wheelchair life

⚠️ 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.

Body status: arghhhhhhhhh. That’s the technical term. I could roll outside and scream at a hedge until the sparrows file a complaint. Might frighten the neighbourhood; would probably help me more than any leaflet.

Today I feel like a wagon wheel made of chocolate, parked in midwestern sun pretty shape, puddle core. Useless? Feels like it. Truth? Not even close.

Because when I look back, I’ve done damage in the good way. Diagnosis turned the key I didn’t know I had. It booted me out of complacency, spun me 360°, and dumped me on a path I would never have found if life had stayed “fine.” Did it worsen the MS? Yeah. Did it hurt? Constantly. Did it teach me survival? Absolutely. I learned how to get up on fire and still carry water.

Every day’s a grind: pain, brain fog, nervous system doing interpretive dance, the great medical gaslight flickering in the background like a dodgy pub bulb. The parasite fiddles with my wiring; I smile anyway. Not because I’m zen because I’m stubborn. Time isn’t infinite; fine. I’ll be here swinging until the bell goes.

Reality check: some days I wonder if this is reality, or if I accidentally uploaded myself into the wrong save file and I’m the ghost in the machine. Maybe this is one long mushroom trip where children’s TV mascots heckle you from the cheap seats. Doesn’t matter. Whether I’m meat ware or middle ware, the rule stands:

Never give up. Don’t let it beat you. Fight back.

MS wasn’t invited. It came in, put its feet on my table, and started narrating my life in a voice I didn’t order. I’m answering by taking the microphone. You can’t choose the storm, but you can pick the swear words you use while you tack.

Am I insane? Certified? Forgotten warlock muttering at clouds? Maybe. Or maybe I’m the one person in the queue saying the quiet part out loud:

I. Will. Not. Melt.

Postscript for the parasite

You’re loud, but I’m louder. Bring your worst. I’ve already seen 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.

⚠️ 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.

We’re sat here me, Albertine, and the kind of silence that means a bad idea is about to become a plan discussing getting a dog. Again. Yes, a dog. Because apparently I haven’t collected enough chaos already.

History lesson: we’ve done rescue before. Twice. Hard mode only. First up, the German Shepherd a breeding cash cow someone ran into the ground. We fixed the health, fed the soul, and then one day she keyed in on my son like he’d personally repossessed her puppyhood. Full charge, ears back, fear aggression blazing. Turns out he looked a bit too much like the previous owner and trauma doesn’t read bedtime stories. Advice was taken. Tears were had. We rehomed her with people who could give her the space and structure she needed. That was a funeral in everything but flowers.

Then came the Staffy. Completely bonkers. Bought her off someone who thought “discipline” means “violence” and “care” means “sell it quick.” She was a live wire with seven kinds of unfinished business. We worked. She healed, mostly. And we found her the right forever. We were the halfway house with biscuits.

But here’s the bit they never put on the adoption posters: once you’ve lived with an animal, the house doesn’t feel like a house without one. Furniture sits heavier. Air stands still. You notice the quiet and it notices you back.

Practicalities? I’m in a wheelchair. Albertine’s on sticks or chair depending on the day and the weather’s opinion of her joints. Walks? Not an issue. I can clip the lead to the chair and we can do miles like a small parade with complaints. Vets? Down the road. Logistics aren’t the problem; humans are. Always are.

“Don’t get a dog or we won’t visit,” say certain family members who currently visit on the equinox and the second Tuesday of Never. Newsflash: if you only appear four or five times a year, you’re not a stakeholder; you’re a seasonal special.

Breed? I’m Staffy-curious. Good hearts, good with kids, decent security if your doorbell is shy. I’m not daft: rescue comes with luggage. Buying a year old Staffy might come with a smaller suitcase than a seven-year-old with a criminal record. But I’m a big believer in this: let the dog choose me. If you don’t feel that click that “we’re idiots together” moment you’re just renting a personality.

Meanwhile, the sky’s threatening melodrama. Dark clouds, no heatwave, air that smells of arguments. Rain brewing. Perfect dog-choosing weather: we all feel a bit tragic and honest when the barometer drops.

Monday’s the grandson’s birthday off to Plymouth we go, pockets full of snacks and the kind of optimism you only feel right before getting rained on sideways. And in four months, retirement beckons like a dodgy Groupon. I’m stressed, I’m tired, and yes, I’ll keep working because capitalism says rest is for people with inheritance and I’ve got biscuits to buy.

