Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Join me on the anorexia struggle bus: where recovery is messy, the rules are ridiculous, and Clippy wears a different-coloured cape. I’m unravelling extreme hunger, joy restriction, and righteous fury - one cursed bus stop at a time. It’s chaotic, it’s honest, and yes, there are emergency Lidl trips involved.
I thought the bath would help. Galaxy glitter, soft water, space to breathe. Instead, the mirror warped, my legs felt like cement, and I didn’t recognise myself. Recovery is a circus, and this was the funhouse mirror moment. But I got out. I got dressed. I drank the macchiato.
I went from ultra-controlled to absolute chaos goblin in seconds. My body took over, demanding everything it had been denied. Peanut butter, Biscoff, sandwiches, cereal—MORE, MORE, MORE. And for the first time in a year, I was full. Then came the regret, the panic, and a realisation: something has to change.
Absurd Universe 