Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Tomorrow I have a scan, so today I cleaned my kitchen and tried to quiet the chaos in my head. Time is slipping or stretching—I can’t tell. My mixed episode dials me up to 9000, but at least future-me will come home to a little order and one small mercy.
I woke up hungover from a binge, full of regret, and went to buy a Greggs sausage roll. It didn’t heal me, but it was an act of not giving up. Recovery isn’t light breaking through clouds—it’s staying alive through entropy, bear biscuits, and the black dog’s chaos.
This week I tried to keep moving through depression, cluster headaches, and recovery — with help from my son, 300 biscuits, and a catastrophic betrayal by Greggs. Recovery isn’t neat. Sometimes it looks like emailing Tate & Lyle about syrup and finding strength in the small, ridiculous things.
I bought the Starbucks. I blogged. I showed up. I did the things that are supposed to help. But sometimes self-care feels like shouting into a black mirror - a screen that only reflects your own tired face back at you. And still, people ask if you’ve tried yoga.
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.)
Crying while macrameing a tiny bag for my Jellycat bear felt like the most “me in recovery” moment imaginable—grief, chaos, thread everywhere, but still trying to make something soft. I didn’t want to keep going, but my hands kept tying knots. Somehow, that felt like hope anyway.
Recovery today was a pick ‘n’ mix: bipolar highs, Lidl bakery lows, and a Jellycat bear walk in between. I challenged Greggs and pain au raisin, surfed a mixed episode, and somehow still ate dinner. It’s not linear, but I’m still here — with biscuits and bear in hand.
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
ED Recovery is a superposition - I’m in and out of it at the same time. Sometimes I’m brave, sometimes the chaos goblin makes me eat half a block of cheese and I feel shame. Sometimes I want to crawl back into the paperclip arms of Clippy. Tonight though? I made peanut butter toast without spiralling.
Absurd Universe 