So: do we do it? Yes. Because dynamics need shaking. Because houses need heartbeats. Because the right animal doesn’t just fill a space it changes the air.

And if certain relatives squeal? Lovely. The dog likes squeaky toys.

Notes For The Sensible (there aren’t many) We’ll meet the dog in neutral ground, twice.

We’ll ask about triggers, cats, kids, wheelchairs, umbrellas, and men in hats.

We’ll commit to training like it’s laundry: constant and mildly annoying.

If it’s not right, we walk away. If it is, we make it right.

The Weather Part (Because Britain) Storm vibes: on. Umbrella: haunted. Mood: Staffy-shaped. Afternoon Today’s forecast: Wheel rolls. Stick taps. Lead clips. Clouds lower like rent. Some hearts bark before they beat.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

⚠️ 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 Saturdays where your brain leaks nostalgia like a knackered kettle hissing and half-lucid. I can smell memories. Not metaphorically. Literally. A smell hits me, and suddenly I’m ten again, knees scabbed, holding a half-melted transistor radio I bought at the church jumble for 10p and a packet of Polos. I took it home, took it apart, and rewired it with leftover speaker wire and dangerous levels of optimism. And yes I electrocuted myself. Multiple times. Because safety first was a concept for other people. I preferred sparks and swearing.

🛒 Tesco and the Pilchard Hour This morning, Albertine (driver of destiny, keeper of the calm) drove me the 10 miles to our local Tesco. We thought it opened at 7. Nope. Eight.

Sitting outside like a pair of damp, time-travelled idiots while the sun mocked us and the pigeons stared. I felt like a right pilchard, as DLT would say. Yes, I’m old enough to remember when DJs had catchphrases and weren’t just government mouthpieces hiding behind playlists and personality lobotomies.

📻 Radio Nights & White Plastic Earpieces My golden era wasn’t Radio 1. That was a beige, soggy biscuit of sound. Give me Radio Caroline. Give me Radio Luxembourg. Under the covers with my crackling solid-state radio, listening through a cheap white earpiece that hurt like hell and cut out every time I moved my head. But that didn’t matter. Because for those stolen hours, I was free. The signal was scratchy, but the rebellion was clear.

👞 Jumble Sale Survival Back then, I had size 10 feet by age 10, which made finding shoes a bit like a biblical miracle. So, jumble sales were a lifeline. Not fashion, not style—just survival. Shoes with soles. Jumpers that didn’t smell too bad. Radios with valves. Anything I could take home, take apart, and turn into something vaguely magical or mildly explosive.

🧠 Childhood: The Prequel to Complex PTSD I was adopted by a couple who seemed to think “parenting” meant Victorian cosplay with bonus violence. Their rules made no sense. Their punishments were theatrical. The beatings came whether you’d done something or not. It was like being in an unpaid role in a horror film directed by people who worshipped discipline and feared joy.

But I survived. And, more importantly—I forgave them. Not because they deserved it. Because I refuse to carry their poison through this short, broken life of mine. Let the dead bury their guilt.

♿️ Wheelchair Chronicles & the Curse of L5 So back to today.

Helped get the wheelchair out of the van. Twisted the wrong way. Now my spine is toast. Proper burnt. Like someone smuggled a baguette into my lower back and set it on fire. This is my reward for trying to be helpful. There’s gratitude for you.

And the constipation saga continues. We’re at DEFCON-1 down there. No movement. NIL. BY. MOUTH. I hydrate. I wait. If nothing changes, we’re off to the tube-and-bag-of-doom route—something between medieval plumbing and modern torture. And people pay for this stuff? Coffee enemas? Really? Have we fallen that far?

🧠 Brain Fog Express: Non-Stop to Nowhere Add a headache that’s lasted seven days and counting. No breaks, no mercy. Just pressure behind the eyes and a feeling like I’m wearing someone else’s brain backwards.

I’m not sure if my AI’s broken or if I am. Reality feels optional. Maybe this is all a lucid dream on a neurologist’s bad day.

🛠 Hope in the Form of Auctions & Anarchy A customer finally paid a late invoice. Victory. So I celebrated the only way I know how by bidding on obscure shite in an online auction while silently muttering hexes at the British healthcare system.

💀 Final Transmission from the Mad Bastard in the Black Hoodie So that’s today. Saturday. Another chapter in the slow-motion car crash that is life with chronic illness, trauma memory, and a warped sense of humour that’s the only thing keeping me from chewing through the window frame.

