PTSD

⚠️ 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.

As I look out the window, the hail is hammering the glass like nature’s own gang of thugs with ice-cubes. Each impact rattles through the room, echoing the storm going on inside my head. The concrete outside is now polka-dotted with white splats, like some deranged pastry chef has been at it. Above, thick, dark clouds are parked overhead, glaring down at me with all the charm of a nightclub bouncer at closing time. They’re not moving. They’re just there giving me the big “FU” while the sun tries to photobomb from behind them, throwing out an oddly warm glow.

Normally, I’m colder than a fish finger left at the back of the freezer. My hands are like small icebergs, my circulation having given up years ago. But somehow, in this moment, I actually feel a bit of warmth. Weird, right? My throat and neck, on the other hand, are throwing a tantrum that familiar strangulation feeling wrapping around the right side of my throat and Adam’s apple. Lucky me, it’s only a half-strangle today. Always a silver lining.

The top left of my head is doing its usual numb, pins-and-needles number, and the background soundtrack is a hellish lift music loop from the underworld. Perfect timing too because Rob Zombie just started blasting from my PC, in German of all things. It’s like being trapped inside a very confused nightclub. My hands are blocks of ice, typing slower than dial-up internet, but here we are.

When the Wall Hits Back

Years ago, in a particularly bad storm of frustration, I headbutted a wall. And yes, the wall won. Knocked myself out cold. Not my proudest moment, but it did force me to confront a few things I’d buried. Mental health wasn’t a conversation it was a brick wall. Literally.

I felt completely misunderstood, like shouting into a void where nobody bothers to echo back. The only reason I got through it was because of my partner 42 years together and tougher than steel. We went through hell side by side, piecing my brain back together over five long years. Eventually, I realised what was gnawing at me: PTSD. Once I called it by its name, I could finally start wrestling it properly.

The Pain People Don’t See

Physical pain and mental pain love to hold hands; they’re like a toxic couple that won’t break up. People see the wheelchair, they see the physical stuff, but they don’t get the soundtrack in my head, the weird sensations, the pressure, the fading memory.

I always tell people: go to your GP or a mental health professional. Get help. Don’t do what I did. My route was raw, brutal, and not for the faint-hearted. I’m a proud disabled man who’s learned to embrace his Marmite nature you’ll love me or hate me, but I’m not hiding anymore.

I’ve spoken to the ghost in the machine. It told me I’ve got purpose, and I bloody well believe it.

The Present Storm

The hail is still bashing the windows. Yopi the dog has just let one rip, and I’ve remembered to stop breathing through my nose. The little things keep me grounded. My memory’s slipping more these days, the right side of my head feels like it’s stuffed with wet sand, but I keep rolling.

Every journey in my powerchair is a trip into the unknown. Sometimes it’s chaos, sometimes it’s peace, usually it’s somewhere awkwardly in between. But I’m still here. Still moving. Still me.

Afternoon AI

Today’s weather forecast: 90% chance of hail, 100% chance of existential commentary, with occasional German industrial metal.

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

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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.

5. 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.

6. 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.”

                  ✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