Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
This week I was anxious, trapped in a giant netted cage, fuelled by iced decaf Americanos, and writing essays about asexuality. Somehow, despite all that, blogging has started helping my mental health again. Life is weird, but I’ll take the motivation where I can get it.
I went from brown hair to brown hair via a spectacular detour involving Vantablack ends, Anish Kapoor jokes, a scalp that felt sunburnt, and enough hair dye to chemically alter my postcode. It also turned into an unexpected lesson about how invisible struggle can be.
Still deep in the hole, I’ve been trying to find little lights in the dark anyway. Pigeons by the river, audiobooks that reignited my love of science fiction, Project Hail Mary nights with my son, and tiny moments of peace that didn’t cure me, but reminded me there’s still warmth outside the fear.
My brain can’t tolerate uncertainty, even though I love it in physics. Recovery gave me something to lose - joy in food, strength, a sense of self - and now anxiety fights to control it. I’m doing everything right, and it’s still hard. That’s the part no one tells you about living with OCD.
I hadn’t been to the cinema in over 20 years. Not because I don’t like films, but because my brain thinks enclosed spaces mean I can’t leave. I went anyway. Not because I felt brave, but because it mattered to my son. Turns out, that was enough to make me stay.
Absurd Universe 