Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
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.
This is the messy middle — not crisis, not triumph. Just limbo. A breath held. A rope bridge swaying in wind I can’t control. I’m scared, not failing. I’m resting. Gathering strength. One day I’ll step forward. But today, I make camp. I make tea. And I don’t go back.
He doesn’t fix my pain, and I don’t ask him to - but his love still reaches me, even in the darkest spaces. My son has been the Sun in my universe lately, shining warmth and light on days that felt impossible. I keep orbiting because his light still finds me.
Burnt out from recovery, grief, and just existing, I hit a wall - and my body hit back. This is the day I didn’t plan to rest, but had to. From chaos drawers and cereal trails to wax melts and Super Salads, this was the day off I was forced to take.
Recovery didn’t bring joy rushing back. It brought pain. Grief. The feelings I ran from. But I keep going- eating, walking, packing a Jellycat - because I want to be here when joy returns. Not the muted kind, but real joy. The kind that stays. The kind that wraps me in fluffiness.
Spirit City gave me something I didn’t know I needed - a quiet space where my digital self could sit, eat, cry, and heal beside me. It’s not just a game. It’s a soft place to land when the world is too loud. Recovery, raccoons, and rain sounds included.
I challenged a Macchiato at Starbucks today. It felt like fighting a raid boss with no healer—just me, my son, and two plushies. The drink was awful, but I did the thing. Recovery isn’t always rewarding. Sometimes it’s just surviving the fight. And sometimes, that is the reward.
I thought the bath would help. Galaxy glitter, soft water, space to breathe. Instead, the mirror warped, my legs felt like cement, and I didn’t recognise myself. Recovery is a circus, and this was the funhouse mirror moment. But I got out. I got dressed. I drank the macchiato.
Recovery isn’t about food—but here’s a recovery food post anyway. From boss battles in Greggs to Biscoff-fuelled defiance, I’ve been eating through the chaos. These aren’t aesthetic snack wins. They’re real, messy, funny little triumphs I fought for—sometimes while on fire. (Metaphorically. Mostly.)
Absurd Universe 