Since I last posted a recovery update, I chaotically cleaned my bedroom still in search of my favourite glasses. Like my living room, my bedroom had become a disaster. Every bit of energy I had was going into recovery: limited spoons, relentless effort, every last spoon dipped into food (quite literally), into trying, into battling the voice that wants me to disappear.

Therefore my flat had reached maximum entropy – everything, everywhere, all at once – and I couldn’t find ANYTHING. It felt unsafe, and I needed to feel safe.

I couldn’t find my favourite glasses, and that’s what finally set me off. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldn’t breathe in my own flat. My brain hyperfocused – not on tidying for its own sake, but on finding those glasses like it was life or death.

“Everything will be okay if I just find my favourite glasses.”

Maybe some part of me thought: if I can just put them on, I’ll be able to see the path ahead of me more clearly.

And I did find them. But of course, they had no effect on my metaphorical vision and the goalposts moved. That’s how it always goes. Now everything had to be cleaned. Now my whole flat needed sorting for everything to be okay. Now my life did.

“Everything will be okay if I just sort out my entire flat. And then, my life.”

Recovery Burnout

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been completely burnt out by recovery. Mentally, physically – fully. I worked hard for over a month. Every day. Shopping. Planning. Fighting. Feeling. Monitoring every reaction: every shift in hunger, weight, digestion, mood. The monotony wore me down. The relentless thinking about food, the exhaustion of doing it right, of eating, of extreme hunger, of fighting Clippy (my ED) every single day – it left me with nothing. I am exhausted.

My body ran ahead – gaining weight, starting to heal, returning emotion and interest I hadn’t felt in a long time. But it also brought a wave of fatigue. Meanwhile, my brain couldn’t keep up. Mentally, I’m still here in the trenches. Still scared. Still stuck. This mismatch – a body that’s beginning to recover and a mind that hasn’t even started – is so unbelievably jarring.

The Bridge and the Canyon

After I found my glasses I put them on and I played The Long Dark. I couldn’t do anything else. I was too tired after cleaning and too burnt out to do anything real. I needed to escape – somewhere else, somewhere as cold and stark as this place in recovery feels.

I went to Ash Canyon to get woodworking tools for Astrid’s safehouse – because art imitates life. I escaped into The Long Dark to sort out Astrid’s house too. But that wasn’t the only mirroring.

To get the tools, you have to cross a canyon. And to do that, you have to stand on a rope bridge.

Reaching the middle of this bridge is when it hit me.

I’m not relapsing. I’m not moving forward either. I’m standing still. I’m gripping the ropes of my recovery and staring into fog. Behind me is pain I understand. In front of me is something new I haven’t met yet. And right now, I’m not choosing either. I’m just catching my breath in the middle of it all.

There’s a bear behind me. I know it. I might not survive him. But I can’t be sure there’s not a moose in front of me, waiting to break my ribs.

I know I can’t stay on this rope bridge forever. It sways in the wind and it doesn’t look like it’ll hold me for long. But I’m frozen. Terrified. Trying to be still enough that it doesn’t snap. Maybe if I stay very still, it’ll hold just long enough for me to rest.

Being Scared

Everyone says I’m strong. But I’m not. I’m scared. Petrified.

When I was a child, I used to hide in the smallest spaces I could find to escape my parents. I hid so well, they thought I’d run away. Multiple times. And sometimes I wonder if I ever left those hiding spots – if I ever grew up. Because at 41 years old, even as a mother myself, I still feel like that child.

I know how to keep my child safe. That instinct is fierce and unwavering. But I still look around for an adult to keep me safe. And just like in the past, there isn’t one.

There’s just me. On a rope bridge. No one coming. No rescue. Just wind and fear and fog and the freezing loneliness of my quiet apocalypse.

If Astrid waited on that bridge forever for someone else to save her, she’d die. She’d never reach the tools. She’d freeze, because there’s no one else in The Long Dark. The same is true for me. I know this. But I still can’t put a foot forward.

What’s the Point of Forward?

Clippy says I’m not that bad now – I’ve gained weight, so I can just stay here.

My psychiatrist said the same thing.

So why do I have to summon every bit of strength and courage I have to keep going? Why do I have to fight Clippy when my psychiatrist is repeating the same words?

I’m still underweight. But I’m “not that bad.” So why not just stay here?

Clippy isn’t trying to drag me back anymore. But it’s demanding I don’t gain a single gram more. That I stay here. Compromise. And then it love-bombs me: “Well done, you’ve maintained. You haven’t gained.”

My brain is still deeply entrenched, corrupted by the Clippy virus.

Recovery also asks you to let go of Clippy. But Clippy helped me survive. Who else has been there like it has?

I don’t even know who’s on the other side of this bridge. I relapsed because of grief. Grief changed me. I’ve never met the version of me that lives on the other side. I don’t know her. I’m being asked to become a stranger.

But I know who I am here. I like who I am in the middle. I don’t want to lose the version of me who survived my best friend’s death the only way she knew how.

I’m Not Going Back

This moment isn’t relapse. It isn’t failure – even if it feels like it is.
Even if I keep telling myself that if I were stronger, I’d just push through, work harder. But I’m not supposed to plough forward right now. I need to rest.

This is the messy middle – the part no one talks about. Not dramatic enough for crisis. Not triumphant enough for recovery pride posts. It’s limbo. It’s the pause. It’s Astrid tending her wounds, brewing rose hip tea over a campfire, waiting for the wind to die down before she moves again.

I guess I’m working up bravery and courage on the bridge. I don’t have it yet. I’m too scared. But if I stay still enough, maybe the bridge won’t sway too much. Maybe it’ll hold until I can find enough of a reason to reach the other side. Maybe my brain will catch up with my body enough to see the other side more clearly.

But I’m not going back.

The bear is behind me, and I don’t want to get mauled by the thing I built to protect me.

Not anymore.

But hey, I did find my favourite glasses. So I got that going for me.

Thanks for reading, as always, a thank you song as an anthem for the post.
Everyone knows I’m in
Over my head, over my head
With eight seconds left in overtime
She’s on your mind, she’s on your mind