Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
I’m done shrinking myself for people who never actually saw me. This is the story of why I left the wrong room, reclaimed my voice, and renamed my blog. Goodbye Seren Bear. Hello Absurd Universe—where I write with my whole self, rock visible, no more sanding down the truth.
When builders replaced my windows, they also stole my stars. Between the Adele-singing workmen, sealant fumes, and scaffolding, I lost my favourite place to breathe and think. I’d love to say it’s a metaphor for clarity - but really, it just stinks. At least Minecraft windows still open.
Recovery feels like regret stacked on regret: my knees burn, my wallet bleeds, my coping is gone. I grieve everything at once. Yet in the smallest moments - wearing shorts, playing games, hearing my son say he missed me - I know regret says “go back,” but I’m still moving forward.
Sorting my clothes in recovery AGAIN isn’t a cute “new wardrobe” montage. It’s expensive, exhausting, and a reminder of how fast my body’s changing. I’m saying goodbye to trousers I wore Tuesday, selling Jellycats to afford leggings, and discovering even Primark sizing plays cruel games.
Some days in recovery feel pointless, exhausting, and harder than starving ever did. But then a good day sneaks in - iced coffee, Lego, laughter with my son - and reminds me why I keep going. Yesterday didn’t fix everything, but it made another flat day in recovery bearable.
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.
Buying clothes in recovery isn’t a glow-up montage - it’s a fight with Clippy, grief over leggings you've burst out of, and a quest to not be bottomless in Lidl. But somehow, in navy and Nike Air Max, I’m finding pieces of myself again. Not just clothes - breadcrumbs back to who I used to be.
I resisted for years. No Premium. No corporate sellout. Just me, my adblock, and stubborn principles - until YouTube broke my spirit at 4am with a Dutch ice cream ad in the middle of my 10-hour rain video. I cracked. I paid. I am now part of the problem. Enjoy my descent.
Good Friday: cluster headache edition. I fought through pain, ED brain, and Supreme Court crap to buy necklaces and dress a bear in protest gear. Was it all good? No. Did I make it fun anyway? Somehow. Biscoff the Bear is now a political figure. I am simply unraveling.
Today was meant to be restful, but my brain woke me up yelling “BOOTS!” like it was a threat. I got my meds, made my bear a bowtie, and ignored all signs of needing to lie down. A cortisol-fuelled quest, featuring pigeons, macramé, and one very overdressed bear.
Absurd Universe 