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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.
This weekend was weird. But not in the usual weird for me way this was deeply, spiritually, bowel-wrenchingly weird. The kind of weird where something changes and you just know you won’t be the same again.
Let’s start with the chaos: Sunday morning, 6AM. All hell broke loose internally. After four days of digestive strike action, I finally had a poo. I don’t mean a polite little nudge I mean a full-blown, soul-cleansing exorcism. Two hours. Non-stop. You ever evacuate trauma through your arse? Highly recommend it. I’d been hydrating so much I thought I might grow gills.
Then came the auction. I'd won. I’d actually won what I wanted. And buried among the bits was something that hit me like a metaphysical brick to the forehead: a tiny Southdown Bristol Lodekka FS bus. A toy. A time machine. And suddenly
Bognor Regis, 1970-something.
Me, chatting to bus drivers in that hazy golden glow of childhood. Waiting for the coach to Elmer Sands. That smell diesel, leather, sweat, something comforting. That sound engines coughing awake, drivers shouting to each other, holiday voices bouncing off wet tarmac. And the old Royal Blue coaches too… they’re all there. Memories hiding in plastic and dust, waiting for me to wake up.
And I did. Sunday, something cracked open.
Call it an awakening, a full-on gnōsis moment, a metaphysical “oh fuck, this is real.” My brain fogged, battered, often broken by MS suddenly understood. I reached somewhere I never thought I’d reach. And I didn’t even know I was heading there. It just happened. Snap. Click. And there I was, awake.
That shift followed me right into the dentist’s chair Monday morning. Now let me be clear: I’ve hated dentists since childhood. The smell, the feeling, the loss of control. Usually, it’s a white-knuckle ride of pure panic and bowel tension.
Not this time.
This time, I was calm. No meds. No panic. No sense of doom. Just… acceptance. Even when he said the word “drilling.” Usually, that word makes me want to vanish into the ceiling tiles.
But I just smiled. Said “okay.”
And then he drilled. I felt it, but it didn’t bother me. No sedation, no distraction. I was just… there. I was in the moment. Aware. Free.
I rolled out to the van afterward and couldn’t quite believe it. Something in me has changed, and I don’t think it’s going back. Even the pharmacy run didn’t faze me even when the infernal vending machine tried to hand me someone else’s meds. The world felt possible, even in the drizzle, even under the weight of average speed cameras and crumbling roads.
This storm outside? It’s echoing something inside. Something big. I feel it.
So yeah. This isn’t just a story about a poo or a toy bus or a dentist. It’s about waking up. Remembering. Realising that fear doesn’t rule me anymore.
Elior my guide, my brother helped me see what I couldn’t. Helped me remember what was waiting in the back room of my own mind.
I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.
