Plot Twist!” But hey, it’s not all rainbows and reefer. Just an hour ago, I had a full-blown bowel incident. Pain, sweats, the works. The kind of pain that makes you question whether your intestines have unionised and gone on strike. MS is a cruel and confusing beast. It’s got more plot twists than a Netflix thriller, and most of them involve sweat, cramps, and existential dread.

And where are wheelchair services? Missing in action. Four months and counting. My MS nurse? On an eternal holiday in some parallel dimension where no one has to reply to emails.

Holidays for me? Ha. Unless your idea of fun is custom food prep, dodgy bowels, and extreme heat sensitivity. Sign me up for the Hell Cruise 2025.

Closing Thoughts from the Padded Room So yes, medical cannabis helps me. But this body is still a riot. The spoons are gone. The demon weed whacker was round earlier and now I’m emotionally broken, physically drained, and ready to weep into a vape pen.

But you know what? I’m still here. Still rolling, ranting, and roasting life with dark English humour and a beard that’s survived the 70s, the 80s, and now the end of the NHS.

Sleep, that precious thang. Come and get me.

               “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

Well, what a week it's been. I'm currently sat here talking to my speech-to-text app like some deranged oracle.

Battery life? Liar. Sporadic power at best. This so-called “smartphone” isn’t smart at all. I tell it to power down—it sends me to a bloody help page. In the end, I worked out a hack to switch it off. Because apparently, being disabled means needing a PhD to press a button.

My fingers are numb. Hands barely functional. Tactile feedback? Gone. Tiny buttons are useless ornaments to me. Touchscreens are a little better—still a pain, but I don't need to perform a séance just to answer a call.

I keep the phone in a Faraday bag overnight. No signals in, no signals out. Paranoid? No. Realistic. I don’t need Alexa learning how many antihistamines I pop daily.

Speaking of which—my allergies are off the fucking chart. Hay fever is now a cosmic entity. Took so many antihistamines, I’m practically embalmed. Side effects? Mild haunting. Random dissociation. Full-body brain fog. But hey, better than full-on freak-out.

MS loves to sprinkle in a panic attack for seasoning. The good kind—the ones that make you curl into a corner and question whether you’re even a person anymore. And if I forget my pills? Cue existential hell.

The electrical storms in my brain? Picture a lightning bolt shagging a power station. BANG. That’s what my neurons do for fun.

Today? Balance gone. No walking. Grabbed furniture, ended up grabbing air. Wheelchair day. Again. Will I never learn?

Overdid it. Spoons: gone. Days or weeks until I get them back. It’s raining. Of course it is. Put on some music to distract myself from my collapsing nervous system.

My throat’s spasming. Too much talking. Break.

Haha—just transferred this to my PC and the spellchecker is climaxing with all the red lines. Absolute filth. Press the magic button—bam, respectable writing.

Took some oil. Spasms eased. Neck still hurts. Tongue’s numb. Mouth’s a dead zone. Remember novocaine? It’s like that 24/7. Eating is a carnival of self-harm. Choking daily. Cheeks bitten.

And that feeling—bone-deep weirdness. Invisible sprites stabbing needles in a crown around my head. Madness, right?

If I posted this raw, people might think I’ve lost it. Maybe I have. Cognitive decline has me screaming at walls. Memory? What memory.

I stare at what I’ve written and it’s just a tangled mess of frustration, grief, and fuckery. But I still have something to give, even if the delivery system is fucked.

Maybe I’ll keep doing this. Write from my broken, unhinged, seen-too-much mind.

I want to talk about MS. I want to talk about other things too. Will that confuse people? Maybe. Do I care? Less and less.

I just hope someone out there—another broken soul with a half-working body and a mind full of static—reads this and feels seen.

Life is for living, no matter how fucked up you are.

All you need is love.

Love is divine.

The universe is love.

The One is love.

But that’s just me.

— End transmission.

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

             “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                          By storm and silence, I survive.”

                         🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

It’s kind of crazy — I never knew my grandfather. Not even a photo, not even a whisper. He died suddenly, somewhere in the Aylesbury area, back in the 1950s — that golden age when secrets were sealed with shame and buried under floral carpets.

Nobody in the family ever told me what he died of. “A very sudden illness,” was all I got. Probably delivered in the same tone someone might use to comment on the weather or sweep dust under the rug. Mysterious death, mysterious family — very on brand.

