I love baths — especially the first one after a cluster headache episode ends. I always save a Lush bath bomb for it. After days of unbearable pain, getting to sit in a hot, scented bath feels like a reward. Like I survived something unthinkable. The moment I can smell again, feel again, bathe again — it makes me feel human.

Self-care is much more than sparkly, space-themed baths. But those are part of it for me.

Except now, in anorexia recovery, the mirror in the bathroom has started lying to me. Not with words, but in shapes — funhouse distortions that say I’ve grown into someone unrecognisable. Even bathing has become something to fear.

The Self Care Emergency

Today was a rough, isolating day in recovery, so I did what I usually do — went online to feel less alone. Instead, I ran headfirst into a pile of anorexia stigma.

People still don’t seem to realise how deadly this illness is. I’m not “better” just because I’m eating. Refeeding has its own risks. I’m still underweight. I still go to bed afraid of what my body might do in the night. So yeah, seeing anorexia reduced to an aesthetic or a punchline — when it’s this real — made me absolutely FUMING, as we say in Wales.

I had a rant post brewing, but I didn’t spiral. I decided to take a bath instead. I’d saved an Intergalactic bath bomb for emergencies. That’ll help me, right? After all, it’s what everyone says to do. Self care. Take a step back. Do something nice for yourself. Sit with your emotions.

Well. I wanted to sit with mine in space water.
And honestly, my bathroom has less shit in it than the internet today.

The Weighted Bath.

I ran the bath and, while it filled, went to get the beautiful blue bath bomb from the special box in my room. I keep them in my bedroom so their scent wafts around while I sleep — it feels like I get to enjoy them longer.

I grabbed Biscoff the bear, my MacBook to watch some YouTube, a towel (Don’t forget your towel!), and comfy clothes — including my favourite leggings. I was worried they wouldn’t fit after the rapid 3kg weight gain, but most of my clothes were still drying in the living room from today’s big wash. So I figured I’d try anyway.

When the bath was ready, I dropped the bomb in. It zoomed around the tub, fizzing with a minty, fruity scent and spilling blues, pinks, oranges, yellows, and purples into the water. Glitter shimmered everywhere — it looked like stars. I breathed out. Took a little video. A small moment of peace.

But then I had to get undressed.

Before stepping in, I caught sight of myself in the mirror — the one built into the wall directly across from the bath. I glanced quickly, then froze. Who is that? She looks unrecognisable. That’s not me. I’ve gained 3kg — not 20. So why do I look like this?

I turned my back on the mirror and kept getting undressed. “Mirrors lie,” I thought. But then I looked down — and my eyes echoed everything the mirror showed.
Why are my legs so big? Why do I feel like this already? The leggings definitely won’t fit now. And now I have to sit here, in a tiny bath, staring at these legs?

This was a horrible idea.

I know I have water retention. I know my muscles are more rounded from glycogen and fluid, especially after being starved. I know muscle atrophy from restriction makes the belly of the muscle more prominent when refeeding starts. It causes these symmetrical lumps in my arms and legs. I called them “water bubbles” the last time I was in recovery. Knowing that doesn’t help.

I put on a Swoop video and practically dove into the tub, trying to disappear into the spacey glitter water — or at least hide from myself. As much as I could, anyway. It’s an eco-friendly shallow tub where you have to keep your knees bent to sit in it. Hard to hide in.

I tried to focus on the video. On the colours. On anything but my body. But I could still see the water bubbles. Still see the prominent veins. Still feel the new size of everything.

I wish baths made me feel weightless. But all I felt was the true weight of myself on the bottom of the bath.

My Favourite Leggings.

After the Swoop video finished, I got out of the bath, I was convinced my leggings wouldn’t fit. But I put them on — and they did. What? I just stood there, confused. Shocked. Completely thrown.

I know body dysmorphia and anorexia go together like extreme hunger and an insatiable craving for Biscoff cereal — but I’ve never really struggled with it when it comes to my body. My face, yes. I have a droopy eye from a congenital condition — one my son also has. But mine? I see it like it’s sliding off my skull. No one else sees it that way, but I do. But I’ve never had this with my body.

All through this relapse, I knew I looked underweight. Horribly unwell. There was no illusion, no “but maybe I look fine.” I knew what I looked like, and I hated it. The mirror has lied about my face, sure — but not my body.
Until now. Now it’s turned itself into a fun house mirror at a circus. This is a circus. And these are my monkeys.

I didn’t know dysmorphia could show up now — in recovery. Or maybe I did, and I’ve just blocked it out from last time. Maybe this is a clever little ploy from Clippy (my ED voice), who’s now hit me with a new trick: making me hyper-aware of my body just as I’m about to gain even more weight.

I have 15kg+ left to gain. But I already feel like I’m back where I started.

And I’m sure the sensory issues aren’t helping. My legs feel like cement. Like I’m dragging a literal ball and chain — my penance for doing well, for eating more. Every step feels thick. Slow. Wrong. Painful.

My hypermobile, bursitis-prone knees click and ache from the weight of waterlogged thighs above them. My body screams its discomfort at me constantly: on the sofa, while walking, in bed. I wish I had internal noise-cancelling headphones for it — because there’s no escape from this sensory hell.

And now? It’s too hot to hide in hoodies and baggy layers. There’s nothing between me and the world. Just this new shape, this new weight, this invisible war.

Yeah.
That bath?
Really, really bad idea.

My Son and a Macchiato to the Rescue.

I dragged my waterlogged legs into the living room, dressed in my favourite (somehow still fitting) leggings and a baggy t-shirt to hide everything else, and made a macchiato — the one I have to fight to keep, every single day.

I sat down with it, and my son asked, “Did you have a nice bath?”
“It was okay,” I said. “I was surprised the leggings still fit me. I feel so different.”
He looked at me and said, “Of course they do. You look the same to me.”

We talked about our body insecurities for a while, and I felt better. He put me back into mum mode — and reminded me why macchiatos are worth keeping, why cement legs are still legs, and why my body needs to exist, even if it’s screaming.

This stage will last a while. But it’s just that — a stage. Something I have to move through to find the version of me he misses.

I know the sudden body image issues are likely just a side effect of my nervous system trying to keep up with the rapid changes of recovery. My body will feel and look awful to me for a while. I’ve always been more neutral about how it looks — my real issues have been with how it functions, especially as a disabled body. I hope I’ll find my way back to that neutrality again. To seeing it as a vessel for who I really am.

Recovery is awful. I wouldn’t wish how I feel on anyone.
But I continue to eat anyway.

The perfect song for this post :-
Against my will I stand beside my own reflection
It’s haunting
How I can’t seem
To find myself again
My walls are closing in