Multiple sclerosis  is My Living Hell

MultipleSclerosis

All posts tagged MultipleSclerosis by Multiple sclerosis is My Living Hell
  • Posted on

    Well then. Off out we go. A grand expedition. An odyssey, no less. All the way to the garage—yes, that mystical temple of greasy doom—to get the old van MOT’d. It’s not just a vehicle, it’s a relic. Twenty years of loyal service. Mostly. Bit of rust. Bit of creak. Bit of “please God let it start.” But it’s still here. Like me. Hanging on out of pure spite.

    Someone once said, “They don’t build them like that anymore.” And thank Christ for that. If cars were still made like they were in the 1970s, we’d all be broken down on the M1 watching steam pour out the bonnet, while some bloke in flares offered to tow you with his Cortina estate. Those cars were about as reliable as a wheelchair battery in a thunderstorm.

    I remember when the UK was littered with RAC and AA phone boxes—those little yellow lifelines dotted along motorways. They’ve vanished now, like empathy, sanity, and the NHS. Rare as hens’ teeth, or an honest politician.

    Anyway, I didn’t sleep last night. Not a wink. My bladder decided it was time to act out a scene from Backdraft. I lay there, staring into the ceiling void, pissing every twenty minutes like a possessed lawn sprinkler. So I started thinking—because what else do you do at 3am when you're soaked in fatigue and futility?

    I thought about all the crap cars I’ve owned. So many. Too many. If there were a museum for motoring misery, I’d be a patron saint. Rattling doors, broken electrics, heaters that blew cold air in summer and hot air in hell. The British car industry, ladies and gentlemen.

    But let’s rewind. Before the wheelchair, before the rust bucket van—I was a biker. A proper one. Big beard. Long hair. Leather jacket that smelled of oil, rain, and barely controlled aggression. Speed. Freedom. The road was mine.

    That all changed the day I hit a loose drain cover on a damp road. Back end of the bike went out from under me. Hit the tarmac like a sack of angry potatoes. And I got up. Physically. But something in me didn’t. Something silent and final shifted. I realised, I can’t ride like this anymore.

    But I wasn’t ready to give it up. Not then. So I bought another bike. Custom triked it. Spent a fortune on it—my last defiant middle finger to the creeping MS. I rode that beast as long as I physically could. Until one day, even mounting it was like scaling Everest. Body said, “You’re done, mate.” And I knew it was right.

    I sold the trike two years ago. That was the last real ride. The final roar of the engine before the silence set in. Felt like watching a part of myself being towed away behind someone else’s smile.

    And now? Now I’m being slowly retired by force. Out of work. Out of energy. Out of options. Soon to be ejected into the bureaucratic black hole of the state pension. My business—what’s left of it—will die the day I clock off. I can feel it gasping already. I went to uni at 40. Built something. Pushed hard because I knew I had a window. Now the window’s shut and the room is on fire.

    Truth is—I haven’t been properly “capable” in years. Five, easily. These days I just sit, staring into the abyss, waiting to see if anything interesting crawls out. So far: nada. But I’m still here. Just about.

    Still, I did things. Things I never thought I could. That’s the weird joke of it all. Even while your body’s disintegrating, there are moments—real moments—where you do something good. Where you matter. But that only happens if you’ve got people around you who actually care. No gaslighting. No clipboard psychology. Just real help. The kind that doesn't end with “There’s nothing more we can do.”

    Oh yes. Been told that more times than I can count. It’s medical code for “You’re a problem we can’t fix so piss off quietly.” They said it like they were reading the weather. I left those rooms devastated. Angry. Broken. But not done. I still had enough fight to ride out of there burning with fury.

    Then I remembered my students. I used to teach adults with learning disabilities. You know, the people society would rather not look at. The ones who get shoved into corners, behind policies and forgotten services. And let me tell you—they were the most genuine, honest, loving people I’ve ever known. No hate. Just humanity. And we broke them. We broke them too.

    And now? Now I’m gearing up for the next tiny battle: getting dressed and into the van. It’ll take hours. Every task is an assault course. But I’ll do it.

    Because I always fucking 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.”
    

    enter image description here

                            @goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk
    
  • Posted on

    1966… yeah, apparently I was there. I can just about remember World Cup Willy – England’s football mascot when they actually won something back then. Distant memories flicker… it’s amazing how smells can trigger memories. I remember walking with my auntie in Isleworth, London. Those big shops – well, big to me, coming from a small town. Key Markets, the library, swimming baths… rows of local shops buzzing with life. The smell of London buses and car fumes, the clang of the Routemaster bus bell, those iconic patterns on the seats. All those sounds and smells etched themselves somewhere deep in my foggy goblin brain.

    Now? My sense of smell is pretty much shot, along with taste. Thanks, MS. My throat is a daily battle. It’s like my brain just forgets how to swallow properly. One day the herbal tea goes down fine, the next it feels like I’m choking on air or my own spit. Sometimes it’s weakness in the muscles, other times it’s just the brain signals messing up the timing. Talking gets tiring too – voice goes weak, slurred, raspy as the day drags on. Another delightful surprise from MS… making even breathing and swallowing feel like hard work.

    That’s why my trusty thermos cup with a flip lid or a straw is the business for me. Knock it over? No problem. It’s like spill-proof dignity in a cup.

    I remember the tube too… the smells, the sounds. London was rocking (or swinging) in the 60s. All those sights, the fashions, the swirling psychedelic colours. Mesmerising for this poor goblin. Innocence wasn’t lost back then, but it came close – reality eventually hit like a sledgehammer.

    Looking back, it felt happy. But now… I wonder why it makes me feel so sad. Memory is rubbish these days. Brain fog wipes out birthdays and important dates. Honestly… it sucks. But that’s life in the MS lane, isn’t it?

              “ 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.”
    

    enter image description here

                              🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌
    
  • Posted on

    Sat here mumbling into my old iffy microphone today. Took me over a day to set up – drivers, updates, reinstalling Windows three bloody times because my brain fog decided to overwrite the system with a random USB stick. Genius, I know.

    Finally, the blog goblin’s computer has resurrected. Barely.

    Had yet another bad night. Partly my own fault this time. Thought I was the biker prophet and magically healed, so decided to stand up and shuffle furniture around like some nocturnal DIY hero. Clearly not my best idea. Lost my balance entirely, stumbled like a drunk, and smashed into the door frame.

    My shoulder’s killing me, bruised to hell, and possibly broken. Will probably end up in A&E later if it gets worse. For now, just sat here typing, all fingers and thumbs, trying to find old bits to post while ignoring the pain.

    Having MS makes me resilient, though. Even when my brain is fried and my body’s screaming betrayal, I keep crawling back like the stubborn goblin I am.

    Anyway. Hope your day is glitch-free and you aren’t slamming yourself into any door frames. Unlike me. 🖤

        ⚡️ Join the gremlin cult. You know you want to
    
      " 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.”
    

    enter image description here

                           🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌
    
  • Posted on

    If You Could See MS – You’d Probably Run Away

    People love to say “You don’t look sick.” Oh, don’t I? I’m sorry. Next time I’ll crawl in covered with barbed wire and nails through my feet so it’s easier for you to grasp.

    Because if you could actually see multiple sclerosis, it might look like this:

    Legs wrapped in barbed wire so every step is agony, but I still smile politely because God forbid I make you uncomfortable with my pain.

    A back covered in spikes, each one representing burning nerve pain, tingling, numbness, and a touch of “Did I leave the oven on or is my brain just fried today?”

    Feet impaled with nails, but I’m still expected to do the shopping run and act like “walking it off” is an option.

    Fatigue so crushing that holding a coffee cup feels like lifting a bus – but yes, tell me again how tired you are because you stayed up watching Netflix.

    Sticky notes of toxic positivity slapped all over me screaming “You can do it!” when honestly, no, sometimes I bloody well can’t.

    A silent membership in the Broken Dreams Club, because chronic illness isn’t just physical – it devours futures, careers, friendships, and everything you thought you’d be.

    If you could see MS, you’d probably look away, change the subject, or thank your lucky stars it’s not you.

    But guess what? This is the reality we wake up to every single day. And no, it doesn’t take a day off.

    Why It Matters Multiple sclerosis is an invisible illness. People don’t see the pain, the muscle spasms, the loss of balance, the cognitive fog, the sheer mental toll of fighting your own body every waking hour.

    You just see us standing there. Smiling. Nodding. Pretending we’re not screaming internally.

    So Here’s To Us To every MS warrior carrying these invisible barbs and nails: We see each other, even if the world never will.

