Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Recovery isn’t just about food—it’s about everything that not eating kept buried. On Day 10, grief, bipolar symptoms, trauma, and even sinusitis hit all at once. I tried to fix it all, fast. But recovery isn’t Pipe Dream. I can’t stop the leaks—I have to survive the flood.
Recovery with bipolar isn’t just hard—it’s a war between two dark sides. Anorexia gives stability. Eating gives chaos. I fight Darth Bipolar every time I eat. There’s no lightsaber, no peace, just me—dragging myself through it, hoping it’s worth it. Maybe the only way out… is through
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.
Self care is supposed to help you feel better, but when you’re battling depression, it can feel like a chore with little payoff. I created Pinterest-worthy spaces and tried everything, but the crash still came. At least now I know: it’s better to cry in a cosy haven.
Absurd Universe 