I had to buy new clothes AGAIN. Because I’ve grown out of clothes AGAIN. All thanks to anorexia recovery. I’ve now outgrown every single pair of bottoms I bought recently – the ones I even wrote about here – and it was only a few weeks ago.

When I got home with the new clothes, I went to put them away in my wardrobe. Problem: my wardrobe is basically a black hole containing everything – clothes that fit, clothes that used to fit, and clothes that might fit again one day. Getting dressed has turned into a daily battle of “does this fit?” and “why did this fit two days ago but not today?”

I wasn’t in the best headspace to tackle this. But I’m not in the best headspace to deal with it every single morning either. And really, there’s never a “good” time for this sort of thing. I figured – I already feel horrible, how much worse could it get?

Famous last words.

The New Clothes

Yesterday, my son and I went to Starbucks, then popped into Primark because none of my brown leggings fit. We actually had a good time despite my mental health being in the toilet – there were pigeons, brown sugar shaken espressos, and our favourite shop, New Pastures Home.

New Pastures Home is full of crystals, himalayan salt lamps, incense, and tiny trinkets. I’m not sure I buy into the whole aura thing, but after Primark? It’s the perfect cleanse. Primark is just… sensory blue neon screaming-children chorus hell. New Pastures is the deep exhale after you’ve escaped it.

And when you’re shopping because you’ve gained weight AGAIN? Primark is worse. It’s an emotional minefield. So after leggings, a cream cardigan on sale, a sports top, and shorts (because apparently it’s hitting 30°C next week and none of my summer clothes fit), I let New Pastures soothe my soul. I came away with a pecan toffee scented candle. When I blow it out, I’ll wish for my body to CALM. DOWN.

Back home, I went to put the new clothes away – and realised they’d just get lost in the chaos of my wardrobe. I set them on the table, telling myself I’d deal with it tomorrow because I was wiped out from town.

Today is that day.

DEAR GOD, WHAT HAVE I DONE

There’s something particularly cruel about opening your wardrobe and seeing that one pair of trousers you love… only to remember they don’t fit anymore. Then your eye catches another thing you used to wear, and another. It’s like a museum of clothes reminding you how much your body has changed.

So here I am, sat on the floor, surrounded by piles:

• Doesn’t fit now
• Might fit again someday
• Clothes I refuse to collapse the wave function of and find out if they fit
• Why did I ever own this?

The problem is, every pile feels personal. “Doesn’t fit” feels like a judgement. “Might fit again” feels like keeping a ghost. And “why did I own this” feels like a personal attack on my past self’s taste.

Half an hour in, my room looks like a physics diagram of entropy. The new clothes are still on the table. And I’m sat here with my pecan toffee candle thinking, this is why I didn’t want to start.

You know that moment when the initial adrenaline you worked up to tackle a task just… wears off? Suddenly you’re sat there questioning your life choices and all that barrels through your head is: Dear God, what have I done.

Thankfully, I had a Jellycat pigeon for emotional support – and I was going to need it. Because now, with everything laid out in front of me, it was time to tackle the “refusal to collapse the wave function” pile. Like the observer in Schrödinger’s cat experiment, I had to open the box and find out if it fit… or if the cat was, in fact, an ex-cat.

Schrödinger’s Trousers

Trying on twenty different outfits is physically exhausting – a full body workout – and emotionally even more so. I wish creatine worked for buffing up my brain the way it’s filled out my muscles.

I’m a sentimental person. I could never be a minimalist – I need the stuff (hence my current Jellycat pigeon obsession) – because everything I own means something. Clothes aren’t just items; they’re a record of moments. I remember what I was going through, how I felt, and the version of me who wore them.

The clothes from my smallest days, like my favourite trousers I’ve ever owned, tell a sad story. A story of grief, of losing my best friend, of losing myself. It’s hard seeing them now – so tiny, so impossible to get past my knees – because it feels like I’m being asked to say goodbye to that part of me. But I’m still grief-stricken. I’m still missing her. I’m still lost… just in a completely different body.

The speed of my weight gain has made me look stronger than I ever have – visibly so – but it’s jarring when inside I don’t feel stronger at all. My reflection shows a body that looks powerful, even athletic despite not being able to do one single push up, but the truth is I’m just the same me, trying to make peace with a body that feels foreign.

Those trousers were once loose on me. I wore them constantly. Now, they’re absolutely tiny in my hands, and I can’t believe I ever fit in them. I didn’t need to try them on to know they wouldn’t fit – but part of me needed to make it real. To collapse the wave function physically.

These weren’t the only trousers I had to say goodbye to. One by one, more and more ended up in the “doesn’t fit now” pile after collapsing the wave function – including a pair I wore on TUESDAY.

Craig David Trousers

Monday – they fit me just fine
Tuesday – they were getting tight
Wednesday – tighter still
Thursday to Saturday – basically painted on
Sunday – chucked them.

This whole recovery has completely blown my mind with how fast your body can change. Clothes that fit you perfectly on Tuesday can be impossible to get on by Saturday. I’ve woken up more than once to find none of my trousers fit. Tops are a little safer – oversized ones can survive a bit of tightness – but trousers? They either fit or they stop dead at your knees.