           “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.”
    

    enter image description here

                              🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌
    
  • Posted on

    Brain Fog: Because MS Couldn't Just Steal Your Mobility – It Had to Nick Your IQ Points Too Welcome to the delightful world of multiple sclerosis, where the fun truly never ends. Just when you thought MS was done robbing you of your mobility, it decides to take a little detour into your brain.

    Yes, folks, say hello to brain fog – that unwelcome guest who crashes your cognitive party, eats all the snacks, and leaves you wondering where you left your keys… or your sanity.

    What is Brain Fog? Ah, brain fog. That lovely haze making you feel like you’re wading through treacle while trying to solve a Rubik's Cube. It’s like your brain decided to take a vacation without telling you.

    ✅ Forgetfulness? Check. ✅ Trouble concentrating? Double check. ✅ Feeling like an extra in your own life? Triple bloody check.

    It’s as if MS has a side gig as a cognitive thief – and it’s doing a bang-up job.

    The Joys of Cognitive Dysfunction Let’s not sugarcoat it. Brain fog is a real treat.

    You might find yourself:

    Staring blankly at a wall, contemplating the meaning of life

    Forgetting what day it is (spoiler: it doesn’t matter anyway)

    Walking into a room only to forget why you’re there – repeatedly

    And no, it’s not because you’re deep in philosophical thought. It’s because your brain is on a permanent coffee break.

    Coping with the Chaos So, how do you deal with this delightful cognitive haze?

    💀 Option 1: Caffeine – to keep your soul twitching 💀 Option 2: Naps – to escape your own thoughts temporarily 💀 Option 3: A healthy dose of sarcasm – because crying is overrated

    Or, embrace the chaos entirely. Start a support group for fellow fog dwellers. Just remember: the first rule of Brain Fog Club is… you probably won’t remember it anyway.

    Conclusion In the grand scheme of MS torture, brain fog is just another charming quirk. So raise a glass (or a mug of coffee) to the cognitive chaos and remember:

    You’re not alone in this foggy mess – even if you forget that every five minutes.

          “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.”
    

    enter image description here

                             🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌
    
  • Posted on

    🖤 “ coming Soon: A brutally honest ranking of the top ten alternative medicines.

    What’s worth it, what’s useless, and what might just make life with chronic illness slightly less unbearable.”(Straight but brand-consistent) “Soon: A brutally honest ranking of the top ten alternative medicines. What’s worth it, what’s useless, and what might just make life with chronic illness slightly less unbearable.”(Straight but brand-consistent) “Soon: A brutally honest ranking of the top ten alternative medicines. What’s worth it, what’s useless, and what might just make life with chronic illness slightly less unbearable.”

    So, you’ve got MS. Congrats on your new life sentence. Welcome to the club nobody wants to join, where your immune system treats your nerves like a chew toy and daily tasks become extreme sports. If you’re wondering how to cope with the relentless mental and physical torture that is Multiple Sclerosis, here’s your brutally honest, darkly comedic guide.

    1. Eat Like You Actually Care (Even Though You Don’t) Sure, nutrition might help reduce fatigue, inflammation, and general bodily betrayal. Will quinoa and kale cure your MS? Absolutely not. But it’ll help you feel morally superior while your nervous system crumbles.

    2. Exercise Without Dying Yes, exercise is important. But if you’re one squat away from sh*tting yourself or collapsing like a Victorian woman denied her fainting couch, maybe start with gentle stretching or a walk to the fridge. Small wins.

    3. Train Your Brain (Before It Leaves You) MS can fog your mind faster than three bottles of wine. Crosswords, sudoku, brain training apps – all designed to slow the brain-melt. Bonus: if you forget to do them, that’s probably why you need them in the first place.

    4. Sleep: Because Insomnia Isn’t Edgy MS fatigue is like dragging a corpse around all day. Insomnia makes it worse. Try regular sleep times, a dark cave-like room, and cooling your room so your inner demon feels at home.

    5. Stress – Your Favourite Symptom Trigger Stress is the invisible gremlin that pokes your MS into full meltdown. Meditate, do yoga, or scream silently into your pillow. Whatever keeps you from becoming an actual murderer today.

    6. Vitamin D & Smoking Low vitamin D makes MS worse. Smoking makes MS worse. The universe is basically telling you to quit cigs and take a supplement. Or keep smoking and accept your fate – dark choices only you can make.

