Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Squidgeon and Goose arrived in my life during a time when grief and isolation felt overwhelming. They perched on my windowsill, not just as birds, but as little carriers of hope. Through their antics, trust, and fluffy presence, they reminded me that even in loneliness, connection can unexpectedly find you.
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?
I still visit you through your blog, your home in the digital world. The world got darker when you left, but you’re still a constant guiding light. I light this candle for you — not as a goodbye, but as a hello again. You’re always with me. I miss you.
Grief is a wave function. It runs in the background, unseen, until it collapses. I held mine off for years to be strong for my son. But after 2023, it caught up with me — and I’m still petrified. Grief, love, fear — it’s all tangled. And this isn’t even everything.
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.
I started macramé thinking, “I could probably do that.” Fast forward to today, and my flat, my bears, and every plushie in sight are covered in knotted creations. What began as a way to save money became an unexpected act of love — crafting, knot by knot, for those I care about most.
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.
These new Jellycats aren’t just adorable— they’re symbols of love, and the light my space baby brings even near the black hole of depression. From Sir Isaac pondering the gravity of peanuts to adorably caffeinated plushie coffees, they remind me that together, we transcend space, time, and darkness.
Absurd Universe 