Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
I tried to restore order to my life after gastritis and during cluster headaches. Instead, I burnt Welsh cakes, broke a suitcase, and nearly lost my sanity. Somewhere between entropy, Biscoff, and questionable decisions, I managed to get back on track - slightly more stable, still chaotic, and fully entering my Welsh nan era.
I didn’t realise I was hurting myself, because it didn’t look like harm. It looked like doing the right thing. Pushing through. Not restricting. Carrying on. But my body felt it. The consequences were real. Recovery, for me, isn’t doing everything. It’s learning when stopping is the kinder choice.
I almost didn’t write this post because I feel like I’m always the person with another problem. But cluster headaches are part of my life for months every year. Hiding them never helped me. Even during relic malfunctions and pain, life still happens - sausage rolls, book towns, and Minecraft houses full of chickens.
On Tuesday, I chose the leggings. I chose the pistachio foam. I chose the surplus. My body is loud, the systems louder, but we carried each other anyway. Temporary clothes, temporary afflictions. The commitment however is permanent. Tuesday stood on its own.
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 don’t track because I love control. I track because, at 42, I’m done waiting for “eventually.” My body doesn’t run on hope or slogans. It runs on structure. Scaffolding isn’t glamorous, but neither is pretending I don’t need it. This is about longevity, not perfection.
Being sedated has made mindfulness accidentally achievable. My brain is finally quiet enough to exist without spiralling. It won’t last, and I know that, but for now I’m living inside the stillness — decorating my base, rescuing teddy bears, and letting slowness be enough.
I look well. I even look strong. But what’s visible isn’t the whole story. Recovery doesn’t move in straight lines, and strength doesn’t guarantee capacity. Some battles leave no marks at all. Sometimes staying upright is the work, and sometimes that means being still to gather strength.
I’m done shrinking myself for people who never actually saw me. This is the story of why I left the wrong room, reclaimed my voice, and renamed my blog. Goodbye Seren Bear. Hello Absurd Universe—where I write with my whole self, rock visible, no more sanding down the truth.
Meaning once came easily to me - through motherhood, physics, rain, creativity. When I lost it after losing WeeGee and my son growing up, everything felt empty. This is my attempt to trace that disappearance, the monotony that followed, and the brief, rain soaked moment meaning returned when my son’s glasses broke.
Absurd Universe 