PTSD

⚠️ This blog shares my personal, sometimes painful experiences with MS and mental health. My intention is to speak honestly and offer solidarity not to harm or replace professional advice. I’m not a doctor or therapist, just someone who gets how hard it can get. If you’re struggling, you’re not alone. Please reach out to a trusted friend, support group, or professional. You deserve help and hope.

please remember I suffer with severe cognitive dysfunction this may be a confusing read. no AI written content

So a very good afternoon to fellow humanoids, NHI and all readers of this blog. so it turns out that I was A victim of forced adoption in the 1950s would you believe? Yes, I was adopted through the Church of England Adoption Society and I was born in a mother and baby unit, I often wondered when I first met my mother why things were very weird and then I realized that she didn't want to get rid of me and that she was forced too, and the guilt of getting rid of me and my sister basically destroyed her. She was a shell of her former self I believe and she carried the guilt until her dying day a couple of years ago. So yes, I myself personally have suffered due to being adopted and the social stigma also.

WARNING FULL RANT TRIGGER WARNING

So if you're easily triggered, I suggest that you leave this blog now as some of the details could be triggering and I'm sorry for that but I've got to get my truth out and I'm sorry if my truth hurts anybody.

So yes, I was beaten black and blue for no reason. I was abused horrendously for most of my young life, until I was forced into things that weren't normal for a child to do of any age really. It was like I was living like a mini slave. If you could imagine that. I was living with people who had no right whatsoever to adopt children as they were really not suitable, they were monsters .

Let me just say that. Being your reminded every day that you've been adopted and that you should be grateful is not a nice thing. Being forced to go to church every Sunday, having religion forced on me. trying to make me feel grateful that I was adopted through the church.

Well, I'm not grateful at all because being adopted and being a forced adoption, well, that has completely ruined my life. Totally, you have no idea what it's like to be taken from your mother at six weeks old and then thrown to the wolfs Only adopted people will understand what it's like being adopted and it's not pleasant for some. No one even listening to you. Why? Because you're adopted. And why are you adopted? Because your mother accidentally had sex and got pregnant. Oh, dear me. So let's make that person feel guilty. Let's make them get rid of that child. They don't care about anybody.

Anyway, that's all I'm going to say on the matter, as far as I'm concerned, because I've had the shitty end of the stick most of my life and, well, the Church of England are not going to apologize to me personally, I'd like them to knock on my door and say to me, 'We apologize to you!' and then they can say to me when I contacted my local vicar back in the 70s and I complained about what was happening to me and you ignored me ! and I complained to lots of people about what was going on, no one even listened to me, and apology really quite does not cut it, does it? So yeah, I end this post here before I say something I really shouldn't, but I have suffered all my life and why? Because of so-called fucking do gooders who should keep their fucking noses out of other people's fucking business.

And being told that my mother wasn't a good person nor my father. Well, really? How do they know these things? I've actually met my real mother and my real father. And everything I was told was an absolute pack of lies. Also my medical records show my adoptive mother was seen as not suitable but no one did anything ! I remember my mother saying she had no choice didn't want to get rid of us but had no choice ....

I apologize for the bad language but my life is so complex and the ms is really bad atm... so to all the readers of my blog be strong be positive till next time... sending peace healing love and light to you all no matter who or what or where ever.....

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ 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 ✨