multiplescelrosis

It’s been the weirdest of weeks. Not much sleep. But I’m still here.

My MS symptoms are calming down to a level I can handle. That’s a victory, right there. Because every breath I take is another I refused to surrender.

I drown out the tinnitus with music. My head sounds like a goblin with a weed wacker, or a spluttering two-stroke engine – like an old Yamaha FS1E, coughing and whining its fizzy rebellion. Call her Fizzy Girl, Wifey, Albertine… call her whatever you want. The pain stays the same.

Looking at this screen burns. My voice is croaky. Words come slow. My tongue is numb again, lost in a mouthful of phantom bites and blister burns. That’s life when MS hits your throat, your vagus nerve, your corpus callosum. But I fight it. Every. Damn. Day.

I’ve had those dark thoughts. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t. But I never let them win. I write them out. I bleed them onto pages, text pads, digital scraps – foggy memories turned into clarity, darkness turned into light.

I created this alter ego – The Goblin. It’s addictive, this freedom of expression. I have no mates, no friends in the traditional sense. But I have myself. And I have my family. And that is enough.

It’s Saturday afternoon. June 6th. Back in the day, Saturday afternoons meant wrestling on BBC2. Mark Rocco. Marty Jones. Fit Finlay. Skull Murphy. Giant Haystacks. Banger Walsh. I met Haystacks once. I was 6ft 4 back then, and he made me feel small. That’s what true presence is.

I remember mushrooms my dad picked fresh from the field, sizzling in Trex, pitch black underneath – perfect. Simple memories. Real moments. The things that matter.

So what’s broken this week, you ask? Nothing. My biggest win was reinstalling Windows 11 and getting Kali Linux running again. The rest is just background noise.

I picked up my crown from the dentist. He had a bike accident. I’m sending him healing energy, like I send to you reading this now.

Because yes, I know darkness. I live with pain. But I rise. Every. Single. Time.

Never give up. I haven’t. And I won’t. Neither should you.

         “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 ✨🧌

You’d think buying a watch is simple. You choose one. You wear it. It tells the time. Job done.

Nope.

Instead, it’s a full-scale psychological assault. Amazon probably thinks I’m running a black-market watch dealership by now with the amount I’ve sent back.

All I wanted was a watch that:

Tells the time

Tells the date

Has a big face so I can see it

Doesn’t require a PhD in Chronology to set it up

Instead, I got:

⏰ Knobs that have a life of their own, turning randomly like a possessed ouija board.

⏰ Buttons that demand fingers with precision I no longer have, thanks to numb hands that make the simplest task feel like I’m defusing a bomb underwater while blindfolded.

In the end, I went atomic. Or “atomik”, as I now call it to sound edgy and slightly deranged.

This atomic watch apparently speaks the time and date. Brilliant, I thought. It arrived, promising “easy setup” in the advert. 😂 Easy setup my arse. It took Albertine several hours of cursing to set up. She’s my go-to tech guru when life’s gadgets decide to humiliate me, and even she looked ready to launch it out the window.

I just sat there, numb hands useless, staring at it and laughing like a lunatic while she pressed random buttons in despair.

But hey, it works now. It talks to me. It’s large enough to see. And it hasn’t tried to kill me in my sleep yet. So it’s a win. Kind of.

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

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

🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

🖤 Brutally honest. Darkly hilarious. Another night, another spectacular symphony of spasms and piss. Didn’t even eat jam—so no excuses. Still ended up piddling all night. Up at 4 a.m., and that’s it. Done. Might as well accept it: I live on four hours of sleep and pure defiance now.

My bladder? It’s got its own postcode and personality. I can’t even wheel past a bloody tap without it throwing a tantrum. The sound of water? Instant dribble. It's never a full empty either—just a cheeky squirt, like it’s laughing at me from the inside.

Forget catheters. I invented my own fix. Because willy pipe of doom? Not a chance. I like my manhood unperforated, thank you very much.

And then there’s the daemon bum. Thanks to numb fingers, wiping is like blindfolded surgery with oven mitts. Too soft? Still dirty. Too hard? Hello blood. Throw in a bout of dehydration, and now we’re in full bowel battleground mode. Constipation? Got a hack for that—but it’s borderline medieval.

Oh, food. Where do we start? I’m allergic to everything. Meat, fish, animal fat, most veg. Yes, vegetables. I can’t even eat like a rabbit. Instead, I lurk near the kitchen extractor fan while bacon fries, sniffing fat molecules like some kind of culinary pervert. Minutes later—BOOM. To the loo. Escape velocity.

Let’s add the pain, shall we? Neck, back, gut, everywhere. MS is giving me a right walloping. Pins and needles across arms, legs, face. Tinnitus screeching in my skull like a broken fire alarm. And today? Extra loud. Extra lovely.

Stress level: 9.7 on the “Why am I not screaming?” scale.

Time to hit the THC-CBD oil and vape some Mary Jane to calm the chaos. Not because it’s edgy—because it works. Better than half the legal shit they try to hand out like sweets.

Outside? Dark clouds. Inside? Just me, my squeaky-wheeled trolley (cheers, WD-40, made it worse), and a nervous bladder ready to pounce.

Still here. Still wheeling. Still laughing at the madness. What else can you do?

          “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.”

It’s funny, isn’t it? You’re in a room with one other person. Just the two of you. You speak. Your mouth moves. Actual words come out. But somehow… nothing lands. It's like you're a ghost, a passing breeze, or worse — background noise to someone else's ego monologue.

Welcome to my reality: Selective bloody hearing.

Let me paint the scene. You're fighting off a brutal illness, spasms hit like a freight train, your brain fogs up like a broken kettle left out in the English drizzle, and then comes the cherry on top — people don’t listen. Not can’t. Won’t. They avert their eyes, mumble condescending clichés, or — the fan favourite — promise they’ll “call you soon.” (Spoiler: they won’t.)

Is it the wheelchair? The drooping face? The occasional dribble? Or do they just prefer their disabled friends silent, motionless, and conveniently non-existent?

Maybe They’re Just Uncomfortable? Oh yes. Heaven forbid they feel awkward while you’re being eaten alive by something terminal and nightmarish.

I started calling them out. Can you imagine the chaos? Apparently, honesty from the terminally ill is too real. It makes dinner parties awkward. And honestly, I’m well past the point of caring. If I’m going to be ignored, I might as well scream in Black Sabbath and let Ozzy do the talking.

Paranoid? Nah. At first, I thought maybe it was just me. A bad day. A misread signal. But no. There’s a pattern. The looks. The empty promises. The slow fade-outs. The way friends evaporate like cheap aftershave. You become a "thing," a problem they can't fix and don't want to look at. I didn’t ask to be a medical freakshow — but here I am, feeling like the last carnie in a ghost-town circus.

It's Raining, I'm Buzzing Brain fog is a beast. Been digging into DNA research (who was I before this monster arrived?), but my head’s a bag of wet socks lately. Tingling lips. Numb tongue. Probably allergic to the air again. And that damn straw — it always goes missing, like some household Bermuda Triangle.

Wrestling Is My Religion Say what you want — yes, it’s “fake” — but pro wrestling is realer than most people I know. There’s truth in the ring. Pain. Theatre. Keyfabe. Art. The ghosts of the squared circle still dance under the spotlights in my head. And let’s be honest, “Real life is fake. Wrestling is real.” That’s my gospel. That’s truth.

📢 Follow me on X/Twitter: 💀 “If you like your humour dark and your truth darker, come hang out with a chronically ill goblin on a ranting mission of mayhem. Pro wrestling, spirituality, weirdness,disability, sarcasm, and survival served raw.”

🧠 @GoblinBloggerUK 📍 Because somebody's got to say it...

