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.
Supporting someone with an eating disorder isn’t about knowing all the right things to say—it’s about being there. Small actions, like respecting their boundaries, avoiding food comments, and showing kindness, matter more than you think. Recovery is hard, but knowing someone sees you beyond the illness makes all the difference.
Depression feels like a black hole pulling me in, but sometimes, it’s the smallest things that keep me from crossing the event horizon—a Jellycat bee gifted by my son, the soft glow of a wax melt burner, or a plushie left in my bed to remind me I’m not alone.
My son’s 20th birthday was filled with brownies, Jellycat bears, and love — but also an exhausting battle with my depression. I gave everything I had to make his day special, even when my mind was fighting me every step of the way. He smiled all day. I just wish I could’ve felt it too.
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.
I woke up in a panic, handled NHS frustrations better than usual, found comfort in Starbucks and plushies, and ended the day very on-brand with an existential crisis over my medication increase. Don’t know why I’m hoping—so fucking naive. Falling for the promise of the emptiness machine.
It took two days to get an emergency dentist appointment, which gave Corrupted Clippy—my eating disordered thoughts—full reign. I could barely eat, and Clippy was LOVING it. Even after the dentist, it whispered, “What a shame you can’t eat. Guilt-free restriction!” I shook my head. Shut up, Clippy.
Ambivalence is a superposition—wanting and not wanting recovery at the same time. This is what living with an eating disorder looks like: battling decisions that shouldn’t be battles, facing Greggs like it’s a boss fight, and walking away from cheese like it’s a trap. Clippy wants control. But so do I.
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 woke up with one simple goal: put the washing away. Instead, I found myself crying in a pile of clothes while my brain played the “Greatest Hits of My Failures.” Laundry Mountain loomed large, my ribs hurt, and the chaos felt endless. Why is something so small, so hard?
Absurd Universe 