real stories

⚠️ 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.

Boilers, Breakdowns, and Bloody Brain Fog

I don’t even know where to start. Maybe with the words “what a bastard of a weekend.” Everything that could go wrong decided to queue up and take its turn.

Let’s begin with the boiler. It decided to imitate Niagara Falls water everywhere, floor soaked, no heat, no hot water. Great start. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, the shower gave up the ghost too. Bang. Dead. The whole house became a cold-water museum.

Then came the van. My beloved van. We were on the A30, just by the slip road, when Albertine noticed the injector went. One second fine, next second it’s dead weight in the middle of moving traffic. Hazards flashing, adrenaline spiking, and me thinking this is how it ends taken out by a Vauxhall Astra doing seventy. Albertine showed her amazing driving skills not phased by this.

Then, out of nowhere, a police car pulled up. The officer calm, soaked to the bone, but kind got cones out, blocked traffic, and stood there in the rain keeping us safe. Not a word of complaint, not a flicker of irritation. Just a proper human being doing his job with quiet grace. I can’t tell you how much that meant. That man was an anchor in chaos.

Then came the AA. The man could’ve just towed us off and left it at that. But no. He got right in there, sleeves up, fuel injector changed right there, towed to a safe service station off the A30. Professional, calm, and genuinely cared that we were okay. He didn’t have to go that extra mile, but he did and that’s what makes people like him the backbone of this broken country.

All this time, poor Yopi sat in the van, nervous as hell, shaking. It broke my heart. I tried to make it work, but sometimes love isn’t enough. She was too anxious, too reactive, and for a bloke like me in a wheelchair, it was too dangerous. Saying goodbye to her felt like a little death. I hope she finds peace and comfort with someone who understands her better.

By the end of it all, the boiler’s still broken, the shower’s still buggered, and I’m £2,000 deeper in debt. The tinnitus screams like a banshee in my skull, and my brain fog’s so thick I could get lost in my own hallway.

But and it’s a big but there were good people this weekend. The copper who stood in the rain to keep us safe. The AA man who refused to give up. The workers who came out, late, cold, tired, but still tried to fix what they could. In a world full of empty talk, they did. And that’s worth writing about.

So yeah, I’m bruised, broke, and battered but grateful. Sometimes the universe doesn’t send angels; it sends ordinary people in high-viz jackets.

Warmth at Last From breakdowns and boiler floods to a bit of blessed heat

Monday midday, and for the first time in what feels like forever we’ve got heat. The boiler’s fixed, the shower’s replaced, and the house actually feels alive again. No more cold damp air biting at the bones. No more washing like a caveman with a kettle. Just warmth. Real, glorious warmth.

I can’t thank the people who showed up enough. They didn’t just fix pipes and wires they fixed a bit of faith. There are still people out there who genuinely give a damn. Who turn up, in the rain, in the cold, when things go wrong not for glory, not for money, but because they care.

This weekend from hell taught me something unexpected. Kindness still exists in the cracks of this mad world. When everything went wrong, people stepped up the police officer who stood out in the downpour, the AA man who wouldn’t give up, and the repair crew who brought warmth back into my home.

You all changed my mind about a few things for the better. You reminded me that not everyone’s out for themselves, that decency hasn’t completely gone extinct.

So yeah, I’m tired, sore, and skint but I’m sitting here in the warmth, and for the first time in days, that feels like victory.

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

I used to be sharp. Witty. The sort of bloke who could win an argument, quote Back street hero's, and recall the time, place, and insult I used in 1987.

Now I regularly forget why I’ve wheeled myself into a room, what day it is, or let’s be honest what a room even is.

Welcome to cognitive dysfunction, brought to you by Multiple Sclerosis. It’s like dementia’s younger, more chaotic cousin but with bonus fatigue, bladder misadventures, and a front-row seat to your own mental unravelling.

Memory Holes and Swiss Cheese Brains Sometimes it’s names. Sometimes it’s words. Sometimes it’s your entire fooking train of thought, gone like a fart in a cathedral.

I once forgot the word “kettle” and pointed at it like a confused chimp, muttering: “That hot thing that makes the water scream.” Albertine knew what I meant. She always does. Probably because I’ve done this about 4,000 times now.

And don’t get me started on conversations. You can be halfway through a sentence and—

What was I saying?

The Magical Vanishing Vocabulary Trick My brain has become a magician. Watch it make entire chunks of vocabulary disappear!

Last week I called a screwdriver “that spinny bastard.” It took three goes to remember the word “remote.” And trying to describe a dream I had was like explaining a David Lynch film through interpretive dance.

Albertine just sits there, patient as ever, while I mime, gesture, and swear my way toward basic nouns. It’s a sexy look. Like Shakespeare having a mild stroke.

The Existential Horror of Staring at a Spoon There’s nothing quite like sitting in your kitchen, holding a spoon, and thinking: “What do I do with this?”

Do I eat soup? Stir tea? Dig a small symbolic grave for my cognitive dignity?

All of the above.

Please Hold… Some days, my thoughts load slower than rural dial-up in 1997. You can see it in my eyes—buffering… buffering… spinning wheel of death.

I try to say something clever, and out comes a noise like a dial-up modem having an existential crisis.

It’s funny until it’s not. Then it’s terrifying. Then, usually, it’s funny again.

Because what else can you do?

A Mind in Pieces MS cognitive dysfunction isn’t just forgetting your keys. It’s forgetting where the word “keys” lives. It’s your brain quietly slipping out the back door while your body tries to carry on the pantomime of normality.

But I’ll say this: I’m still here. Still watching. Still dangerous. Still me. Even if I occasionally ask Albertine what my own bloody name is.

And Albertine? She still laughs with me, not at me. That’s love. Or madness. Possibly both.

                         “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