              “REALITY IS FAKE. WRESTLING IS REAL.”
                            — @GoblinBloggerUK

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

         “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 Stumbles onto X (Because apparently living with MS wasn’t hard enough without Elon’s algorithms) Right then. Let’s get this out of the way: We’re on X. Twitter. Whatever dystopian rebrand it’s hiding behind now.

After a minor battle with verification, vanishing posts, and the creeping suspicion that this platform doesn’t like disabled, outspoken spiritual types... we’re still here. Because giving up isn’t really an option when your entire existence already feels like a test of cosmic patience.

This blog — My Living Hell: Multiple Sclerosis — isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s for those of us navigating chronic illness with brain fog, nerve pain, and the quiet rage of someone who’s been told to “try yoga” one too many times.

We don’t sugar-coat. We don’t do toxic positivity. We do truth, grit, spiritual resilience, and a hefty dose of sarcasm — often from a bed-fort with a heated blanket and a cat judging us from the pillow.

So if you’ve ever felt invisible, exhausted, or like your soul is screaming in a language no one hears — welcome home.

🔗 Read the latest: The Fizzy Girl’s Lost Milk Stand Spellbook (A spiritual guide for surviving MS with sass, soul, and no apologies.) The Fizzy Girl’s Lost Milk Stand Spellbook

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

          “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.”

A very good morning from the slightly crispy edge of reality.

It’s early, the sun’s already threatening to scorch us into lizards, and I’m camped in front of the fridge like it’s a portal to Narnia—except Narnia’s got central air. The tinnitus is humming away like some deranged synthwave backing track, and I’m contemplating whether I dare mount my three-wheeled Scooter of Death for the weekly pilgrimage to the chemist.

Yes, the chemist. That temple of modern medicine where, thanks to the miracle of automation, I once again got someone else’s prescription. I swear, it’s like a game show:

“Step right up and spin the magical dispensing machine! Today’s lucky contestant wins… Sertraline!”

Antidepressants. Brilliant. Just what someone with multiple sclerosis needs to top off the cocktail. Meanwhile, someone out there is probably wondering what the hell carbamazepine is and why their depression suddenly feels like a seizure.

Dr. Fist and the Dental Apocalypse

As if that weren’t enough chaos for one day, I got a call from my dentist—well, former dentist. He’s out of action with a broken fist. Yes, a broken fist. I didn’t ask. I daren’t ask. My imagination’s already taken that one to some very questionable places. Possibly involving a disgruntled patient or a bar stool.

So now I’m off to meet a new dentist. Let’s hope I don’t draw Dr. Pain, DDS from the horror movie extras department. Probably someone who sharpens their tools on wrought iron fences and thinks anesthesia is for the weak.

Which is a shame, really, because Dr. Fist (I’m afraid he’ll always be “Dr. Fist” now) was actually the best dentist I’ve ever had. Gentle, non-threatening, and didn’t treat my jaw like a door hinge in need of WD-40. I wish him a speedy recovery—and maybe a good pair of gloves.

The NHS, Surprisingly… Not Awful?

In a refreshing twist of fate, I had my first appointment with the new NHS health centre today. Braced myself for the usual bureaucratic disaster—but shocker: the doctor was great.

Listened. Advised. Seemed human. When you’ve got full-blown White Coat Syndrome, that’s a miracle. For the uninitiated:

White Coat Syndrome: When your blood pressure hits Olympic pole-vaulting levels simply because you walked into a room with someone in a lab coat. It’s not illness—it’s sheer, uncut medical anxiety.™

So, small miracle there. I might actually trust this new place. That's not a sentence I say lightly.

Vape, Clouds, and the Eternal Wait for Sanity Back to the window—clouds are looming, the heat’s easing, and it’s time for my medical cannabis vape and a bit of THC oil. Helps with the pain and the spasms. And also with the absurdity of life, which seems to be running at full volume today.

Anyway, that’s enough rambling for one morning. If you made it this far, you officially qualify for a biscuit. Possibly two. Rich Tea if you’re feeling ironic.

