Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Today’s mission: obtain cheesy hot cross buns, lose yet another psychiatrist, and try not to lose my mind in the process. Clippy is feral, the NHS is playing musical chairs, and my son and I are both running on fumes. At least Beean Beeale had fun. Priorities: coffee, pickles, and survival.
Depression feels like a black hole pulling me in, but sometimes, it’s the smallest things that keep me from crossing the event horizon—a Jellycat bee gifted by my son, the soft glow of a wax melt burner, or a plushie left in my bed to remind me I’m not alone.
I woke up in a panic, handled NHS frustrations better than usual, found comfort in Starbucks and plushies, and ended the day very on-brand with an existential crisis over my medication increase. Don’t know why I’m hoping—so fucking naive. Falling for the promise of the emptiness machine.
Imagine sitting in the metaphorical waiting room for therapy, convinced your name will never be called. Then suddenly, it is — and an hour later, you’ve had massive realisations about grief, silence, and finding yourself again. My first grief therapy session was unexpectedly eventful, and it’s just the beginning.
Greggs was my safe haven—until Corrupted Clippy hijacked it. Standing at the pastry counter, dread replaced joy. My eating disorder, unnoticed for weeks, now controlled me in ways I couldn’t deny. I’m grieving not just food, but the pieces of myself it’s quietly stolen. A fight I didn’t see coming
I woke up with one simple goal: put the washing away. Instead, I found myself crying in a pile of clothes while my brain played the “Greatest Hits of My Failures.” Laundry Mountain loomed large, my ribs hurt, and the chaos felt endless. Why is something so small, so hard?
Frankie Frog, my son’s Build-a-Bear, became a harbinger of connection during a dark year of grief and relapse. We threw him a birthday party with cake, sandwiches, and Froggy wine. He’s more than a plushie — he’s comfort, chaos, and a reminder that love and joy persist, even through the fog.
Grief and relapse go hand in hand. The person I’d turn to for strength is the one I’m grieving. I’ve retreated into survival mode — the airlock, as I call it. It numbs the grief and quiets my thoughts, but it’s a trap. Right now? It’s where I am
Self care is supposed to help you feel better, but when you’re battling depression, it can feel like a chore with little payoff. I created Pinterest-worthy spaces and tried everything, but the crash still came. At least now I know: it’s better to cry in a cosy haven.
When my psychiatrist appointment was cancelled during a mental health crisis, I felt adrift. Instead of spiraling, I escaped to Cardiff—a place that usually feels like home. This is about frustration, yes, but also continuing to keep on keeping on when the system fails to show up.
Absurd Universe 