People think eating disorders are about food. They think recovery is as simple as ‘just eat more.’ But what they don’t see is the mental battle behind it all — the fear, the self-judgement, the overwhelming need for control when everything else feels uncertain.

It’s NOT a diet. It’s NOT a phase. It’s NOT about vanity. It’s NOT something you can ‘push through.’
It’s a constant process of falling down and getting back up — and sometimes, just allowing yourself to sit with the feelings that come with that.

I’ve heard it over and over again: ‘Just push through.’ And I’ve tried. I really have. But what happens when you push, and you fall again?

The hardest part of recovery isn’t falling down. It’s what comes after — the judgement, the shame, the voice in my head saying, “You should be better than this”.

Writing this post has been difficult — because that same self-judgment is telling me I shouldn’t admit how much I’ve spiralled back into my ED over the last two weeks. I WISH I could just push through, and I’ve tried over and over again but it is not working. Especially now — when grief, exhaustion, and frustration have all piled up

Grief Enters The Chat

I LOVE New Years Eve. It’s the end of Christmas, the return to normal routines, and the return of quiet shopping hours and peace. Ironic really, that the season of goodwill leads to people behaving absolutely atrociously in supermarkets. New Years Day is the return to people in public behaving appropriately and I live for it.

My son and I celebrated New Years Eve watching Graham Norton, before watching the fireworks from our balcony with our plushies. It was nice feeling the crisp cold air and watching our plushies fur blow in the wind, whilst being lit up by the many fireworks around us. We made little videos, and said, “Iechyd Da” with our soft drinks at midnight. I was putting on a brave face for my son but this was still absolutely ADORABLE and fun.

We watched the BBC New Years Special, and were joking about how they never get a modern artist for it. After wishing my son the happiest of New Years and repeating how proud I am of him for the year just passed, my son went to bed. Once I was alone, and my son was safely tucked away in his cosy room, my guard came tumbling down (this is how I’ve managed my mental health since he’s been born – hide it, until he is asleep so he can have a good time, and doesn’t feel responsible for my emotions). We went from laughter to silence. And in that silence, the grief I’d been holding back all night came crashing in – Tears, tears and more tears.

I do love New Years, but now its tinged with sadness and grief. Every time it hits midnight and the calendar ticks over to January 1st, I realise that I’m about to spend yet another year without my best friend WeeGee.

WeeGee also died in January, and she had cancer, so leading up to the anniversary I am flooded with vivid memories – The last time we spoke, what she went through, how terrible everything was, how fucking awful cancer is, and how hope was lost. Theres very little hope in terminal cancer, she being the amazing person she was, still somehow managed to find some.

I also hate being pulled through time too quickly. And what greater reminder is there of the passage of time than everyone cheering and fireworks lighting up the sky for another year without her?

Every year that passes, I’m one year further away from the last time we spoke, one year further away from when she was alive. Why does that make me miss her MORE? Time is supposedly a healer, but for me, it has always felt like something else to battle — a force dragging me further from her, while I’m still trying to hold on.

All of this, made sleeping after New Years Eve celebrations so difficult but the grief for WeeGee wasn’t the only thing keeping me awake. Grief has a way of digging up everything else you’ve been trying to bury. And this time, it dragged the psychiatrist appointment right back into my mind.

The Psychiatrist Enters the Chat

The day before New Year’s Eve, I had a psychiatrist appointment. I was half expecting it to be cancelled again, so I didn’t even prepare myself for it — I just showed up. My brain is incredibly chaotic, and I have a habit of going off on lots of tangents, so appointments usually take a lot of preparation. I did none of that. I really did just show up.

It was my first appointment with a new psychiatrist. He wanted to do an entire backstory, which meant saying out loud all of the trauma I’ve been through. I wasn’t prepared for that. So, I gave the cliff notes version. I tend to say it matter-of-factly in appointments:

“This is the fact of the situation. Say it really fast so that your brain has no idea what you’re up to.”

I get that it might be necessary. But I’m 41 now — why do I have to keep digging up the worst parts of my life, over and over again? Surely it’s on my medical records by now. Surely someone, somewhere, has documented the Rhio lore of doom.

Yes, my mother hurt me. Yes, she hurt my son, too — and that messed me up in ways I can’t even begin to describe. It didn’t just trigger me; it hurt me empathetically. She hurt the person I love most, to get at both of us. I still blame myself for ever allowing them to meet.

Yes, my dad is an alcoholic. Yes, I don’t know where he is. Yes, my best friend died. Yes, there’s more.

The matter-of-fact traumasplaining never works.

It gets me through the appointment — but as soon as I step outside, my brain catches up. That’s when the emotional weight of everything I just said hits me like a double decker bus, and I collapse.

And that’s EXACTLY what happened.

The trauma highlight reel was still playing in my head all through New Year’s Eve, over and over again.

Corrupted Clippy Enters The Chat

I don’t think it’s any surprise that going through all of this — and everything else — Corrupted Clippy, what I call my ED, took its chance to run all of its self-destructive scripts. It always gets louder when I’m vulnerable, upset, and full of grief. Everything was too much, so I retreated back into my ED airlock.

I had been working so hard. I had even got up to maintenance. But the emotional weight of everything made Corrupted Clippy start to make sense. “You’ll be more level and better able to celebrate New Year’s Eve with your teen if you go back.” “Everything is scary; the airlock makes you feel safe.” “You’ll be lighter — so, too, will be the grief.” I listened. Even though I knew it was wrong, I listened — because I desperately wanted to silence the thoughts that were too loud to sit with.

Add to that the resurfacing grief as WeeGee’s anniversary approaches. Grief and overwhelm make everything feel numb. Even hunger. Meals aren’t just food right now — they’re emotional hurdles I can’t seem to get over.

One of the hardest parts of all of this? The self-judgement. I worked SO HARD, and now I’m here again. I am so upset that I can’t just push through it — “just eat anyway.” It doesn’t work. I’ve tried countless times this past year, and every time I fail, that voice in my head gets louder: “You’re 41, for goodness sake. This is what you used to do. This isn’t helping.”

I’ve even tried triggering my anxiety — just like my psychiatrist did. “This is dangerous. You could get really ill. Just eat.” It doesn’t work. Now, I can’t eat even though I’m really anxious, and I’m mad because that makes even less sense to me. Asking me to eat enough, regularly, feels like asking me to jump off a massive cliff — while everyone around me is lying about how it will make everything better.

“Just trust the process of falling.”

I don’t. Gravity is real. And heartless. If you jump off a cliff, it accelerates you. It hurts. The fall hurts. And I’m too scared to even put my foot all the way over. Since I relapsed, I’ve only had the courage to stand a little closer to the edge. And when I get too close, I retreat. And then I hate myself for being such a coward — for not believing, for not taking the fall.

The absolute worst part?

The one person I’d reach out to about Corrupted Clippy is the SAME person I’m grieving for.

“I couldn’t have made it if I didn’t have you holding my hand.” ***

She guided me through my first recovery. She shared her strength with me when I had none. She always understood — especially when it hurt.

And now, I’m trying to find my way through this without her.

“When it hurts, I know that you’d understand.” ***

Ouch.

And the thing is… Corrupted Clippy was right. I do feel better. I feel more level, more capable. I had fun at Asda today instead of crying my eyes out all day about WeeGee. I’ve been able to get through the day without collapsing under the weight of my emotions.

But I know why.

It’s because I’ve gone back into the airlock. I’ve shut myself off from feeling too much because my body is back in survival mode. There’s not enough energy for overwhelming emotions when all my brain can focus on is keeping me upright.

I know the airlock is a trap, with its own dangers. But right now? It feels like the only way to keep going. I know I can’t stay here forever. But for now, it’s where I am. And I hate that, and feel ashamed of that, but I don’t know how else to survive.

My Son Enters the Chat

It’s not all bad, it never is. Even when I’m struggling, there are moments of warmth, connection, awe, and curiosity — moments that remind me why I have to keep going.

My son is turning 20 soon. Twenty! It makes me feel all kinds of nostalgic. I remember the baby he was, the child he grew into, and now, he’s at university, carving out a life for himself. I am filled with so much pride for him every single day. Uni has been a massive change for him, and he’s worked so, so hard to just be there — and when he does get there, he THRIVES despite the struggle. He impresses me so much.

In December, he started redecorating his room. I was deep in survival mode, barely holding myself together — and yet I still helped him organise, paint, and hang shelves. I sustained so many injuries (because OF COURSE I did, thanks hypermobility and dodgy ribs — it still hurts a lot to breathe). But it mattered. It mattered to be there for him, to help create a space that feels like his. I would do it again, even if I sustained every injury over again, to let him know how important he is to me.

And every day lately, since I’ve been struggling, he leaves one of his plushies on my bed. It’s always a surprise — a quiet little act of love that says, “I see you. I care.” It never fails to make me smile, even on the hardest days. I miss him when he’s in bed, especially when I’m struggling, but having one of his plushies with me reminds me that I’m not alone. It reminds me of what I’m fighting for.

You know, when I was pregnant with him, I was also struggling with an eating disorder. The fact I got pregnant at all felt like some kind of MIRACLE. I naively thought, because of the love I already felt, that I would never have these problems again.

If anyone could have cured me, it would’ve been him. He’s my anchor — the reason I keep going when everything in my brain is telling me otherwise. He’s the reason I keep forcing myself to the edge, to keep trying to get out of the airlock. He’s always made life feel worth living.

When I can’t do something for me, I’ve always done it for him. It’s proof that eating disorders are incredibly complicated — because even when I can’t do things for myself, I can for him. But I am still stuck, despite feeling all of these beautiful things for my son at the same time.

Everything feels knotted, so I’ll macramé

I think about the knots I’ve tied — the macramé bags, the moments of connection with my son, the love I carry for the people I’ve lost.
The knots are still there, holding everything together.
And for that, I’m grateful.
And well, they do make for some cute macramé plushie bags.

*** Song lyrics from this song, that expresses how I feel about WeeGee and my ED, and how they’re connected. :-

I absolutely love Zoe Wees so much. Thanks for blessing us all with this beautiful song.