Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
My windows are replaced but there’s rubble everywhere - literal dust, emotional debris, and the remains of a routine I’m rebuilding. Recovery isn’t about waiting for life to calm down; it’s cleaning as you go. Sometimes that means hoovering the dust. Sometimes it means making the burrito.
When builders replaced my windows, they also stole my stars. Between the Adele-singing workmen, sealant fumes, and scaffolding, I lost my favourite place to breathe and think. I’d love to say it’s a metaphor for clarity - but really, it just stinks. At least Minecraft windows still open.
Monday threw me three curveballs - Covid recovery, a bed bug letter, and surprise new windows - and somehow I’m still standing. I keep doing things I don’t know how I’m doing: eating through pain, cleaning through panic, surviving chaos on adrenaline and sarcasm. Three strikes, but I’m not out.
It’s been over two weeks and I’m STILL trying to recover from Covid. The fatigue, headaches, pain, digestive chaos, and random coughing fits just won’t quit. And while I’m recovering from Covid, I’m also recovering from my eating disorder - and, apparently, from life itself, because this week came with even more stress piled on …
Continue reading Mostly Wordless Wednesday – The Minecraft House I REALLY Want To Escape To
Well, given that four horses were obviously not enough to deal with in my last post, I’ve now been approached by a very anxious horse too. My anxiety has flared up pretty terribly, and it’s riding alongside its friend - the rider of the perimenopause hormone horse. Right now, I’m all horses and definitely no …
Continue reading Collecting Psychiatrists Like Pokémon – and Arriving in Panic Station.
Recovery from an eating disorder isn’t just about food — it’s about facing the four horsemen that appear along the way. These conditions once tried to throw me off course, but this post is about learning to understand them, live with them, and maybe one day guide where they go.
I’ve reached BMI 20, the supposed recovery finish line. But it isn’t the shore - it’s a life raft. Safe, but stuck. My body feels calm, yet inside I’m still battling Clippy and fear. Not dying isn’t the same as living, and staying afloat isn’t moving forward.
I meant to write a neat recovery update. Instead, the post went rogue - just like recovery itself. Stability at BMI 20 hasn’t silenced Clippy or erased grief, but it’s brought real wins too: no more chaos hunger, a steadier heart, and even glutes that make sitting easier.
Protein isn’t diet culture. It’s survival fuel. In recovery, fat gain matters — but lean mass matters too: bones, heart, muscle, even your brain. Fat doesn’t magically turn into lean mass. Only food, especially protein, rebuilds you. Recovery is bodybuilding, whether you like the sound of it or not.
This week I tried to keep moving through depression, cluster headaches, and recovery — with help from my son, 300 biscuits, and a catastrophic betrayal by Greggs. Recovery isn’t neat. Sometimes it looks like emailing Tate & Lyle about syrup and finding strength in the small, ridiculous things.
Absurd Universe 