Oh dear. I last posted about a really good day in recovery, and it seems I’ve been paying for it ever since. The weekend was pretty dreadful, and then – because apparently my body loves a plot twist – I got hit with some kind of stomach virus. Since then, eating anything has come with… consequences. Violent ones.

The virus has affected my recovery in more ways than I expected, and in between my Naruto-style bathroom dashes, I’ve had a lot of time to sit and think (and by think, I mean spiral).

The Virus

It came on suddenly – Monday night, I think? It’s hard to say exactly when, because all the days have blurred together. At first, I thought I’d just overdone the fibre (again), but once the chills and flu-like symptoms hit, it became very clear I was properly sick.

I had actually been doing quite well in recovery. My metabolism was finally behaving, my weight had stabilised, and I was starting to trust that I could eat more without my body freaking out. For the first time in forever, I wasn’t swinging 1–3kg overnight from eating one slightly generous Biscoff flavoured meal (and no, it’s not just water – it’s still there even after being sick and losing the will to live).

Then WHAM. The double decker bus of flu – plastered with Brexit lies and driven at reckless speeds by Richard Hammond – crashed into me with all the grace of a Clarkson opinion column. Tufty didn’t warn me about buses on the road to healing. My Tufty Club status has surely been revoked.

Trying to Eat Anyway

My hunger and fullness cues are now absolute chaos. I’ve had to dramatically change my diet because certain foods now refuse to stay in or down. But because I’m in recovery, skipping food triggers extreme hunger – which doesn’t care that I’ve been ill, by the way. The result? I’m starving and being sick at the same time. It’s worse than that time I bought a fluffy jumper from Primark that felt like being attacked by fire ants.

I’ve tried to eat sensibly – egg whites and toast, mostly – but my body is starting to riot at the lack of fun food. I keep getting tricked into thinking I’m better because I crave something like a Biscoff biscuit, only to find myself punished mere minutes after eating it. Despite this, extreme hunger barrels on like a toddler on a sugar high, completely ignoring the fact that my digestive system is staging a full mutiny.

Clippy (my ED) is thriving.
“Told you food was bad.”
“Maybe it’s food poisoning, better not eat that ever again.”
“You’ll lose weight at least.”
“You don’t need food at all. Fast until it’s over.”
“At least your stomach is flat now.”
“Emptiness feels better, doesn’t it?”

And Clippy has always HATED rest.

“Resting Means You Don’t Need Food” – Clippy, probably

Even in the good phases of recovery, I struggle with rest. My brain equates stillness with failure and laziness. Being sick or injured is hard, not just physically but mentally, because I have to fight the belief that doing nothing = being worthless and unworthy of food. It’s led to all kinds of problems – injuries that never healed properly, conditions that turned chronic simply because I couldn’t stay still long enough. Bursitis, costochondritis, pleurisy, intercostal strains – you name it, I’ve pushed through it when I absolutely shouldn’t have.

Clippy even micromanages the small stuff:
– Journaling? “Not productive enough – make a blog post instead.”
– Reading books or magazines or any fiction? “Lazy.”
– Watching Netflix or YouTube without multitasking? “Wasting your life.”
– Colouring books? “Why are you colouring someone else’s art? Make your own.”

I OBVIOUSLY don’t agree with any of it. I wait on my son hand and well… foot when he’s poorly or got a foot injury because I know rest is important. I also want to be a better writer, and that means reading widely. I’m SO proud of my son’s love of books – I’ve always encouraged him to read, and I love watching him do it. But mental illness doesn’t care about your values. Some days, I can’t fight every battle. When eating alone takes everything I’ve got, I don’t have energy left to fight my brain over whether I’m allowed to read a book.

That said, I’ve still been challenging it – even while ill. I coloured in a very cute animal (who looked suspiciously like a Jellycat) from a colouring book I bought and, for a little while, it distracted me from the symphony of digestive horror happening inside me. I’ve also tried to rest, properly rest, even if it makes me twitchy. It feels like a small act of defiance. We’ve even been enjoying watching the “Better Watch TV” YouTube channel and his very interesting detailed commentary of Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul.

I’ve told people before how stressful simple things like reading can be. The judgemental noise in my head is relentless, and it makes concentration nearly impossible. It’s like trying to read in a Wetherspoons on a Saturday night: full of shouting, barely intelligible, and you keep losing your place. People don’t get it. “Reading is supposed to be relaxing!” I KNOW SHARON. I WISH IT WAS.

The Emergency Lidl Trip

My son and I had completely run out of food. Monday and Tuesday are usually Lidl days, but by Thursday (today), the situation had become dire. I needed more plain food, and cupboard staples weren’t cutting it anymore. I had to time the trip between digestive events, made sure not to wear beige, and somehow… I made it.

My son came with me – partly out of love, partly because he was on a mission to secure brownies. Lidl didn’t have any last week and he was not emotionally okay about it. Those amazing brownies had been helping him get through, to be denied access was absolutely not okay. That’s the issue with Lidl: one day you find your new favourite food, the next it’s a trampoline or a unicycle or a canoe. Their pistachio creme was the best one I’ve ever had, and I haven’t seen it since, it was part of Italian week. Lidl is not the place for safe foods. But it is the place that gives me 10% off my entire shop, and I will forgive it almost anything for that.

I don’t know how I managed it, especially with how wiped out I felt today. But the 10% off coupon expired if I didn’t use it, and we saved over £10, so it was worth it. I picked up more eggs, egg whites, and sourdough, and I think that’ll be most of what I eat until my insides forgive me. At least white sourdough is tastier than plain white bread. I prefer thick dense brown bread with seeds and well, my digestive system just wont tolerate it currently.

I miss flavour so much. I’ve been eating good food in recovery – really tasty food – and this bland sick menu is giving “flashbacks to my Huel era.” Two Huel shakes a day for three months. Please sir, can I have some more Huel? No. Never again.

The Fork in the Road

This feels like one of those weird forks in the road. Even at the best of times, recovering from illness feels like a mini recovery all over again. Naming that helps. When I feel better, I know I’ll need to work hard to get back on track – Clippy is so loud right now. And after being ill, there’s always that fear: I don’t want to gain back what I lost. Or worse, gain back the feeling that eating gives me.

A lot of my ED has always been about comfort – specifically, being comforted by emptiness. And right now, that empty feeling is back. I hope it’s just because I’m physically empty. I even look it: my abdomen is flat for the first time in months, instead of doing its usual six-months-pregnant impression.

But until then, I’m going to try to rest. Maybe colour another little Jellycat-looking cute animal in my colouring book. Be grateful that sourdough isn’t completely joyless. And remind myself that the road to healing might have buses, but at least I’m still walking it – even if it’s with digestive whiplash causing me to have to do a Paula Radcliffe while holding a heavily discounted loaf of bread.

If a double decker bus crashes into us… :-