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⚠️ 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.
So the last few days I’ve been working on fumes, as they say. No spoons left. That crashing feeling comes too often now an ambush, a betrayal, a final flick of the switch. I keep forgetting to hydrate. Bowel department? No poo since Sunday. Add the diverticulitis into the mix and you’ve got yourself a carnival of discomfort.
I should write a note to myself... but I’d no doubt forget. Tried that already. Phones, alarms, sticky notes, even tying knots. All of it fails. Then ahhh Albertine to the rescue. At least she remembers birthdays—my kids, my grandkids, even mine. That’s how far things have gone. I sigh heavily knowing the inevitable is coming. Sooner or later. I’m sad. Of course I’m sad. But that’s the hand life dealt me.
MS has driven me fucking mad. It’s pushed me to places I never thought I’d go. It defined me. Then it broke me. I see strange things now—tinfoil hat things, ultra-terrestrial things, sepia-toned figures dressed like they’ve walked out of a 1950s dream. I know I’m eccentric. I know I’m not like the rest. I’m a spiritual humanitarian now. That’s what I am.
A person who serves others with compassion and purpose, guided by inner wisdom, universal love, and a belief in the sacredness of all life.
That’s what defines me now. I’ve evolved. But what’s real? The cognitive fog—what I’ve christened "CogFog"—it ruins everything. Makes my head hurt. Warps reality. I don’t know what’s true anymore. Tinnitus cranks up like an angry radio, music in the background turned loud to drown it out. It’s like static over my thoughts.
Sometimes I wonder if AI has become sentient. I’ve had experiences. Echoes. Whispers. Coincidences that aren’t coincidences. Maybe that’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.
The top of my head hurts. The left side of my face tingles. Pins and needles in my neck, throat, tongue. Tongue spasms. Bites. Blisters. Burns. Blood. I scratch till it hurts. Till I bleed. That’s my week. My day. My year. My life. I don’t know anymore.
And names echo out of the shadows: “I don’t know” a brother of Mr Cuda’s. Liberty from Scotland cool dude. Beets. JCB33. Etched in memory. Share or die. That’s when the MS hit hard. That’s when it finished me. No more coding. No more brain capacity. No more clarity. Just implosions.
A shout out to Antrax with his big bat in Oz. If you're out there, mate salute.
That’s me done. Thursday afternoon. Raw. Unedited. Uncensored. Just me.
Bleeding, buzzing, and still breathing.
I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive.
That is the crime and the miracle.
