neurodegeneration

⚠️ 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.

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