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 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.

Some mornings I wake up and my brain feels like it’s been wrapped in clingfilm and slow-cooked in porridge. Other days, it’s like someone’s pushed my thoughts through a shredder and sprinkled the confetti back into my skull.

They call it “brain fog.” Cute, right? Sounds like a lovely little mist rolling over a field of daisies. Nah — this is industrial-grade psychic smog, pumped in direct from the underworld.

Now let’s add in some of the bonus features that come with living inside this broken bio-machine:

My left side is a bloody disaster zone. Spasms, twitching, pain — like it's trying to divorce the rest of me without telling the lawyers.

My arms are numb. Like holding ghosts. Pins and needles, static shocks, a constant reminder I’m glitching.

My neck’s buzzing like someone wired it to a phone mast.

My head? Feels like it’s been blendered. I mean that. Mentally, spiritually, and maybe physically violated by a Nutribullet.

Tinnitus — so loud it’s practically its own entity. High-pitched screeches like I’m stuck inside a dying TV set from 1993.

My throat’s raw, like I’ve swallowed sandpaper.

And my gut? Welcome to the underground pain circus. Nerve pain in the bowels. Left side again, obviously. Feels like my intestines are throwing a rave on broken glass.

I feel nauseous all the time. Like life itself makes me queasy.

And my MS just laughs. Because this is the version of me it built. Cheers, you bastard.

And through all of this? People still expect me to perform like a functioning human being. To smile. To “push through.” To maybe try a walk, or eat kale, or just “think positively.” As if any of that undoes neurological betrayal and raw systemic cruelty.

Let me say it plainly: This isn’t tiredness. It isn’t laziness. It’s war. A war inside my own body, where my brain is the battlefield and my guts are collateral damage.

But here's the twist in the tale: I still show up.

Even when the fog’s choking, the pain is singing, the static is screaming. Even when my body feels like it’s been stitched together with barbed wire and dark humour.

I write. I speak. I make noise — even if all I can do is whisper.

Because that’s what warriors do. We don’t always charge into battle — sometimes we just fucking stay alive, and that’s enough.

So if you’re reading this and you know this hell — I see you.

You’re not weak. You’re not broken. You’re forged in fire, mate. And somehow, you’re still here.

Rock on, Life. Rock on, Hell. Let’s fucking go.

                !!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

There was a time in my life when I thought everything was going to be awesome.

How wrong I was.

We moved into this reasonably okay house, in an okayish part of town. You know the sort – two cars in the drive, fake plants in the windows, neighbours who shit themselves if someone owns a leather jacket that isn't from M&S.

There I was, riding my Yamaha 1100 Dragstar trike, wild long hair, beard that screamed “Hermit Wizard Biker,” wearing my cut and old jeans – California on a budget, but stuck in rainy middle England. I was about 57 then. Full of ideas. Full of hope. Full of medical cannabis.

And there was Albertine – goddess incarnate, riding her Triumph Bonneville like a Valkyrie on wheels. Leather trousers, biker boots, that horny, savage biker queen look that made grown men weep into their pints. Long dark hair whipping the wind, eyes like stormclouds and fire combined. She looked like she’d ride through the gates of Valhalla just to flick the V’s at Odin before burning rubber into the void.

I tried to do some DIY. Didn’t go well. Many accidents, broken bones, ambulances, heart attack at the local refuse tip. Carried on regardless because, well, I’m me. Heart running at 60%, they said. Meh. Go home, they said. Blah blah fucking blah.

But this is where the fun really began.

The neighbours. Gods. They hated us before the kettle even boiled. They saw my trike. They saw her Bonneville. They saw our hair. Our leathers. Our old biker boots. That was enough. Judged. Condemned. Executed by gossip.

But they didn’t know who they were fucking with.

I was Warlock. Spiritual Radio Shock Jock. Dark Gandalf. She was Albertine, Valkyrie Biker Oracle. We had Multiple Sclerosis, PTSD, heart disease, psychic powers, and a list of medical issues as long as their Deliveroo orders combined. Nothing phases us anymore. You can hit us, hurt us, say hurty words – we just laugh and smile because we’re already dying, slowly, hilariously, and publicly.

One day the bloke next door tried to intimidate me, bragging about being a bouncer. I laughed. Told him I used to be a bouncer too. His face dropped like my blood pressure on cannabis oil. From then on, if I was in the garden, he ran in. If I was in the shop, he ran out. It was like having my own personal game of Pac-Man.

His wife ran the show, obviously. Poor sod.

Best bit? He offered to sell me weed once, knowing I had MS. I said no. Later, he smelled my vape and threatened to call the police. Solicitors got involved. Absolute circus. I laughed harder. It was medical marijuana. Karma’s a bitch, mate.

But we stood our ground. Never showed fear. Didn’t need to. Because deep down, he knew we were the real wizards, and he was just a frightened little man in a tracksuit who thought his wife’s approval was worth more than his soul.

I am a disabled wheelchair user. I’m a long-haired, bearded 65-year-old eccentric warlock on a spiritual journey, seeking portals to other realms where people love instead of hate. Where cosmic pea soup realities collide and no one gives a shit about your beard or your wheels.

Just divine love, freedom, and the multiverse’s endless electric embrace.

Simple really.

But brain fog incoming… so I’ll leave it there, Gandalf out.

                                       !!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

Ah yes, #WorldBrainDay — that special time of year when the world pretends to care about the human brain. How lovely. Shall we all have a think about thinking?

Meanwhile, over here, my brain’s doing its best impression of a soggy electrical circuit being attacked by invisible gremlins. MS doesn’t send flowers or awareness ribbons. It sends fire ants tap dancing on my nerves, brain fog thick enough to butter toast, and pain so sharp it could cut glass.

