Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
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 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.
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.
For years, Christmas food ambushed me with grief. This time, buying a Festive Bake felt different. I still miss her fiercely, but the memories came with warmth, not only pain. I tasted pastry and remembered laughter, comfort, and love. Somehow, joy returned - quietly, wrapped in white Greggs paper.
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.
Absurd Universe 