Thanks for dropping by.

Until next time, stay cool, stay sarcastic, and for heaven’s sake—check your meds before you leave the chemist. You never know what flavour of mental health you might accidentally walk out with. Cheers, stay cool, and remember: if the prescription machine gives you methadone next week, try not to start a jazz band.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

         “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.”

🕯️ About Me Old soul. Frayed nerves. Unapologetically alive.

I am not here to soothe you.

I write from the edge of something — something most people spend their lives running from. Illness. Silence. Being forgotten. The parts of life that don’t make polite conversation.

I live with Multiple Sclerosis, but MS is just the symptom. The real story is what it strips away — comfort, time, patience, pretence — until all that’s left is you. And then what do you do with that raw truth?

You write. You cast. You curse a little, love a little, and sit with things others fear. You feel people’s hearts before they speak. You laugh darkly at the ones who don't believe you’re really ill, and bless the ones who show up anyway.

I’ve got one foot in the mundane world and one in something stranger — older. I read people. I hear what they don’t say. I know when a storm is coming before the clouds break. And I’ve learned that the truth — however cracked, however strange — is worth writing down.

🌑 Welcome to My Living Hell Where the lights flicker, the truth slips out, and the fridge is always humming.

This blog is part journal, part ritual, part middle finger to a world that tries to polish pain into something palatable.

I don’t do toxic positivity. I do real. I do heatstroke visions in the conservatory. Conversations with the fridge. Ghosts of family past. Wheelchairs with homicidal tendencies. And moments of stillness so sharp they cut through the noise.

There’s love in here — somewhere beneath the salt and ash. But you’ll have to sit with the dark to find it. That’s the deal.

So if you’ve ever been made to feel like you were “too much,” “too complicated,” or “not enough” — come closer. But gently. The veil’s thin here. And I see straight through.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

       “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.”

well this appears to be my coat of arms it was added into an old image of brain neurons I think I could explain what it all means, but I am to knackered lol and I doubt any one will ever see this except me lol

next day....

Custom Coat of Arms — Concept Description Shield (Escutcheon): Main colors: Black background with red and silver/gold elements — representing strength, mystery, and ancient nobility.

Design:

Top Left Quadrant: A silver pentagram, representing mysticism and your identity as a psychic and warlock.

Top Right Quadrant: A stylised black cat, seated and regal, symbolising your favourite animal and intuition.

Bottom Left Quadrant: A golden crown, nodding to your royal ancestry — Edward I, no less.

Bottom Right Quadrant: A red MS awareness ribbon, stylised into a sword shape to represent being a warrior despite adversity.

Crest (top of the helmet): A silver raven with glowing red eyes, perched on a stack of spellbooks and USB drives — representing wisdom, tech history, and your dual mastery of the mystical and the digital.

Mantling (decorative fabric): Flowing black and crimson, tattered at the edges — not worn, but weathered with experience and humour.

Supporters (creatures on either side of the shield): Left: A ghostly knight in cracked armour — to symbolise your fighting spirit and long lineage.

Right: A sarcastic black cat wearing a crown askew — a bit of cheeky English humour with teeth.

Motto (on scroll beneath): “Well… Is That It?” A perfect dry, witty summation of both a life well-fought and your no-nonsense view of it.

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

⤫ The Warlock’s Curse ⤫

In the still of the ache where the stars never shine, There sits the Warlock, warped out of time. Throne of rust, wheels cracked with regret, He murmurs to ghosts he hasn’t named yet.

His hands remember spells he’s long since forgotten, Fingers tingling with truths turned rotten. Once he conjured fire with a whisper and grin— Now the spark mocks him, trembling within.

A crown of wires, a robe of pain, Nerves like serpents—hissing through the brain. His staff is a drip, his runes are pills, He chants in silence on pharmacy hills.

Oh, the moons he danced beneath, drunk on starlight— Now watch him crawl through the blacker night. No sleep for the hexed, no peace for the damned, Just a bladder’s clock and death’s cold hand.