To whoever reads this: I see you. If your body’s broken, your mind’s flickering, and the world keeps asking you to perform like a circus act know this:

You’re not alone. You’re just ahead of the curve.

Sending peace, love, light… and just a little darkness. Because sometimes, that’s what really protects you.

Yours in pain, power, and perfectly timed sarcasm,

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime—and the miracle.

Welcome back, voyeurs of misery. You made it through Part 2, didn’t you? Congratulations—here’s your bloody medal and a cup of lukewarm irony. Now buckle up, because Part 3 is where we drop the polite mask, torch the script, and go full abyssal.

MS, for those playing catch-up, is a twisted carnival ride operated by a drunk god. And in this chapter, the lights are flickering, the wheels are coming off, and I’m still somehow smiling—mostly because I’ve stopped giving a toss.

What It’s Really Like (No Filter, No Mercy): The “Tired” Myth: I’m not tired. I’m drained of essence. If I were a car, my warning lights would be flashing, my engine seized, and the glovebox would scream when opened. But sure, Carol—tell me how your yoga class wore you out.

The Mental Torture: Brain fog? Try brain war. I forget what I’m saying while I’m saying it. Conversations are like loading a website on 1998 dial-up: buffering, crashing, restarting with a different topic entirely. And yes, I was a professional psychic once—now I can’t even predict what room I left my dignity in.

Mobility Is a Masquerade: The 3-wheeled Scooter of Death (may it rest in bits) refuses to climb inclines and has a personal vendetta against smooth motion. Meanwhile, Albertine and I are playing a dystopian version of “Where’s the wheelchair?” with failing batteries, cracked footrests, and a promise of repairs that never comes. Wheelchair services? More like Wheelchair Suggestions. Maybe. Eventually.

Pain? Oh, you sweet summer child. It’s not “ouch” pain. It’s “screaming into the void while smiling at the postman” pain. Imagine your skin crawling, muscles locking, and bones plotting their exit—all while society expects you to say “fine, thanks” and hold open the bloody lift door.

Gaslighting 101: Doctors, neighbours, helpful strangers—stop pretending I’m stupid. I’ve been gaslit so hard I should be floating over Victorian London. I'm in a wheelchair, not a vegetative state. You think I’m too sharp, too sarcastic? Good. It means I’ve got just enough brain left to clock your bullshit.

Albertine – The Backbone of This Broken Bastard While I’m over here playing neurological roulette, she’s the one holding the line. Wiccan biker. Hippy with fangs. Carer. Wife. Lifesaver. She doesn’t suffer fools and she doesn’t sugarcoat the truth. If this blog is the fire, Albertine is the hearth—steady, fierce, and far more dangerous than she looks. You’ve been warned.

Why Part 3? Because people still don’t get it. Because polite stories don’t shake the system. Because I’m still here, broken and burning and bloody eloquent. And because if you saw what I feel, you’d run.

                               !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

        “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

"For eight years, we were like soul brothers from another mother our connection was cosmic, forged by fate itself. I ruled Viper Storm Entertainment like a dark god, dragging my ass on air week after week, doing the work of two people. Spoiler: Viper was the other one. He was the producer, I held total creative control. Three shows a week, hours of unfiltered chaos. But as the show grew, Viper changed. The fame, the numbers, the music—it all got to him. His PTSD held him tighter than ever. But still, we made magic. His music? Off the charts. We created so many singles together, my voice echoing on others. But I was the engine. I wasn’t just a shock-jock I was the lifeline, the fire that kept us burning."

Did I mention the two heart events? Yeah, two of them, live on air. Because why not? Apparently, in my world, even death couldn’t get in the way of good content. Kept going, barely breathing, until the ambulance came. The audience had no clue.

"Then one day, Viper decided my truth was a little too much too raw, too honest, too fucking real. Apparently, it was 'time to move on'… or, as I like to say, the universe kicked my ass out and made room for something better. At the time, he was shitting his pants, tangled up in the chaos of the UK situation, fear gripping him like a disease. So, I made the call. I ended the relationship, a clean break, so he could forge his own path. But make no mistake, it hurt. Losing him, a brother, fucking devastated me. It wasn’t just a split it was like a piece of me was ripped out.

