Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
I meant to get a festive bake, but accidentally walked home in a full Cyberpunk flow state instead. Somehow, lowering my meal plan gave me back my legs, my mood, and the ability to enjoy rain again. I’m exhausted by living, but today I’m still glad I’m alive.
Between the mould, the leaks, and feeling like I’m swimming in lava in Minecraft, a random Black Friday coffee machine somehow became the hero of my week. It’s ridiculous, but every Starbucks pod feels like a tiny joy-bringer in a flat that’s currently held together by buckets and hope.
Covid recovery and ED recovery have collided, exerting their own gravity and bending everything out of shape. Hunger isn’t honesty right now—just noise from a body out of calibration. I’m caught between forces, trying to tell whether I’m being pulled toward a brighter star or into something that feels like collapse.
Turning 42 wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. Between cramps, cancelled plans, free Starbucks, Jellycat penguins, and Biscoff cake, I found glimmers I didn’t think I’d feel again. Even though the gold didn’t last all night, it existed - and that alone felt like a tiny miracle in the dark.
After a night of The Bad Thoughts™️, I planned a calm day of blogging, coffee, and Greggs. Instead, I faced the NHS boss level. Between hold music, bureaucracy, and a mixed episode, I somehow survived - Festive Bake in hand, chaos intact, still hoping for Schrödinger’s tomorrow.
I went for an ultrasound convinced my swollen lymph nodes were planning my demise, only to be told they’re just dramatic and like to stay enlarged for fun. I still haven’t felt the relief, but I did get kindness brownies, deep chats with my son, and a strangely good day out of it.
I woke up hungover from a binge, full of regret, and went to buy a Greggs sausage roll. It didn’t heal me, but it was an act of not giving up. Recovery isn’t light breaking through clouds—it’s staying alive through entropy, bear biscuits, and the black dog’s chaos.
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.
Absurd Universe 