Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
I decided to make Welsh cakes during a cluster headache episode with no wooden spoon, minimal cookware, and a frog supervising the operation. This involved a mission to Lidl, a run-in with trauma, questionable amounts of Red Bull, and the very real possibility of producing frozen, burnt pancakes again.
On my son’s birthday, my knee sleeves stopped fitting, and something inside me caught fire. Muscle I worked for felt like betrayal. Recovery stopped being theoretical and started burning. Ambivalence isn’t neutral ground - it’s standing in a doorway, one foot in the flames, afraid to move either way.
I’m trying to recover from my anorexia relapse. For this week’s challenge, I’m increasing my intake with tea and biscuits—using the only safe food memories I have from childhood to help me. Alongside the nostalgia and my favourite custard creams, Biscoff the bear is here with his usual fluffy emotional support.
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?
Absurd Universe 