Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
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.
A day in Cardiff with my son: blood tests, NHS rage, plushies, coffee, and the reminder that recovery — though exhausting — is worth it. We celebrated with bath bombs and bears, laughed at cathedral flats, and found light in the dark, together.
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.
I thought I was building an impenetrable castle, but the concrete hasn’t set yet. One bad night of clusters and relapse slipped back on like old slippers. Recovery feels fragile, but still I patch the walls, clinging to rain, coffee, and my son as reasons to keep going.
A raincoat shouldn’t unravel me, but it did. Change — even good change — destabilises me. Clothes, food, identity: all shifting at once. I dropped anchors in Cyberpunk and macramé, but none held. Only a latte in my hand, flimsy against the storm, reminded me I’m still afloat.
I thought starving would erase my anger, but it only buried it alive. When WeeGee died, my anger was grief with its teeth out. Recovery means I can’t run anymore. I have to sit with Angry Rhio, feed her anyway, and let her break me open.
Absurd Universe 