The last post I wrote (“The Night of the Rain”) was heavy – I was dealing with suicidal ideation and felt completely stuck. Since then, I’ve been trying to claw my way back onto the path of recovery while still living with depression. It’s not that everything has magically lifted – I still feel weighed down, exhausted, and joyless most of the time – but I am eating better now, and I am still trying.

This post is about that in-between space: how I’ve been getting through the days, sometimes with stubbornness, sometimes with dry sarcastic humour, sometimes with novelty, sometimes with biscuits, and always with my son.

My Mental Health Is Still Not Great But I Tried Anyway

My mental health is still not great. I’m struggling a lot with anhedonia – not being able to feel joy in the things I love. It makes everything exhausting. You realise how much joy motivates you when it’s gone – suddenly even the smallest task feels impossible.

I’ve tried gaming, macramé, all sorts of things, but I just sit there waiting to feel joy, and it all feels like a chore instead of fun. I’ve learnt not to push it. If everything feels like a chore, I might as well do chores. Then I can wait for the joy to come back before I return to the things I know I love. Otherwise, forcing myself only creates grief for not feeling what I “should” be feeling.

The one thing that has been keeping me going is writing. Lately, I’ve been working on longer posts about recovery myths. There are so many untrue statements in ED recovery communities online, and they’re repeated so often that if you question them, you get instantly gaslit with “that’s your ED talking.” But half the time, it’s not an ED voice at all – it’s just basic high school biology being misquoted.

Some of these ideas may have started out correct, but after being passed around, twisted, and reworded so many times, they’ve lost all meaning. What’s left is a set of mantras you’re expected to accept without question – and if you don’t, you’re told you’re, “doing recovery wrong.”

Turns out my rage at injustice is still alive, even inside anhedonia – and honestly, it’s more energising than downing three espressos. (Although to be fair, coffee relaxes me anyway, so maybe that’s not a fair comparison.)

All of this is made even more difficult by the unbearable pain and sleeplessness of cluster headache attacks every night. I need a lot of rest, and I’m walking around exhausted. Every task feels like climbing a mountain physically, but I’m really trying to keep on top of things. Writing helps again, because it forces me to sit down – although I’d hardly call it “relaxing” when I’m pounding my thocky keyboard so hard it sounds like a washing machine on the highest spin.

Depression makes me want to give up, but I always get out of bed and still try, even though I am exhausted. The one day I wish I hadn’t, though, I dragged myself out of bed, got dressed to go to Greggs – only to discover a catastrophic menu change.

The Ultimate Betrayal Of Greggs.

I was working really hard to get back on track and reminding myself of all the benefits recovery gives me – and one of those was the Iced Biscuit Latte from Greggs. I always used to drink my coffee black. I still do, because black coffee is delicious – and once you go black, you can’t go completely back.

But these days, I know liquid calories aren’t sent by the devil himself to tempt me (…or was that Eden and the apple? I’ve never actually read the Bible, so I forget who the antagonist was). Either way, I used to think drinking calories was forbidden. Now, I actually drink quite a few of mine – and I’m better for it.

I used all the energy I had to go to Greggs and get myself an Iced Biscuit Latte. When I got there, the lovely Greggs lady said:
“We don’t have that anymore – it’s pumpkin spice latte now.”

I replied “WHAT” a little too forcefully, and then quickly apologised: “I’m so sorry, I was rather attached to the Iced Biscuit Latte… what on earth will I do now?” She looked puzzled, obviously unaware of how much was hanging on that drink.

That’s the thing with depression and recovery: it’s not just the big beautiful things that keep me going, it’s the little ones – like my once-weekly Iced Biscuit Latte. I guess it wasn’t in the ‘greater plan’ for me to have one, and now I must cope until some other snake-like corporation offers me an alternative temptation. Because pumpkin spice isn’t going to cut it – I’d happily leave that one hanging on the tree.

Which got me thinking: maybe I should just email Tate & Lyle, the makers of the caramelised biscuit syrup, and ask if they plan to sell it retail. So I did. I told them they had created a life elixir and, if they weren’t planning on selling it retail, how I could pretend to be a shop to buy it commercially. I’m still waiting on a reply.

I did get cheered up when I got home, though. A lovely Instagram friend @Barnabosfrog had managed to track down a Biscoff latte in the States. She had cheered me up previously too, by getting her bears some Biscoff spread. I felt better knowing Biscoff lattes still exist in the world, so maybe not all is lost. At least her bears weren’t missing out like mine. All bears deserve Biscoff latte.

The timing of her getting a Biscoff latte on the same day I found out Greggs no longer sell them blew my mind a bit. The universe has its jokes, but there were other ways I got back on track with food.

I Used Novelty to Help Me Get Back On Track With Food

To help with corrupted Clippy (my ED) staging a siege, causing a mini lapse and struggling to find reasons to recover, I packed as much food novelty into my week as possible. The dopamine I get from novelty always helps, and I thought: well, even if it doesn’t work, at least I’ll fill the giant ever-growing gaping hole inside of me with tasty food.

