- Posted on
⚠️ 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.
