Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Took 25,000 IU of vitamin D and my body said “no thanks” by collapsing, rash included. Spent Mother’s Day shrimped on the sofa, ragey and weak. Still ate food. Still cried. Still blogging. Recovery arc: glitchy. Perfectionism can piss off—I’ve got knees that fold and a blog backlog now.
Yesterday I spiralled, I felt the pressure of the ED black hole, So I spent a moment with a bear, And a mug of matcha hugged my soul.
I took the biggest D known to man—25,000 IU of swamp-flavoured regret—and somehow, today felt better. Between the compression leggings, noise-cancelling headphones, and bravery it took to put cheese in beans, I found a moment of calm. Not cured, just coping—with a little penguin, some wax melts, and hope.
Prioritising myself isn’t just a cute wellness trend—it’s necessary. Recovery isn’t waiting for perfect conditions; it’s making it work in reality. I’ve started structuring my days around what I want, creating comfort, and finding support in new places. It’s helping—but prioritising yourself isn’t always easy, or without grief.
I went from ultra-controlled to absolute chaos goblin in seconds. My body took over, demanding everything it had been denied. Peanut butter, Biscoff, sandwiches, cereal—MORE, MORE, MORE. And for the first time in a year, I was full. Then came the regret, the panic, and a realisation: something has to change.
I set out expecting stress, but somehow, today turned out… okay. The meds got sorted, the errands got done, and Iceland had the AUDACITY to be pricier than M&S. I came home exhausted, but with a warm flat, a good loaf of bread, and a little relief. Finally.
I set out on a simple mission: prove I exist, collect my birth certificate, go home. Instead, I ended up locked in a full-scale digestive crisis, betrayed by both Apple Maps and soup. My body staged a rebellion mid-journey, forcing me to fight for my life just to complete basic admin.
Grief therapy is over, but my depression isn’t. I try to hold onto the things that used to bring me joy, but they slip through my fingers. I keep surviving, but it doesn’t feel like living. The lights are dimming, but I’m still reaching—hoping to find the switch one day.
This week had its struggles, but there were little lights in the dark—small moments that kept me going. I made a macrame bow and bag for St David’s Day, filmed adorable TikToks with my bears, and challenged a cheesy hot cross bun. Oh, and I may have become a feral gherkin goblin.
I put on my Cyberpunk 2077 hoodie, the one that once made me feel powerful—like I was V, ready to take on the world. But now, it drowns me. The fabric hangs loose where I used to fill it. I might be wearing it, but it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
Absurd Universe 