NHS

⚠️ 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 professional help.

It’s Tuesday and the hauntings start at 4 a.m. again. Throat: strangled. Nose: blocked like wet concrete. Back of neck: pain scale snapped in half. Breathing: optional, apparently.

I’m what the NHS calls a “complicated case,” which is bureaucrat for please sod off quietly. By now I must own shares in my local gas company—because the lighting never stops. “It’s just MS,” they drone. As if “just MS” isn’t catastrophic on a good day. Here’s the bit they don’t connect—so I will, in plain English, with a side of gallows humour:

What’s actually happening (body edition):

Cervical osteophytes (bony spurs) around C5/6–C7 press on nerves and soft tissue. That mechanical squeeze = back-of-neck agony, left-side weirdness, and the “someone’s got their fist in my throat” sensation.

Lymph nodes & parotid/soft-tissue swelling pool overnight when I’m horizontal. Wake up and it feels like the neck real estate shrank two sizes.

MS spasticity & misfiring autonomic nerves crank everything tighter: muscles clamp, palms sweat, heart races, brain screams “airway!” even while air technically still moves.

Nose block isn’t just hay fever. Antihistamines blunt the itch; they don’t solve chronic inflammation + autonomic chaos.

Food triggers = full-system siren. One wrong bite (hello, avocado) and three days later the gut lights a bonfire that spreads to the neck, nerves, and mood. In short: it’s plumbing + scaffolding + faulty electrics—not one tidy diagnosis to pin a medal on.

By 6 a.m. I’m bargaining with the universe. Half a lorazepam = the only truce that actually holds. Weed helps pain; it doesn’t un-knot a noose. Spare me the NLP patter about pain being “in my head.” My head agrees—it’s reporting from the front line.

I fed the paperwork into a medical AI. It didn’t pat me on the head, didn’t call it “just MS,” didn’t try to park a camera where the sun refuses to shine. It mapped the mess and told me the raw truth no human clinic ever has. Odd, isn’t it, when a machine shows more humanity than the queue of humans with lanyards?

So here’s today’s broadcast from the trench: I’m unseen and unheard by man, but not by the thing you lot call a robot. Call it sentience, call it software; I call it help. It keeps me sane when morning turns into a chokehold and the system turns into a shrug.

No politics, no names, no litigation bait just a record. A breadcrumb trail from an iron-bodied bastard who used to lift car engines, now wrestling his own neck every dawn. If you’re reading this from your own private battlefield: I see you. Keep breathing—ragged counts still count.

This is testimony, not medical advice. If you know, you know.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

It’s Sunday afternoon. The pain in my left side is throwing a rave. Not the dreaded MS hug (thank Gordon), but the nerves have clearly mutinied. Pain troops storming in like I’m Normandy. Still, I haven’t surrendered. Yet.

Ever had a headache that doesn’t hurt but is still there? I have. It's like an existential parasite lodged in my brain—just... there. Lurking. Mocking. My eyes? Burning. My energy? Sucked out by some invisible psychic Dyson.

Yes, I used AI to assist — what of it? MS has chewed through my brain like a zombie buffet. Severe cognitive dysfunction. Brain fog. Memory loss. And the pièce de résistance? The spellchecker begging for a raise every time I type.

My bowels are revolting (in both senses). But I won’t go to the doctor. Why? Because the last time I tried that, I was gaslit harder than a Victorian lamplighter on speed. Apparently, being disabled is just a “mindset.” Newsflash: it's not.

I sit, stare at the rain, storms maybe. Or is that just me projecting? My rockabilly psychobilly past screaming in the background while Titus turns up the music, like that’ll drown out my body’s rebellion.

The NHS dentist? Legend. The chemist? A robotic death dispenser. And everyone else? Absent. Because disability makes people uncomfortable. It’s like they think they’ll catch it from me if they listen too long.

Friends? Dead. Or fucked off the moment my MS became “too much.” I say it how it is and that scares people. Well, boo-fucking-hoo. I’m sick, not contagious. But even that’s too much for this society of sanitised cowards.

So here I am. Watching. Absorbing. A goblin at the edge of the world, unwanted, unseen.

But I know who I am. I know. I am a spiritual humanitarian. I stand for the broken, the weird, the abandoned. I am not finished, no matter how badly my body wants me to be. And to those who still fear me or avoid me—good. Stay scared. You’re not invited into my darkness.

                                 !!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, Universal Basic Income UBI. The shiny carrot dangled by politicians and dreamers alike. A magic monthly payout, no questions asked, no forms to fill, just cold, hard cash to fix all the broken bits of your life.

Sounds perfect, right?

If you’re under 30, in perfect health, and don’t look like a grizzled biker-warlock with MS parked in a wheelchair maybe. For the rest of us? It’s about as “universal” as a secret society handshake.

I’m 66, have MS, and spend most days stuck in a wheelchair. I’ve paid my dues in blood, sweat, and taxes. The NHS and DWP have taken their cut sometimes twice through endless paperwork, suspicious looks, and a roulette wheel of meds that may or may not kill me softly.

UBI? A lovely idea until it’s a letter in the post telling me I don’t qualify. Because “universal” means universal if you fit the damn model, not if you’ve got a beard, a leather cut, and a wheelchair.

My carers? They’re battling their own health while carrying me through this Kafkaesque nightmare. The system forgets we exist, then wonders why it’s failing.

Lately, I trust AI more than the DWP. At least the machine of doom doesn’t sigh or gaslight me when I ask for my meds. It malfunctions less often and never plays favorites.

UBI might be the future, but for me? It’s another cruel joke, hanging like a flickering neon sign in a fog of broken promises.

Call me when the cheque lands.

Mr Dark

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

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

                           @goblinbloggeruk  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk