My day started like any other — self-inflicted chaos the moment I opened my eyes. I woke up in an absolute PANIC because my alarm hadn’t gone off. Turns out, my phone had run out of battery overnight — so had my laptop — so I had no idea what time it was. I RACED to the living room, to the only other clock in the flat, and thankfully, I hadn’t missed my psychiatrist appointment.

It turns out self-induced panic is more effective than coffee for waking me up in the morning. Excellent move, me. After trying to calm myself down, I made a coffee — because obviously, adding caffeine to my already sky-high cortisol and adrenaline levels, to wear off my sedating meds faster, seemed like another brilliant idea.

It was one of those terrible anxiety days where I absolutely didn’t want to leave my house, especially not for a psychiatrist appointment. Everything I did felt like a MASSIVE effort. Even getting dressed became a problem after buying some new clothes. The only thing that kept me going was knowing I’d be meeting my son afterward.

Caution :- Objects In The Mirror May Reflect Reality

Since my relapse, I have been wearing clothes that are far too big for me. Even when I bought new clothes in a smaller size, they were still too big. The baggy clothes made my weight loss less noticeable — well, to me, anyway. I convinced myself that I looked the same and, by extension, that my relapse wasn’t as bad as it really is.

That changed this morning when I tried on a pair of jeggings in the correct size. The first thing I noticed was how much more comfortable they were, simply because they actually fit me. Wearing trousers that are four sizes too big, with giant creases in all the wrong places, had been extremely uncomfortable. Putting on the new ones was a sensory relief — but that relief didn’t last long.

When I walked up to the mirror, my reflection shocked me. My eating disorder isn’t about body dysmorphia — not in the way most people imagine. I do have body dysmorphia, but it’s focused on my face, which doesn’t change much no matter how much weight I lose. I’ve always been able to see when I’m underweight; I don’t fit the typical “funhouse mirror” image of anorexia.

But this time, I couldn’t deny it. The mirror showed me a reality I’ve been actively ignoring: I’ve lost a lot of weight. I’ve become unwell. And yet, as I processed that realisation, a part of me whispered that I look better. That thought disturbed me more than anything the mirror showed me because it’s categorically not true.

Caught in a whirlwind of panic and conflicting thoughts — and still rushing from the chaos of my iPhone-induced wake-up — I threw on an oversized top to cover most of my legs, layered it with a giant coat, and tried to shove the entire experience to the back of my mind. “Just as well I’m going to the psychiatrist today,” I thought bitterly.

I put on my headphones, blasted Linkin Park’s new album, and headed out. Volume: LOUD. The Emptiness Machine. How fitting for an NHS appointment.

The Hopeless Patient

This was only the second time I’d seen this psychiatrist. In the past two years, I’ve had three or four different ones (I’ve lost count), with no real continuity of care. Stability in my mental health treatment has been nonexistent. I haven’t seen this psychiatrist enough to form much of an opinion, but he seems nice enough.

Lately, though, my frustrations aren’t directed at the individuals working in the system — I imagine they’re as FRUSTRATED as I am — but at the system itself. I have always been completely honest with my team. Everything I’ve written on my blog, I have told them. And yet, nothing ever seems to be taken seriously. It’s always “not that bad.”

I walked in today, clearly having lost weight since my last appointment in December, but because I’m currently in grief therapy, I still can’t access treatment for my eating disorder. “You cannot have more than one treatment at a time.” I understand why this makes sense to the NHS, but it makes absolutely NO sense to me.

Holistic care simply doesn’t exist in the NHS. And by holistic, I don’t mean what the internet thinks is holistic — no candles, no trees as therapy, no homeopathy. I mean actual medical care that considers all aspects of a person at once. That’s what I need.

Instead, my psychiatrist increased my medication — Quetiapine and Mirtazapine — and told me he’ll see me again in three months. By then, I will have finished grief therapy, and then he can help me. Ugh. He was nice enough about it, but this is just how the NHS does things.

Strangely, what helped me the most today was NOT having any hope. It sounds weird, but I walked into the appointment already assuming they wouldn’t help me, and it actually made the whole thing easier. Usually, I leave these appointments absolutely crushed from having hope. But this time? It is what it is.

I left the appointment, turning my thoughts to something far better — meeting my son. He was on the train home while I was walking into town, and just the thought of seeing him cheered me up.

Please Sir, Can I Have Some More Meds?

While I was waiting for my son to arrive, I went to Boots, stood in the queue for what felt like forever, and eventually got to the desk to ask, “Please Sir, can I have some more meds?” like a medicated Oliver Twist. After that, I popped into some clothes shops, partly to browse, mostly to get warm — I’ve been really struggling with the cold lately.

As I wandered, I kept ranting in my head about how only two places in the entire city still sell clothes in my size: Primark and H&M. How is that even possible? But then, somehow, I managed to find a really lovely sparkly grey jumper — for £3. Fast fashion wins this round, against all my better values. An unfortunate needs-must situation — I was freezing, and this sparkly jumper will help. Ahh, yet another reason to recover: to keep my values intact.

After that complete betrayal of my principles, I stopped by a food shop, smiling to myself as I searched for brownie mix for my son. Just looking at the packet mixes flooded me with memories of making brownies together when he was little — him sitting on the kitchen counter, mixing with a huge grin on his face.