Chainsaw dreams, electric and wild, But even a Warlock is fate’s unwanted child. Albertine watches, her eyes full of years, She sees through the smoke, the jokes, the tears.

He laughs at the garden, the weed-wielding wraith, Remembers the ramp and short-circuited faith. Magic once sparked in the marrow of his spine— Now the lightning is cruel, and the power’s malign.

The gods are deaf. The stars are mute. The dark is deep, and the dark is acute. But still—he speaks, in verse and venom, His tongue numb, but truth within 'em.

For even in ruin, the Warlock remains, Wreathed in electric storms and phantom chains. He writes his spells in blood and pain, And dares the void to speak his name.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

Congratulations, you’ve woken up! Time to play: What’s Broken Today?

Your goal: make it through the day without crying, swearing at your legs, or Googling “is this normal or am I dying?”

Choose your path below. Choose wisely. Or don’t. MS doesn’t care.

☀️ Morning – The Wake-Up Lottery You open your eyes. Sort of. Everything's a bit... off.

Do you: A) Feel rested and refreshed? [HAHAHAHA nope. Roll again.]

B) Feel like you’ve been mugged by exhaustion in your sleep? → Fatigue wins the round. Take 5 damage to motivation.

C) Can’t feel your left arm? → You’ve unlocked: Morning Numbness Mode. Hope you didn’t need to hold anything today.

🚿 The Shower Scene Hot water. The great equaliser. But today, your body has other plans.

Do you: A) Take a normal shower like a normal person? [Error 404: Normal not found.]

B) Overheat and nearly pass out while conditioning your hair? → Heat Sensitivity unlocked. You’re now a human candle. Stay cool (literally).

C) Drop the soap three times because your fingers forgot how to grip? → Coordination loss! Bonus: Slippery floor, surprise danger!

☕ Breakfast Choices Time to eat. Or attempt it. Your hand-to-mouth skills are on a random difficulty setting.

Do you: A) Make eggs without issue? [Dream big, champ.]

B) Forget what you were making mid-toast and stand staring at the kettle? → Cognitive Fog strikes again! You are now late and confused, but still hungry.

C) Burn your tongue because it took too long to realise your tea was hot? → Nerve damage for breakfast, anyone?

🧑‍💻 Midday Mayhem Time to work, or function, or pretend to. Let’s see what fresh chaos arrives.

Do you: A) Sit comfortably and type with ease? [Only in the fantasy genre.]

B) Experience sudden eye twitching, blurry vision and shooting pain down your spine? → Bingo! You’ve triggered Lhermitte’s Sign. Bonus: optical migraine starter pack!

C) Realise you’ve been sitting weird and now your legs are asleep? → Double numb legs – the sequel no one asked for.

🛋️ Afternoon Fun: Nap or Collapse? Fatigue is back. It brought friends.

Do you: A) Push through like a hero? → Well done, you now feel like a zombie that regrets everything.

B) Nap for 2 hours and wake up in a new dimension with no idea what year it is? → Temporal Confusion Mode Activated.

🌙 Evening – The Grand Finale The body is tired. The brain is soup. Dinner is optional.

Do you: A) Cook a meal? Narrator: They did not.

B) Order takeaway because your hands are too shaky to hold a knife? → Valid choice. +5 sanity. -£20 bank account.

C) Cry because your legs spasm during a TV ad for toothpaste? → MS Mood Swing. Roll for emotional stability. It’s a 1.

🏁 The End (Until Tomorrow) You’ve survived another round of “What Will MS Ruin Today?” Your reward: a weird new twitch in your eye, and the chance to play again tomorrow.

✨ Bonus Content: Cheat Codes for Coping Sarcasm: Unlimited ammo.

Snacks: +10 to morale.

Naps: Use liberally. Ignore haters.

Friends who get it: Legendary tier loot.

People who say “But you don’t look sick!”: Throw them into the sun.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky. sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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