Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
I thought gaining muscle would make me feel strong. It didn’t—not like I expected. Instead, it cracked open questions about identity, womanhood, and trauma I didn’t know I was carrying. This isn’t just a post about thighs or weight gain. It’s about the weight of becoming someone new.
Buying clothes in recovery isn’t a glow-up montage - it’s a fight with Clippy, grief over leggings you've burst out of, and a quest to not be bottomless in Lidl. But somehow, in navy and Nike Air Max, I’m finding pieces of myself again. Not just clothes - breadcrumbs back to who I used to be.
Twelve years in recovery, and I still wore clothes like camouflage. Now, in relapse recovery, my body changes daily—and suddenly I have to ask: who am I dressing for? Who have I ever been? This time, I’m choosing clothes that fit me, not just physically, but the parts I buried to survive.
Recovery is hard, but Biscoff helps. From ice cream to iced lattes, each bite fights back against my eating disorder, Clippy. These sweet, caramelised moments aren’t just food - they’re acts of rebellion, comfort, and joy. Come join me (and Biscoff the Bear) as I put the scoff in Biscoff.
Join me on the anorexia struggle bus: where recovery is messy, the rules are ridiculous, and Clippy wears a different-coloured cape. I’m unravelling extreme hunger, joy restriction, and righteous fury - one cursed bus stop at a time. It’s chaotic, it’s honest, and yes, there are emergency Lidl trips involved.
Recovery hasn’t been quiet. It’s been relentless, painful, and full of Biscoff-fuelled chaos. I’ve eaten over maintenance for two weeks straight, cried through meals, and battled rapid weight gain and oedema - but I’m still here. Not thriving, maybe. But surviving. Even when I really, really don’t want to.
We planned a soft day, but the universe sent us to minor injuries instead. My son’s foot was crunchy (yes, really), and this post captures everything from NHS chaos to waiting room characters, a Crunchie bar craving, and the strange way a detour turned into a whole story.
It’s getting hot in here — and not just because my Bose headphones nearly caught fire. Between summer heat, rapid weight gain, and the chaos of recovery, I’m just trying to survive with giant T-shirts, Lidl air-con, and emotional support Biscoff. This is me, showing up, sweat and all.
I didn’t follow the rules. I didn’t eat 2500 a day or stop moving. But I still gained weight—fast. My period came back. My knees hurt. My thighs exploded. This isn’t pretty recovery. It’s painful, swollen, and constant. And yet, I keep walking. Even when I don’t want to.
I didn’t want sympathy, I just didn’t want to disappear again. These swollen glands might be nothing, but the peanut butter of resistance night? That was everything. A step off the rope bridge. I want to bring you with me — with balloons, and peanut butter, and something like hope.
Absurd Universe 