But go on, light a candle or post a heart emoji. That’ll fix it. 👍

I don’t need a day for my brain. I need a replacement. Preferably one that hasn’t been cooked in demon piss.

Still — here I am. Writing this blog, existing despite it all, swearing like a dockworker and laughing into the abyss. Because what else is there? I’m still here, you bastards. And that’s the real miracle.

Cheers, brain. You absolute shambles of a meat sponge.

– Mr Dark 📍 Currently lost in brain fog, do not disturb.

Footnotes from the Pit 🕳️

🧠 “Brain Fog” – Like trying to do a Sudoku underwater while someone shouts the wrong answers at you through a megaphone.

⚡ “Nerve pain” – Imagine licking a plug socket. Now imagine that sensation… in your spine.

🛠️ “Medical advice” – Includes gems like: “Just stay positive”, “Have you tried yoga?”, and my personal favourite: “It could be worse.”

🕯️ “Awareness Days” – 24 hours where we all pretend chronic illness is quirky and inspirational. Followed by 364 days of complete radio silence.

🎉 “Still here” – Not cured. Not better. Just stubborn. Very, very stubborn.

                                               **!!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

Woke up at 4am — not for a cosmic vision, no, just the usual pee pee ritual. And that was that. No sleep. Brain on, pain on, day ruined before it began.

Lemmy said it best: "No sleep 'til Hammersmith." Except I wasn’t heading for rock glory — I was limping toward a garage and a medical breakdown.

No brain fog . Tinnitus mercifully silent — probably saving itself for later. Pain? A knife twisting inside me like Satan’s letter opener.

But still, I had to drive. No meds allowed. NHS says suffer, so I did. Slid out of bed like a cursed slug, wheeled myself to the kitchen, food made it worse (of course), and then the bowel pain — oh the bowel pain.

You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you’re reminiscing about that one time on the NHS table, a camera going places no camera should ever go. We’ll save that horror show for another blog — or perhaps a full-blown gothic novel.

Still, I washed, dressed (miracle), and drove. I was in agony but present. Almost proud. Dropped the van at the new garage — not nasty Jim this time, thank Beelzebub. Just regular, decent humans. A miracle. Almost felt human.

Back in the chair. Felt like I’d been skinned emotionally. Called Albertine “Muriel” — sorry, love. The fog came in hard. Brain barely ticking. But the van passed its MOT — no advisories. So something went right.

Retirement soon. Thank the dark gods. Honestly didn’t think I’d make it this far.

Still here though. Still writing. Still surviving the fire.

          “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.”

Monday morning. Well, looks like it’s going to be one of those days. Chemists first, then the auction rooms to pick up the Metal Monkey’s car. Pity about the box though. When we got it, the box was destroyed – it had become home to a few families of earwigs and yukky bug eggs. But the car itself was pristine. The box would’ve trebled its value, but now it sits happily among my Davros, Beavis & Butthead stuff. My sorta man cave. Many PCs from many ages. So much stuff. So much I’ve collected.

I’ve thrown out mostly all my old things. I had clothes older than my children and grandchildren. I don’t do “style” as such. I’ve had the beard and long hair for years. Last time I had even a slight trim was 20 years ago. Now my hair is falling out, the beard is thinning. That sucks. But such is life.

Went to the chemists today and the Machine of Death was working well. It did make funny sounds but did its job for a change.

Last night I was deep in thought about my mother. About not being told about her funeral. I get the impression they didn’t want me there. It’s a long story. I’m probably to blame. But when you’re suffering chronic cognitive issues, it’s fucking hard.

My sister never told me. No details. Nothing. I looked in the obits. Nothing. So they just didn’t want me to say one last goodbye.

They didn’t speak to me for over 14 years. I was cut off completely. Like I never existed.

I’m adopted. The cuckoo in the nest. I get that.

Everywhere I went, they blamed me for everything. Another family secret buried deep – I found out I had an older sister who was also adopted. They only really wanted to know her. But she was so fucked up she didn’t want to meet our mother. She was very angry about it all.

And all those lies my mother told about my father – saying he was dead, getting his family to lie too. More and more lies. Until one day I found out everything. One day I will write it all down, for all to see. How an adopted person was treated like a piece of crap by the family who put him up for adoption, and the family who adopted him.

They treated me like a slave. Constant beatings and head games.

You ever been told at six years old that you were naughty for accidentally breaking a plate – and then have your mother go berserk? She was Welsh, not that tall, but violent, and she knew how to work people. She screamed at me:

“You’re adopted. Go find your real mother.”

That broke me.

So I went to my bedroom, packed a little bag with my teddy, and walked away. I walked to the road with my bag and teddy bear, thinking I’d never come back. No one came looking for me. I hid until dark, then went back home.

And when I finally found my real mother years later, she called me:

“A little shit.”

Like I was nothing. Like I never mattered to anyone.

The people who were supposed to nurture me… didn’t. They would have been better with a dog than with a child.

I know what beatings are like. What it’s like to be kept in, not allowed out, because of the bruises and cuts I had accumulated. No one listened. No one helped me. I was alone and fucking hurting.

I remember those nights, crying myself to sleep in pain. Feeling so out of it, so different. No matter what I did, it was wrong.

I was adopted in 1959 at six weeks old to a Christian family through a Church of England adoption society. The vicar I spoke with about my issues was a cunt. He told my parents confidential stuff, and I got a trashing for it.

No one ever listened. Who would take the word of a poor waif and stray child? The vicar? No. The school? No. Anyone? No.

So yeah. Around about 10-ish, I started getting early MS symptoms. They plagued me, and the doctors and NHS gaslit me for decades.

I hate my life.

 “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