    7. Heat: Your Mortal Enemy Heat turns your already dysfunctional nerves into cooked spaghetti. Stay cool. Cold drinks, fans, icy glares at strangers – all recommended.

    8. Depression & Anxiety: The Cherry on Top MS is a daily trauma loop, so depression and anxiety are loyal companions. Therapy, meds, and dark humour memes help. Talking to people might too, if you can be arsed.

    9. Alternative Therapies Massage, acupuncture, cannabis oil – none will resurrect your dead nerves, but they might make the pain less unrelenting. Go wild. Or don’t. It’s your hell.

    Final Pep Talk MS won’t kill your dark sense of humour, unless you let it. Implement these daily management tips and maybe – just maybe – tomorrow will suck slightly less.

           “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.”
    

    enter image description here

                              🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌
    
  • Posted on

    So, you’re thinking about medical cannabis? Congratulations on reaching that inevitable point where life hurts so much you’re ready to pay £200+ a month to not want to punch everyone in Tesco. Welcome to the club.

    Here’s everything you need to know about getting a prescription for medical cannabis in the UK – because apparently, the NHS thinks your suffering is adorable, but not quite “let’s fix it” adorable.

    1. Is it even legal? Yes. Medical cannabis has been legal in the UK since 2018, but don’t get too excited – it’s not like they’re handing out joints at your local GP. Only specialist doctors prescribe it, and mostly through private clinics. Around 20,000 people have prescriptions. Think of it as an exclusive club for the perpetually pained.

    2. What can it treat? Mostly chronic pain, but also PTSD, anxiety, OCD, autism spectrum disorder, ADHD, and the general misery of existence (unofficially).

    3. Am I eligible? If you’ve tried at least two medications that didn’t work, and you’re not actively hallucinating demonic squirrels daily, you’re probably eligible. A specialist will decide. GP referral is nice but not required. Just another British system that rewards stubborn self-navigation.

    4. How much does it cost to feel slightly less sh*t? Consultations: £49 – £200 depending on clinic greed.

    Prescriptions: £200 – £300/month for flower (oil costs more).

    Total: Think of it as your new rent payment for your brain.

    Some clinics have access schemes like Project Twenty21 to reduce costs if you’re happy being studied like a stoned lab rat.

    1. The 5-step process to blissful legality Step One: Choose a clinic About 20 private clinics exist. Some focus on chronic pain, others on mental health. Shop around like you’re choosing a funeral director – carefully and with low expectations.

    Step Two: Eligibility assessment They’ll ask for your medical history via a form or short virtual call. Most get approved unless there’s a serious safety concern (or you call them a c*nt mid-call).

    You’ll need your Summary of Care records from your GP. Prepare for the NHS receptionist to act like you’ve requested the nuclear codes.

    Step Three: Initial consultation Here you tell them:

    What’s wrong with you (everything)

    What you’ve tried (everything)

    If you’ve used cannabis before (it’s fine, they don’t care)

    What you expect from it (relief, obviously)

    They’ll probably start you on oil, because flower = scary government panic.

    Step Four: Choosing a pharmacy Clinics usually have a pharmacy they use, but you can take your prescription anywhere that dispenses medical cannabis. Your weed gets couriered to your door within 48 hours of payment, unless the UK postal gods decide otherwise.

    Step Five: Follow-up consultation One prescription per month = one follow-up per month. Adjust dose, repeat the ritual, pray for relief, try not to commit murder in the meantime.

    1. Final thoughts If it works, great. If not, at least you tried. Medical cannabis isn’t a miracle cure, but for many it means life becomes slightly less of a living hell. And isn’t that all we’re really aiming for?

    Give it at least three months to figure out your dose before declaring it pointless – because sadly, your endocannabinoid system didn’t come with an instruction manual.

    ⚠️ Disclaimer: This is not medical advice, just my darkly honest take. Consult your doctor or your dealer’s dealer’s dealer before making changes to your meds.

         “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.”
    

    enter image description here

                      ✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨
    
  • Posted on

    Another system rebuild. Another round of pretending this time it’ll work, that nothing vital will vanish into digital smoke. Maybe I’ll stick with Windows 11—just long enough to hate it all over again. Or maybe, finally, I’ll throw myself into Linux like a man falling from a burning building. Kodachi. Mint. Whonix. Take your pick, all flavours of escape.