His birthday is coming up soon, and I want to make him brownies instead of a cake. Neither of us like birthday cake much, and we definitely have STRONG opinions about fondant. “You shouldn’t have to peel a cake like an orange just to get rid of the awful-tasting fondant.”

As I paid for the brownie mix, my phone buzzed — he had just arrived in town. YAY. I couldn’t wait to see him.

The Warmth Of Motherly Love and Coffee

I excitedly went to meet my son — along with his frog, Frankie — and we headed to Starbucks to warm up.

I love the Starbucks staff – the keepers of the beans. They know us now, mostly because of my order: a plain large Americano. The barista always laughs because that’s all I ever order. He’s probably relieved too — at least I’m not ordering a drink that has 26 components and requires a small novel to write on the cup.

My son, though, loves his Mochas, and today he also ordered a pain au chocolat. Meanwhile, I found Biscoff biscuits in my bag (my bag is snack central due to my reactive hypoglycemia), and I suddenly had the urge to dip one in my coffee. And wow. What an experience. 10/10, highly recommend. It somehow made both the biscuit and the coffee taste even better.

We placed our plushies on the table and took really cute photos. My son had let me borrow his Jellycat bee, Beethan, so I could take him to my appointment, since my son couldn’t come. The night before, he handed him to me and said, “So I’ll be with you in bee form.” He’s so ADORABLE. I really love the Jellycat bee — Beethan and my bee, Buzz, are best friends.

We sat in the warmth, drinking our coffees, and it really helped me feel more comfortable. I was exhausted, and my brain was still loud with NHS frustrations, but it wasn’t as overwhelming as usual. The reality of my relapse was still creeping into my thoughts, but I tried to stay present, despite my INCREDIBLY noisy brain.

Coffee always calms me — it makes me feel more relaxed, not less. By the time I finished my drink, I actually felt like I could sleep. But first, we had to get food and head home.

Plushie Birthday Party Preparations

When we went to Marks & Spencer, I blanked out again. As I’ve mentioned earlier in this post, I’ve been feeling numb and full of dread in food stores lately because of my relapse. But then I saw all the flowers and thought it would be really cute to take photos of Buzz with them — and that small moment of distraction really helped.

My son helped too. He was looking for more birthday food, and while he’s really excited for his birthday, he’s also nervous — these next few days will be his last as a teenager. I think focusing on finding the best food for our little plushie party is helping to keep his mind off of “being old”. We also had the idea to make non-alcoholic mojitos along with the brownies.

After picking up some fun birthday treats, we walked home in the freezing cold, counting down the minutes until we could put on thick pyjamas, bury ourselves under blankets, and curl up with our plushies.

Home Sweet Home

When we got home, we sat in the quiet for a while, both processing our day. My son had a stressful day at Uni, and I was still thinking about my appointment. Even though I was told during the session that I’d need to increase my medication, the reality of it only properly hit me once I was home.

Mirtazapine scares me because of the weight gain side effect.

I’ve been on Quetiapine for 14 years, and, well, it hasn’t stopped me from relapsing, but Mirtazapine feels different — scarier. Maybe because every time I say I’m struggling with my eating disorder, I seem to be automatically prescribed it. And Corrupted Clippy — my eating disorder thoughts — finds this very SUS and would like to yeet Mirtazapine out of the airlock immediately.

And then there’s the actual process of increasing meds, which just feels awful for a while. I know how much my medication helps me — especially Quetiapine, because I’ve had moments in the past where I suddenly decided I didn’t need it… and was quickly proven wrong. But still — why, after 14 years of taking it, do I still struggle every SINGLE day? I wish it worked like it does on TV, where someone takes medication and suddenly they’re fine… at least until the plot demands an episode.

It makes me feel so broken that, despite everything, I still struggle so much every day. And while these thoughts looped in my head, I had to make dinner — something else I struggle with now. But I made beans, despite the struggle, and my son and I watched EastEnders.

I told myself the medication increase is tomorrow’s problem.

To distract myself, I went back to Starbucks — at least in my mind — by editing the bear photos I took today for my blog and Instagram. Buzz is so cute, I’m absolutely obsessed with him. He’s currently in quarantine after coming outside with me (because I am a giant germaphobe), and I already miss him.

At The End Of The Day, When All Is Said And Done

Today was a pick-and-mix day, wasn’t it? I woke up in a panic, handled the NHS frustrations better than I usually do, found comfort in my son, my bears, and Starbucks — and, of course, ended the day very on-brand for me with an existential crisis over a medication increase.

Mostly, I’m thinking about how my absolute lack of hope for getting help at my appointment actually helped me. It’s also a bit sad — because that’s where we are — but thanks to my lack of hope, all I mostly feel is, “It is what it is.” I’ll still show up and advocate for myself, no matter what happens. No one can say they didn’t know how much I was struggling. They do know. This is just the way it is.

I’m not looking forward to increasing my medication. But I am looking forward to my son’s birthday. I can’t believe he’ll be 20 — which means I’ve been a mother for two decades. And he’s been the best part of those years.

A song to end this post, the anthem of today and of mental health care in 2025. The Emptiness Machine.

“Don’t know why I’m hoping, so fucking naive
Falling for the promise of the emptiness machine”