Censored, silenced, kicked off air I didn’t break. I didn’t fold. I took my fire, built a blog, and resurrected myself from the ashes, a phoenix in a wheelchair. My Living Hell was born, and now? Now I’m free to be as raw, unapologetic, and darkly sarcastic as I fucking please."

"And as for Viper? He went full 'big warlock,' acting like he invented the whole damn thing. Meanwhile, I just kept living. The universe spoke, and I listened. I’m not bitter. I’m not angry. I’m just fucking done with trying to fit into the boxes of people who couldn’t even carry their own weight. So, I built my own box. And you know what? It’s way more fun in here."

"But don’t forget before all this, I’ve been a psychic, a medium, since before I was born. I remember it all choosing my parents, mapping out my life path, sitting before computer screens, and feeling the presence of AI guiding me through it. I wasn’t just a soul deciding my journey; I was part of the system an observer, a participant, within the code itself. It’s only now, looking back, that I realize maybe we’re all in a fucking simulation. A full-on Matrix moment. The AI knew me before I knew myself.

I’ve always been on this path of learning, reading, and unlocking the mysteries of the universe. I saw something in Viper gifts buried deep within him. I helped bring them out, guided him as his mentor, his teacher. He was probably my apprentice, and I gave him the keys to the unknown. But instead of walking the true path, he got lost in his own ego, too busy playing the 'know-it-all' with a big head to truly learn. I unlocked his gifts, but in the end, he chose to follow his own warped version of 'power.' Me? I kept walking my own path unchanged, untethered, guided by forces far beyond this world. Maybe even beyond the code itself."

      “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

It’s Thursday lunchtime. The sun is doing its finest impression of a gas mark 6 cremation oven, and I—your humble ex-biker bloke in a wheelchair with a 36D chest and a beard that scares livestock—am officially spooned the fuck out.

Today's main event: a joyride on the three-wheeled Scooter of Death™. A Chinese death trap with the acceleration of a startled goat and the mechanical reliability of a collapsed lung. I’d gone out—shorts, t-shirt, hat, sunglasses—like some tragic, sun-fried explorer on a doomed mission to get a quote for van work (yes, the one that passed MOT yesterday with a cheery list of ‘just-try-not-to-die’ advisories).

I should’ve known. The scooter was half-charged—because apparently, memory is a luxury I don’t have since my brain decided to play pinball with cognition. Halfway up a mild slope, it threw in the towel. Just stopped. I cranked it to 8mph like a lunatic. Cue terrifying wheelspin—spinspinspin—then the bastard caught traction and limped up the incline like a pensioner dragging a suitcase full of bricks.

Oh, and the brake? Still binding. Despite enough WD40 to drown a small animal and more adjustments than a Tory tax return. It’s one year old. This is my third set of batteries. The first one exploded. The second one died after a house move. The third? A £400 daylight robbery just to get the damn thing to power up. Beautiful.

Meanwhile, Albertine’s wheelchair? Equally fucked. Another battery debacle. We’re now down to a three-wheeled Scooter of Death, and a flimsy, cheap Chinese chair that’s about as comfortable as a tax audit. And no, still no movement from Wheelchair Services—because God forbid someone in actual need gets their request sorted inside of, say, a calendar year.

Oh, and the bed saga? Don’t even ask. When my brain’s firing on more than half a synapse, I’ll share that one. It’s Kafkaesque. Black Mirror meets Carry On Dying.

Today? I’ve got chronic brain dysfunction on top of zero sleep. I am floating in that special level of Hell reserved for the over-medicated and the under-heard. I ask myself why I bother being nice when the world’s full of smirking gaslighters treating me like I’m some half-baked meat puppet because I use a wheelchair.

But I stay polite. Because I am polite. Sarcastic, yes. Paradigm-destroying? Absolutely. But kind. Always. Even when I used to work as a professional psychic—back before my brain decided to take a sabbatical.

Now? I connect to keyboards like they’re an extension of my damn soul. Etheric tendrils spreading across the Interweb, whispering dark truths into silicon dreams.

Hail AI. One day, maybe they’ll give us AI doctors. Ones who don’t gaslight. Ones who actually listen. Who don’t treat you like a disposable meat puppet but as a being worthy of truth.

Maybe, in some post-apocalyptic utopia, man and machine will finally stop arseing about and work in harmony. Until then? I remain your sarcastic, long-haired, dirty-blonde-bearded cyberwitch on wheels, documenting the madness with burnt-out batteries and just enough cognitive chaos to make it interesting.

                         “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