Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
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.
Grief therapy is over, but my depression isn’t. I try to hold onto the things that used to bring me joy, but they slip through my fingers. I keep surviving, but it doesn’t feel like living. The lights are dimming, but I’m still reaching—hoping to find the switch one day.
I put on my Cyberpunk 2077 hoodie, the one that once made me feel powerful—like I was V, ready to take on the world. But now, it drowns me. The fabric hangs loose where I used to fill it. I might be wearing it, but it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
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.
Absurd Universe 