Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Eating disorders are some of the most misunderstood mental illnesses out there. If I had a pound for every myth I’ve heard, I’d be writing this from my mansion, not my council flat. From “anorexia is about vanity” to “people with EDs are fatphobic,” let’s dismantle these harmful misconceptions—angrily.
Eating disorders don’t check the calendar. They don’t pause, even for love. If love alone could cure eating disorders, having my son would have cured me. But this isn’t a choice. I want to celebrate his birthday fully, but instead, I’m bargaining with a mental illness that refuses to take a day off.
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 explained in my previous post, "Here We Go", how I ended up relapsing from anorexia recovery after 12 years, but I made it sound far more simple than it actually was for the sake of brevity. Almost as if, the anniversary of WeeGee's death, who if you haven't read that post, was my best …
Absurd Universe 