Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Quetiapine quieted my anxiety, but in the silence, depression stepped forward. Without that frantic engine driving me, everything feels slower, heavier. I’m learning who I am without constant fear - while grieving the one person who always felt like proof that I was loved, even when I disappeared.
In psychiatric waiting rooms, time doesn’t move forward; it pools. Medication becomes another chair, another number called eventually. You wait inside your body while side effects pass like weather. The work is not fixing anything, only staying warm, fed, and alive until the fog lifts. Surviving and creating meaning while you wait.
I look well. I even look strong. But what’s visible isn’t the whole story. Recovery doesn’t move in straight lines, and strength doesn’t guarantee capacity. Some battles leave no marks at all. Sometimes staying upright is the work, and sometimes that means being still to gather strength.
I’m not okay right now — I’m tired, hormonal, broke, and held together by scaffolding, pistachios, and spite. But even in the mess, little lights keep showing up: cursed toothpaste, shiny bargain-bin hair, and Squigeon still visiting me through the net. It’s not much, but it’s something.
I’ve reached BMI 20, the supposed recovery finish line. But it isn’t the shore - it’s a life raft. Safe, but stuck. My body feels calm, yet inside I’m still battling Clippy and fear. Not dying isn’t the same as living, and staying afloat isn’t moving forward.
Woken by my GP and a ringtone loud enough to break the dead, I found out my liver enzymes are high and my lymph nodes still swollen. I didn’t feel much about it. Just took Sticky Junior to the doctors and kept eating sausage rolls like nothing’s wrong. Maybe nothing is.
Recovery with bipolar isn’t just hard—it’s a war between two dark sides. Anorexia gives stability. Eating gives chaos. I fight Darth Bipolar every time I eat. There’s no lightsaber, no peace, just me—dragging myself through it, hoping it’s worth it. Maybe the only way out… is through
I took the biggest D known to man—25,000 IU of swamp-flavoured regret—and somehow, today felt better. Between the compression leggings, noise-cancelling headphones, and bravery it took to put cheese in beans, I found a moment of calm. Not cured, just coping—with a little penguin, some wax melts, and hope.
I set out expecting stress, but somehow, today turned out… okay. The meds got sorted, the errands got done, and Iceland had the AUDACITY to be pricier than M&S. I came home exhausted, but with a warm flat, a good loaf of bread, and a little relief. Finally.
I set out on a simple mission: prove I exist, collect my birth certificate, go home. Instead, I ended up locked in a full-scale digestive crisis, betrayed by both Apple Maps and soup. My body staged a rebellion mid-journey, forcing me to fight for my life just to complete basic admin.
Absurd Universe 