The 300 Biscoff Biscuits – Going to the supermarket when I’ve been up all night with cluster headaches is never a great idea. By the time I get to Asda, the activity itself triggers more pain, and I end up acting like a Sim with their actions cancelled – standing around motionless, forgetting what I even went there for. This time, the main reason I’d gone was to refill my Biscoff biscuit container. I’d run out completely, and I have two every night with my quark dessert bowl.

When I got home and realised I’d forgotten them, I immediately headed to Amazon, hoping Jeff Bezos could save me from this Biscoff emergency. Given that sellers on there think it’s wise to charge three times the price for a single packet, the only option that made financial sense was buying 300 of them.

And so, 24 hours later, thanks to the miracle of Prime next-day delivery, there it was – on my living room floor (because my kitchen is far too small to house 300 biscuits): a beautiful red catering box of Biscoffs. Biscoff the bear was so happy. If Jellycats had real emotions, he would have felt like he’d won the lottery. But with 300 biscuits sitting there, it made me think too deeply about the significance of buying them during recovery from a mini lapse.

Recovery isn’t a clean victory. There’s no moment where the enemy surrenders and the war is over. It’s more like standing at the Hot Gates with nothing but a shield of stubbornness and a fistful of biscuits. My 300 Biscoffs aren’t just snacks, they’re soldiers. Each one is a small act of defiance, a stand against the endless waves of my eating disorder. There is no win, only the choice to keep holding the line. And so I say it, loud enough to echo through the battlefield: “This. Is. Biscoff.”

Maybe the biscuits went to my head, but honestly, the novelty of a catering box did help. Even if it only made me replay 300 in my mind with biscuits instead of Spartans, that was enough to push back a little. It also helped with the lack of iced biscuit latte – because 300 Biscoffs can be both soldiers in the fight and individually wrapped tissues to dry my tears.

The Raspberry and Cream Digestives – And the reason I forgot my Biscoffs in Asda in the first place? A shiny, ridiculous distraction. There they were, sitting on the shelf: pink raspberry-and-cream digestive biscuits. My first reaction was disgust. Who on earth would buy pink digestives? They looked like they’d taste like cleaning chemicals or something 3D-printed out of plastic.

So naturally, I put them in my trolley. Because the answer is me. I would buy that.

I just had one while writing this. And you know what? They were surprisingly nice. Not synthetic plastic fruit flavour, but actually light and creamy. It turns out I’ve once again bowed down to my corporate food overlords and been brainwashed by the shiny new McVitie’s offering.

The Lidl Bakery Altar – Then there’s Lidl bakery, which has always felt like a glowing altar I was never allowed to approach. My ED voice would either say: pretend you don’t want any of it anyway, or run calorie maths in my head: this small pastry in my hand equals the same calories as a full meal. I don’t know how to beat the latter thought though, because I’m 41 and it’s true. If I have one, it would literally replace a more balanced meal of the same calories.

But I thought it might help to challenge that world again. I can always find something I want, and this week it was the chocolate hazelnut pain au chocolat. It was delicious – less sweet than Nutella, perfectly balanced. Still waiting for them to make Biscoff pastries though it would make for a more reasonable swap.

My Amazing Son

My son has been helping me and encouraging me so much. He was especially comforting when I went through the Iced Biscuit Latte grief – I don’t know how I would have coped without him, but at this point only Tate & Lyle can truly save me. We’ve also been critiquing Eastenders together, still managing to laugh a lot even while I’ve been laid out on the sofa looking awful.

He’s made me iced coffees, covered me in plushies, rubbed my back during cluster headache attacks, and even offered to stay up with me when they’re really bad.

I’ve also been so proud of how he’s handling taking T. Somehow, I’ve still managed to support him through it – I think I have a separate energy tank where my son is concerned. It isn’t touched by depression, recovery, or cluster headaches. I’d walk through fire for him. And honestly, it already feels like walking through hell when you’ve had no sleep and your head is being smashed in by invisible baseball bats every few hours.

But he’s the reason I keep walking through it instead of giving up.

Keep On Keeping On

So no, my mental health still isn’t ‘fixed.’ I’m not suddenly full of joy, or free from pain, or bouncing through recovery like it’s easy – despite doing everything Instagram says will cure me forever (gutted). But I’ve kept eating, I’ve kept writing, and I’ve kept finding tiny ways to push forward – whether that’s 300 biscuits, a novelty digestive, or my son making me iced coffee when I can’t stand up.

Recovery isn’t neat. It’s messy, tiring, and sometimes it looks like grief over a lost latte. But it’s also stubborn, funny, and full of little victories that add up. For now, that’s enough to keep me moving – one biscuit, one blog post, one day at a time.

This Linkin Park style cover of T.a.t.u All the Things She Said also cheered me up. Brilliant, had to share it.