On a grey Tuesday morning, I woke up in a cortisol-fuelled anxiety attack. Apparently, while I was finally asleep, my brain remembered I hadn’t heard from Boots about my repeat prescription. It’s bad enough managing my own self-destructive tendencies without my brain joining the team and sabotaging my morning before it had even begun.

But actually — what really happened was that I finished a strip of my meds before falling asleep. Then came the Cluster Headaches and the whole “pass out, wake up wrecked” cycle. So I guess my brain’s thought process just picked up where it left off when I opened my eyes: meds gone, anxiety on.

I sat quietly with Sir Biscoff the bear and my coffee (which, yes, calms me — no jittery disaster here), and told myself, “I’ll go tomorrow.” But my cortisol cocktail had other ideas. I couldn’t stop spiralling. Worst-case scenarios, catastrophising, ringing ears — my brain had woken me up into a nightmare, instead of waking me out of one — one where Boots had probably lost my meds, that I wouldn’t be able to get them EVER and everything was falling apart.

Today was supposed to be for rest. A bonding day with Sir Biscoff. I’d planned to make him a little macramé bow and have the kind of soft, low-effort day I desperately needed after several nights of Cluster Headaches messing with my sleep. But I knew — knew — I wouldn’t be able to settle until I dealt with The Lady At Boots Who Hates Me. Clippy (My ED) was very happy about this surprise extra activity instead of a rest day but I was not.

So, out of sheer irritation at my own nervous system, and the worst kind of encouragement from Clippy, I got dressed, grabbed my Jellycat bee for emotional support, told my son, “I need to go get my meds NOW,” and left the flat like a woman on a mission.

Because damn it, I needed to breathe. And I needed to come home and make my bear a bow in peace, well, with what peace I can get with Clippy shouting about food and activity.

The Lady At Boots Who Hates Me

When I stepped outside, I realised just how exhausted my body was. My knees hurt, my eyes were burning, my head felt like it was in a vice from last nights cluster shenanigans — everything was screaming at me to go back inside. There was only one thing for it: my 90s dance playlist in my Bose noise-cancelling headphones.
“Only love will set you free.”
And also getting your meds from Boots, apparently.

I walked past Pigeon Point (named by my son — an area of the city where the pigeons congregate by a bridge) and said hello to them. They were having a meeting. Probably discussing human food stealing techniques, and which Greggs stores to stake a siege on.

After being energised by the pigeons, I reached Boots, which was eerily quiet. Weird — because it never is. I got to the front of the pharmacy queue, and there she was: The Lady At Boots Who Hates Me. There’s quite often some doctors surgery admin issue with my meds, and she remembers every single one. She always looks very unhappy to see me.

She’s still professional, to be fair — but she has a deeply expressive face. She can’t hide her upset at seeing me. Despite this, I’m always overly nice to her. I mean, we’re both frustrated at the NHS — just for different reasons.

Thankfully, my medications were ready. She handed them over, and I said,
“Hope you have a great rest of your week — and Easter. Thank you so much!”
with a big smile on my face — part relief that my anxiety was solved, part wondering if I could ever lift the displeasure from hers. Maybe one day.

I thought I could finally go home and make the adorable Sir Biscoff a bow now, well, after popping into Marks and Spencer to get Chicken Shawarma, my sons favourite chicken munchies, Pop Tarts and Easter treats that is.

Coming Home to My Sons

I was so relieved to get home. My son — and my bear son, Sir Biscoff — greeted me, and through my son, they both told me how much they’d missed me. I put the food away and sat for a while, just processing the Boots mission. It takes me a while to get into “I am home” mode. My body started aching more as the adrenaline wore off. I was exhausted, full of fatigue, wondering how I was even going to make macramé — but poor Sir Biscoff was still naked.

After changing into the comfiest oversized hoodie I own (complete with thumb holes — very important) and hugging Sir Biscoff, I felt more like sleeping than doing anything else. I decided to wait until after dinner to try and make Biscoff a bow. Maybe after battling Clippy to let me eat chicken shawarma instead of a safe food, it would give me life. That’s one of the many reasons I want to recover: the wait for dinner.

When I’m restricting, my body releases energy meal by meal. And it runs out before the next one. I’m empty. Clippy demands I wait until designated times, and if I eat too soon, it means waiting even longer for the next. I needed the chicken shawarma to refuel my tank, and I hoped it would be enough to macramé.

Chicken Shawarma Fuelled Macramé Bows

Thankfully, the super delicious, rule-breaking chicken shawarma did give me just enough life to macramé. While watching The Apprentice, I knotted away at cotton thread, making Sir Biscoff a bow.

The Apprentice kept making my son and I laugh. It’s so funny how the contestants keep referring to A-Levels and what they did in Sixth Form as experience. I wrote rap lyrics in Sixth Form — hardly makes me Eminem, does it?
Fired. She was packing her suitcase already. Mom’s spaghetti.

I made Sir Biscoff a red bow first. I thought it’d be super adorable — pretty close in colour to the Biscoff lid. The great thing about macramé is that it’s easy and quick. I make my own patterns, so I don’t have to count or think too hard. I can just focus on the TV and let my hands knot the cord on their own.

I made three bows in the time it took for two “I have so much experience from Sixth Form” candidates to get fired. It was still a lot of work, given how exhausted I was. But I don’t do this creative stuff because I’m okay. I do it because I’m not. Sometimes, knotting cord or dressing a plush bear is the only thing between me and the dark. It’s the only thing reminding me I can still achieve something.

And making that red bow made me smile — even just for a moment. That smile gave me the push to make Biscoff even more.

Next I tried to make a red and white bow, like a Biscoff label, but didn’t really like it on him very much. And then I had the most adorable idea ever: a cream sparkly one, to match my favourite oversized hoodie. The red one is still my favourite, but I do love the cream one too. I think you’ll agree — Sir Biscoff is looking dapper and adorable all at once.

While wearing his bow, Biscoff, my son, the entire collection of sofa jellycats and I, shared hot chocolates with marshmallows and watched Netflix together until my son went to bed.

I Think We’re Alone Now

After my son goes to bed is when I start processing everything — emotions, thoughts, memories. It’s also when the reasons I relapsed come clawing back. I think of how much I miss WeeGee. The trauma triggers from the day rear a Cerberus-level amount of heads. And that’s when Clippy is loudest — offering me a way out of all these emotions.

I know it’s a trap. But when Cerberus is charging at me full speed, and I’ve got no way to defend myself, some primitive part of me just wants to run.

It’s rough — but the last two days with Sir Biscoff? Just a tad softer.
Especially now that he has his little bow on. He’s just too fancy.
It’s hard to look at him and not smile.

Maybe tonight the nightmares will stay where they belong: in sleep.
Maybe tomorrow, I’ll finally get my soft rest and recharge day (or much more likely, it will be forced upon me by very weak legs, and crushing fatigue from not sleeping due to cluster attacks).
My body is screaming for one — I may have overdone it.

But Sir Biscoff is no longer naked.
And I’ll take that as a massive win.

“When I hold you Biscoff, feel your red bow close to me, ahh hah yeah, wanna stay in your arms forever, only bears can set you free.” –