Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
When Marks & Spencer announced it was closing, I was surprised by how upset I felt. This isn’t really a story about a supermarket. It’s a story about friendship, Christmas sandwich competitions, Yorkshire puddings, grief, and how sometimes we leave pieces of the people we love in unexpected places.
What began as a recovery wobble became a deeper fall into fear, shame, exhaustion, survival behaviours and a literal fire that no longer even felt like an eating disorder. A post about panic, uncertainty, and trying to climb back out while terrified of the surface.
Recovery did not just bring weight gain back. It brought me back too. My intensity, my emotions, my curiosity, my writing, my ability to feel present in the world again. The terrifying part is that becoming yourself again after grief means learning how to sit with an entirely new version of yourself and more importantly, not running away.
I thought eating more would just mean gaining weight. Instead, everything came back - my energy, my thoughts, my emotions, and parts of myself I’d kept muted. It turns out you can maintain your weight and still be underfuelled, and fixing that doesn’t just change your body. It changes you.
I thought “sitting with the discomfort” would feel calm, controlled, maybe even empowering. It doesn’t. It feels repetitive, frustrating, and loud. Like arguing with myself every day over the same things. And still, despite all of that, I keep choosing to stay and do it anyway, even when it feels impossible.
I wasn’t just clearing out my wardrobe. I was letting go of versions of myself I had held onto for survival. Some protected me. Some hid me. All of them mattered. But I don’t need to be them anymore. I can carry what mattered, without carrying everything that kept me there.
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.
Absurd Universe 