    The plan? Dual life. Linux on a pen drive for when I need stealth and sanity. Custom Windows on the main drive for when I need chaos and legacy apps. But before anything happens, it’s backups. Backups of backups. Then backup the backup of the backup.

    I’ve lost too much already. Files. Art. Music. Decades of moments. Things that mattered. Gone because I trusted the wrong hard drive, or hit “yes” on a prompt I didn’t read at 4am because I couldn’t sleep from the pain—or the thoughts. Terabytes lost to time and stupidity.

    I’ve been part of this madness since the early 80s. When computing still felt like rebellion. When you could feel the electricity in the keys. Back when 40GB was god-tier and 32MB of RAM could change your life. When you didn’t need permission from five corporations to run software.

    Today, I did get out. Ended up at Fat Tony’s. Sex toys, incense, grinders, masks, and the surreal scent of liberation in the air. I could feel the laughter in my bones. Albertine grabbed a few curious bits and pieces. Good man behind the counter. Real. No masks. No script. Not like the world outside. Not like doctors.

    Came back home. Wheelchair of death started vibrating like it had unfinished business with the earth’s core. Loud enough to wake the ghosts I wish I could forget.

    The jam was a mistake. No sleep. Peeing every hour. Kidney screaming. Bladder playing drums. Night’s silence broken by the symphony of my body's decline.

    I asked the doctor for sleeping tablets. He laughed. Said I might sleep through an accident. “What,” I asked, “like shit myself?” He didn’t laugh back. Just stared at me like a creature in a tank. Something dying slowly behind glass.

    That same doctor once told me there was nothing more they could do. I rolled out of that office in my chair and into the hallway of despair. Slammed into the door just to feel something. I wasn’t a person to him—just another file closed. “Mr Goblin,” he said. As if I wasn’t already invisible.

    You think it ends there?

    I got a phone call years ago. I was stressed. The voice on the line? A GP. He tells me, flatly: “Oh yeah, you had a heart attack at some point.” Like it was the weather. Then the line goes dead.

    I went ice cold. Started spasming. Couldn’t breathe. Ambulance was called. Paramedics came. One looked like death in a hi-vis vest. He barked at me about not labelling my door clearly enough. I nearly told him to check my pulse and guess the address that way.

    ECG said yes, it happened. A “heart event.” Another ambulance came. The serious kind. They jabbed, they drugged, they stabilized the mess I was.

    But in that moment, on the floor, shaking and half-naked, I thought: So this is how it ends. Alone, misunderstood, staring at the cracked ceiling while the world rushes by outside.

    But no. I lived. Again. Like I always bloody do.

    And still my mind drifts. My half-sister. It’s been 10 years. Maybe she thinks of me. My older sister? Try 30. A lifetime of silence.

    Being adopted is a lifelong mind-fuck. You're the cuckoo in someone else’s nest. A mistake nobody admits. A problem to be hidden in a file folder somewhere.

    My family judged me because I lived in a council house. Because I was disabled. Because I wasn’t their version of clean or proper.

    But when they gave me a chance, I proved them wrong. Every time.

    Still… no calls. No letters. No visits.

    I wonder if my brothers are still alive. I wonder if they’d remember my voice.

    But hope is a slow suicide. So I smile instead. Laugh when I can. Back up my data like I’m guarding a soul in binary. Sit in my chair and watch the world pretend to care.

    I’m not done yet.

    Not by a long shot.

    Goblin still here

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

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

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

    enter image description here

  • Posted on

    So I’ve been thinking — I know, shocking — but let's face it, MS really does blow chunks.

    You walk into a doctor’s surgery, tell them what's going on, and they're glued to their computer screen like they're checking the footie scores or writing a memoir. You wait for the questions, but it’s just nodding. Half-arsed. Then they look up at you like you’re the inconvenience.

    Let me paint the scene:

    I rock up in my wheelchair, scraping the doorframe because apparently, accessibility is still a mythical concept in parts of the UK. It’s one of those surgeries that's older than most of the patients — falling apart, steeped in the smell of wet plaster and resignation. I apologise for the door. It's that bad.

