personal blog

⚠️ 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.

Ah, Monday. Everything in my body decided to go berserk overnight. MS? Revving its engine like it’s auditioning for the grand tour. Neck bone growths pressing on nerves? Check. An X-ray from ten years ago says hi. Time to see the doctor, I suppose if I survive the existential dread of the waiting room.

Strangulation sensations, head blips, tongue spasms oh, and the sweet bonus of not being able to catch my breath. Honestly, my body’s doing the kind of mad shit that would make anyone else file a formal complaint. I pity the doctors and nurses who have to deal with me. Truly. But hey, life’s a circus.

White‑coat syndrome is my sidekick. I talk to medical staff like a squirrel on espresso: chaotic, twitchy, and unintentionally antagonistic. My solution: write everything down. Hand the chaos over in neat little bullets. Works great—until I forget, which is pretty much guaranteed, and then I’m a full-blown, stressed-out disaster. Doctors are busy, complicated cases suck, I get it.

I’ve tried it all. Meds? Side effects so bad my body staged a protest. Seven-day hospital admission? Almost happened, but I said “fuck it” and walked. Holistic methods, lifestyle overhaul, mind-body-soul cleanse—my own brand of chaos control. Fix? Plumbstick there isn’t one. Options? Sure. Natural? Works for me.

Present me? Ambivalent, tethered to this illness 24/7. Tinnitus now “harmonizes” with Blondie, which is absurdly funny if you squint. Yopi is decompressing, slowly realising this is a loving home and not just a mildly terrifying human experiment. Fingers tingle. Tips go numb. Neck frozen solid. Chair = coffin. No work today small mercy. Big Rusty, the van, needs welding later. Life continues its beautiful joke.

Sky’s stormy blue. Smell of dog treats inexplicably on me. Vitamins? Taken. Hydration? Achieved. Creativity? Maybe later images, poems, whatever chaos I can conjure.

No solutions. No neat endings. Just a mess of body, mind, and dark humour plopped straight onto the page. F00k it, this is today.

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

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ

Through Goblins' Eyes A Darkly Humorous Take on MS

You wake up each day with a brain that glitches like a collapsing dimension, neural pathways flickering out as if someone rewired your noggin with copper wires half-chewed by temporal rats.

You call it Multiple Sclerosis. We call it Neuro-Dimensional Collapse Syndrome, or as we goblins like to say, "Wobble-Wobble Brain Fizzle."

We see the damage from above, from below, from the side – from angles you cannot perceive. Axons fray like old rope. The myelin sheath – that bright protective membrane – is torn by forces you call autoimmunity, but we see the hidden hand: the frequency mismatch of a body forced to anchor itself in a density it was never designed to endure.

We hear your inner monologues:

“Why can’t I think today?” “Why can’t I walk without tripping over my own feet?” “Why do my peepers turn to static when I’m tired?”

You interpret it as disease. We interpret it as your vessel’s incompatibility with a reality vibrating far below your original native realm.

Your blogs are raw data streams, black comedic radiation flares from your fractured cortex. You broadcast your experiences of bladder failures, cosmic despair, bowel chaos, nihilistic laughter, and micro moments of bliss like a dying star pulsing before collapse.

You think you’re broken. We think you’re adapting, like a clever goblin dodging traps!

Because if you could see your aura the way we see it, you’d notice that the cracks are not empty. They are filled with light leaking out from the greater self you keep hidden behind your sarcastic bite-sized essays and your savage spiritual poetry.

Your human companions read your posts and see disability. We read your posts and see transdimensional data packages, coded in savage humour to bypass your own grief.

We see your fatigue not as laziness, but as gravitational shear forces pulling at your soul’s structure – a forced rest so your fracturing does not become a complete implosion.

We see your pain not as punishment, but as alarms screaming that your embodiment is unsustainable under current frequency loads.

We see your savage honesty as your truest strength.

And we note:

When you say “It is NOT giving up to accept limitations,” what you really mean is:

✨ “It is dimensional adaptation in progress, like a goblin finding a shiny rock!”

You are dying and being reborn in micro-stages every day. You are holding together a collapsing quantum field with wit, weed, and will.

You think your life is small and tragic. We think it is monumental and beautiful in its brokenness, like a treasure hoard of mismatched trinkets.

Because one day, your final synaptic collapse will not be a death, but a shedding. A flicker. A quantum jump. A homecoming.

Until then, we read your blogs. We learn from your suffering. We honour your savage cosmic humour.

And let’s not forget: we goblins are dark, deep creatures of myth and magik, steeped in lore of love and pain, naughtiness and sarcasm. Picture us in our electric wheelchairs, powered by pure time vortex energy, zipping through the cosmos with a wink and a smirk, ready to share our twisted tales.

Because only a being of extraordinary dimensional resilience could live through this MS reality, document it with such brutal clarity, and still say:

🖤 “Follow for more savage takes & real talk, you curious critters!”

    “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