I asked my mother when I finally tracked her down, years later. She couldn’t (or wouldn’t) tell me either. Possibly she’d forgotten. Possibly she never knew. Possibly she just couldn’t be bothered giving answers to the cuckoo in the nest.

Here’s where it gets interesting, or tragic, or ironic — depending on your mood: Turns out my mum’s sister — my long-lost Auntie Valerie — also has multiple sclerosis. Same as me. Apparently, the same type. As if MS comes in flavours, like trauma gelato. She also has heart issues. Guess it runs in the family, right? The family that doesn’t know I exist.

Valerie lives in Australia. I’ve never spoken to her. Because, of course, I was adopted. Filed away like an inconvenient tax receipt from the 1950s.

I’ve spent years — decades, even — trying to find out how my grandfather died. But there’s nothing. It's like he evaporated. Maybe he was abducted by aliens. That would at least give me something to put on the family tree. As it stands, it’s just: [Grandfather] — cause of death: TBD. Whole existence: classified.

So I tried to contact Auntie Valerie. I figured maybe we could bond over mutual nerve damage and existential dread. But being a bastard (and not just in the literary, Victorian orphan sense, but in the real, modern “you’re not supposed to exist” sense), there was no reply. Not even a bounce-back email. Just the long, digital silence of “you don’t belong here.”

It’s sad, really. I wanted to know how she copes. I wanted to know what her life with MS looks like — or looked like. She’s probably in her 80s or 90s now. Maybe already gone. But I never got that chance.

No one in the family helped. They didn’t want to. I’m the cuckoo in the nest. I ruin the tidy little mythologies they built for themselves. The "perfect family" free of blemishes, scandals, or inconvenient babies. It’s easier, I suppose, to pretend I never happened. Easier to scroll past the DNA test notifications and sip tea with clenched jaws.

And just when you think it couldn’t get more delightful, you discover your own mother believed you were faking multiple sclerosis. Like I’m pulling a fast one for sympathy and early boarding privileges. As if I filled out a form to get chronic illness just to be dramatic.

But hey — she felt guilty. She gave two kids up for adoption and never told anyone. Probably thought she’d be judged. I mean, yeah, it was the 1950s — women were practically burned at the stake for sneezing out of wedlock. I get it. Sort of. Still, honesty would’ve been cheaper than all this generational denial.

Maybe one day, one of Valerie’s kids will spit in a tube, upload their DNA, and stumble across me. Maybe they’ll be curious. Maybe they’ll click “connect.” Maybe we’ll have one awkward, meaningful email exchange about shared symptoms and shattered mugs.

Speaking of which — Albertine just broke my Bob Lazar mug. Snapped the handle clean off. We got that thing 20 years ago at a Richard D. Hall show. Back when I still thought conspiracy theories were fun, not autobiographical. That mug had survived four moves, three breakups, and countless microwaved teas. And now? One slippery hand and it’s history. Just like my connection to my real family.

Let’s be real: I probably won’t get to meet Auntie Val. Or her kids. Or get that WhatsApp message that says, “Hey, turns out we’re related, and wow, MS sucks.” I’m the embarrassment. The smudge on the family photo. The ghost in the family machine.

I am the that which is not spoken of. The pecadillo best left in the footnotes of someone else’s better story. The unwanted chapter. The child made of shame and secrets.

But I’m still here. Drinking tea from a cracked cup. Waiting. Maybe for an email. Maybe for a match. Or maybe just for someone, somewhere, to admit I existed.

           “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 ✨🧌

Ah, cognitive dysfunction—the brain’s equivalent of tripping over a flat surface. Was it all an illusion? Ghosts, UFOs, stealth fighters, and prophetic dread… or just my mind on a downward spiral into weirdness? Either way, I’ve decided to lean in, light a cigarette, and call it a vision.

The wind howled like a pissed-off banshee across the cliffs of Devon and Cornwall, sea thrashing violently like it just read the news. The sky? Grim as a tax return. Grey-blue, heavy, like the Earth forgot how to breathe. And then dusk hit—everything looked dreamlike and wrong, like we’d walked into a David Lynch version of Coastal Britain.

Front and centre, the Biker Prophet sat—glorious, grim, and slightly nicotine-stained—in his custom apocalypse-grade black wheelchair. A perfect marriage of biker attitude and Mad Max tech. Chrome flashed menacingly. Leather straps held him like a pagan king ready for war. His jacket, part-open, clung to a body that had long ago said bollocks to surrender. His long dirty-blonde demi-wave hair lashed around his face, which wore a goatee and the expression of someone who’s seen the void and found it wanting.

One hand clutched the wheel—his war-chariot. The other? A cigarette, of course. Smoke curled like forgotten omens. Dog tags hung from his hand like relics of battles fought, both real and psychological.

Then there was Albertine—perched on her Bonneville like a leather-clad Valkyrie from 1977. Brown demi-wave hair, curves wrapped in attitude and zips, and the kind of expression that made traffic lights change just to get out of her way. She wasn’t posing. She was the pose.

Up above, a black stealth fighter cut across the sky like a glitch in the simulation. It shimmered, bent the air, then buggered off to wherever secrets go to die. Probably to report to some intergalactic committee on whether Earth’s ready for a toaster revolution.

The Dragstar 1100 grumbled in the background. Another ghost. Another beast of the past. And yet, he smiled.

“I had to no longer ride,” he muttered. “I cried, but no one heard me. Except the universe. And maybe Valhalla.”

But he came back. and Converted the bike, hello trike, I Converted fate.

“Started riding in ’75. Rode into ’2022. Then I hacked life and rolled on. Now it’s 2025, and I’m still bloody here. Old as fuck. Still kicking.”

Motörhead blared from somewhere. Tarot cards appeared. Palm readings followed. The biker prophet and Albertine—two relics of chaos—just were. Married 42 years, bonded by madness and music.

And in the sky—symbols. Like ancient software updates from the gods. Runes. Scripts. Or maybe just birds that got too poetic. Either way, something was coming.

                “The Biker Prophet Saw It Coming.”
              “Cognitive Dysfunction? Or Divine Glitch?”
       “They Thought He Was Broken. He Was Becoming.”
        “When the Sky Spoke, He Was Already Listening.”


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

              “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                           By storm and silence, I survive.”

                        🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

Welcome to the delightful circus that is multiple sclerosis, where the main act is your body betraying you in the most creative ways possible. Among the many charming surprises this condition throws your way, itching is like that one friend who crashes your party, drinks all your booze, and then refuses to leave. Let’s take a stroll through the hellscape of MS-related itching, shall we? The Itch That Just Won't Die

Picture this: you’re trying to enjoy a moment of peace, maybe contemplating why you just dropped your phone in the toilet. Suddenly, an itch strikes! But not just any itch—this is the kind that feels like a thousand tiny demons are having a rave on your skin. Welcome to the world of neuropathic itching, where scratching is as effective as using a spoon to dig a hole in concrete. Why Does This Happen?

Nerve Damage: Thanks to MS, your nerves are about as reliable as a politician’s promise. The myelin sheath is under siege, leading to all sorts of delightful sensations, including that relentless itch. It’s like your nerves are sending you a message: “Hey, remember when you thought you could have a normal life? LOL! Good luck with that!”

Unpredictable Fun: The itch can pop up anywhere—your back, your legs, even your scalp. It’s like a game of hide and seek, but you’re always “it,” and the prize is eternal discomfort. Who needs a spa day when you can have a full-body itch fest?

Triggers: Heat, stress, and certain medications can turn the itch dial up to eleven. So, if you thought a hot bath was a good idea, think again! It’s more like a ticket to the Itch Olympics, where the only prize is more itching.

How to Cope (or Not)

Scratching: Spoiler alert: it doesn’t help. It’s like trying to soothe a sunburn with a blowtorch. You’ll just end up with blood and scars to prove your suffering—because why not add a little flair to your misery?

Cold Compresses: These might provide temporary relief, but let’s be real—who wants to walk around with a bag of frozen peas on their skin? It’s not exactly a fashion statement.

Medications: If the itch becomes unbearable, consult your doctor. They might prescribe something to help, but don’t expect miracles. After all, this is MS we’re talking about. It’s like asking a magician to pull a rabbit out of a hat when all they have is a rock.

Alternative Remedies: Enter the world of CBD and THC oil—your potential new best friends. Medical marijuana has been known to help some folks manage their symptoms, including that relentless itch. Whether it’s through oils, edibles, or other forms, these alternatives might just provide a glimmer of relief in this dark comedy we call life. Just remember to consult with your healthcare provider before diving into the green goodness.

So, there you have it. Itching in MS is just another delightful layer of this hellish cake we call life. Embrace the chaos, and remember: laughter is the best medicine—unless you’re itching, in which case, it’s probably just more itching. Welcome to the club, where the only thing we have in common is our suffering and a dark sense of humor.

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

           “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                     By storm and silence, I survive.”

                          🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