    I wheel in and the doc looks at me like I’ve just insulted his nan. I’ve found that neurologists in particular have a real flair for hating me — probably because I ask awkward questions that don’t come with a neat textbook answer. Their reaction? Condescension, mostly. “This is how you should feel,” they say. Oh, should I? How enlightening.

    To be honest, I didn’t want to be there. Waste. Of. Time.

    I’m sitting there trying not to blow a fuse while they judge me like I’m auditioning for Britain’s Got Neurological Issues. These days, though, I’m lucky. I moved. New docs. Better vibes. Now I hand over a list — symptoms, patterns, the works. I sit back and let them squirm.

    Still, I suffer from white coat syndrome so I’m already stressed the moment I see the antiseptic blue of NHS decor. But hey, the list helps. Unless you get that one GP who glances at your entire medical history like it’s a Wikipedia article they can’t be arsed to read.

    Everything, apparently, is caused by MS. I could sprout a second head and they’d say “Ah yes, classic MS.”

    So what have I learned?

    Being me — unapologetically, sarcastically, chronically ill me — is actually kinda liberating. I say it like it is (within reason… ish). I watch the world spin, watch my life fade out into this mad oblivion — and I keep fighting, whether it’s through brain fog, pain, or a poorly designed doorway.

    I’m sick as fuck, but such is life. And I’ll keep going — until my last breath or brain cell. Whichever taps out first.

    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.”
    

    enter image description here "MS blows chunks. I keep fighting."

  • Posted on

    Dedicated to the quietly powerful, the fiercely intelligent, and the deeply spiritual souls navigating chronic illness with grit, grace, and a middle finger always charged.

    There’s a kind of magic reserved for those who walk through fire daily — the ones living in the shadows of chronic pain, yet refusing to be defined by it. This is for the women who ride invisible engines through invisible battles, who carry storms in their veins but speak with soft fire.

    Welcome to The Fizzy Girl’s Lost Milk Stand Spellbook — part grimoire, part rebellion. A collection of raw spells, rituals, and sharp-witted curses for living with Multiple Sclerosis (MS) — from the soul of a spiritual outlaw, with sass, depth, and zero apologies.

    This isn’t about wellness wrapped in pastel lies. This is about owning your journey, commanding chaos, and turning pain into power.

    ✦ Spell One: The Banishing of Bullshit For when ableist optimism and unsolicited advice cross your path.

    Ingredients:

    One black candle (or any tea light that’s been through hell and back)

    Salt, preferably from your own tears

    An old NHS letter (burn it if your soul says “yes”)

    A fully charged middle finger

    Incantation: “By the prickle in my spine, by the twitching of my toes, Let your nonsense turn to silence, may your wellness wisdom decompose. I walk a twisted path and know my pain, So shove your yoga plan right up your brain.”

    ✦ Spell Two: The Ritual of Slightly Less Misery For days when the pain won't loosen its grip, but neither will you.

    Requirements:

    A bed-fort of doom pillows

    Microwaved heat pad, warmed with the quiet rage of a thousand midnight rides

    A mug of something hot and angry

    Cat (optional, but spiritually advised)

    Playlist of thunder, witches, or doom metal

    Chant: “May the storm outside match the one in me, But may it pass with mercy and one good pee. Spasms, settle. Thoughts, uncoil. I soak in stillness, wrapped in foil.”

    ✦ Spell Three: Invisibility to Muggles When you just need the world to back off and shut up.

    Steps:

    Cloak yourself in black layers — armor against clueless questions

    Wear your walking aids like the badass medals they are

    Spray perfume with a whisper of danger and “don’t ask”

    Whisper under your breath:

    “Ignore me. Avoid me. Don’t you dare ask, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I’m wearing my mask. I am a fog in the shape of a witch, Try me, Karen. I bite — and I twitch.”

    ✦ A Final Word This spellbook isn’t about curing the incurable — it’s about reclaiming power in a body that doesn’t always obey. It's a sacred, snarky, soulful grimoire for the ones who walk with fire in their bones, love in their hearts, and rebellion in their blood.

    Fizzy Girl is my sexy, beautiful wife — a wild outlaw biker witch who laughs in the face of limitation. I’m a warlock forged by shadow and fire, and I ride beside her in my three-wheeled electric chair of doom — chrome-clad, spell-fueled, and built for storm-chasing.

    Together, we defy the rules. Together, we ride magic into the storm.

    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.”