I have re-enacted that Ross Geller leather pants scene from Friends more times than I care to admit, except with stretchy leggings – which makes it ten times worse. And there is no talc on Earth that can calm down these thighs.

I’ve been taking progress photos throughout recovery, sometimes monthly, sometimes immediately after a “Biscoff Incident” just to see where the gain went. Honestly, those photos have helped me far more than the gaslighting relationship I have with my scale. But even with proof in front of me, the speed can still throw me.

On Tuesday, I took photos in a pair of leggings that were a bit tight but still wearable. By Saturday, I couldn’t get them over my thighs. I hadn’t gained any weight in that time. What on EARTH? It’s one of those moments where you realise you can lose water and gain mass at the same time – so the scale stays the same, but your body doesn’t. Translation: not water weight.

Of course, I channelled all my rage into blaming Primark. Explain to me how XS workout leggings from there still fit me, yet another pair in S – also from Primark – no longer fit, and I had to rebuy them in medium. Primark are just sitting in their HQ laughing at me having a crisis over leggings that fit on Tuesday. RUDE.

And don’t get me started on their Gymshark knock-offs. They’re designed as if the target customer has no thigh muscle whatsoever. WHY would anyone buy them if they had no muscles? Oh, wait… maybe they’re for the social media Pilates princesses who think gaining bulk is the ultimate feminine failure.

So there I was, spiralling like Johnny Silverhand against the corporate machine instead of confronting the reality that sometimes your body just… changes fast. Fuelled by petty rage and the smell of pecan toffee candle, I finally had a full “doesn’t fit” pile. My pigeon immediately perched on it – proud of my accomplishment, but also silently judging me for some of my past purchase decisions.

To Chuck or Not to Chuck, That is the Question

There’s a slim chance some of these clothes might fit again. I’m well aware of the “fat redistribution” stage – that magical moment when your body finally CALMS. DOWN. (Pending approval of my pecan candle wish.) Everything spreads out and suddenly you can change sizes without losing weight. I’ve been through enough recoveries and lapses to know this phase, where my body hoards fat like a fictional TV hoarder collects newspapers, is normal and temporary.

People say, “Throw them all away, you shouldn’t aim to be that size again.” But I’m keeping the ones just one size smaller in a box under my bed – just in case. The smallest ones, like my beloved trousers, are going. I hope I’m never that size again.

I’ve also binned anything that doesn’t feel like me anymore. Clothes that technically might fit again, but I don’t want to wear because they’re tied to a sad story. Pre-relapse, my wardrobe was more like a disguise. Bland, safe, invisible. No personality because I was hiding mine from the world. This time, I’ve decided I’m done hiding.

It’s not easy though. If I had more money, I’d just buy two sizes of everything – wear the smaller now, then “swap” to the bigger when I inevitably grow out of it and pretend they’re the same pair. But no, instead I’m selling Jellycats to fund emergency trousers. Recovery is expensive: eating enough food, replacing clothes weekly, still trying to do self-care. Anyone who says, “Just eat” owes me a pair of leggings so I can both eat and outgrow them.

And then there’s underwear, coats, pyjamas – the unglamorous stuff you also have to replace, that I haven’t yet. At home, I’m wearing whatever almost-fits, hoping it won’t split if I bend down now that my behind is no longer a pancake. So no, I’m not throwing out everything. Some things can stay in the under-bed limbo box until further notice.

IT TOOK ME ALL DAY

By the time I finished cleaning out my closet – and yes, thinking about the Eminem song far too often – I was done. Mentally, emotionally, physically. It took most of the day, and I felt HUGE. Not in the literal sense, but in that dysmorphia way where your brain keeps screaming you’re much bigger than you are. Trying on clothes that don’t fit you all day will do that to you.

Every movement reminds me of the weight I’ve gained. Getting out of bed, off the sofa – it’s like I’m carrying a 12kg backpack I can’t take off. My knees feel every gram of it. They hurt all the time now, so much that I wear knee braces just to walk around my flat. My joints are still trying to catch up, and so is my brain.

The mental image you hold of yourself doesn’t update overnight. It’s like when you get a radically different haircut and shock yourself in the mirror – except in my case, it’s not my hair. It’s my face. My upper body. My profile. I’m so three-dimensional now, no longer flat. I look strong, but tonight, after cleaning out my closet, I don’t feel strong. I feel defeated.

Then came dinner which after the day I had was especially hard, and our 9pm iced coffee hour. I got a caramelised biscuit frappe and sat there thinking about how badly I wanted to go back to restricting, to undo all this. But I can’t. I can’t do it. My body won’t even let me. It’s determined to gain, to survive – even when I’m not.

So I drank my frappe and cried into it. And, in between sips, I realised: this is still something. It’s something I never used to allow myself to have, even in past recoveries. It’s sweet, it’s ridiculous, and it’s mine.

Squigeon was sat on the sofa looking out of the window with me, watching the world go by between glances at my drink. It felt oddly comforting – like he was saying, Yeah, it’s been a crap day, but you’re still here. And also, if you’re not finishing that, I will. Sometimes recovery is just getting through the day, and sometimes it’s sharing a silent coffee hour with your son and a pigeon who doesn’t care how much you’ve gained, as long as you’ve still got snacks.

The anthem for this post :-