Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
A bad perimenopause day becomes an argument with my OCD, a hunt for missing medication and a walk through town feeling more like my shadow than myself. Somewhere between Welsh graffiti, questionable mental health advice and Corrupted Clippy offering an escape hatch, I decide to eat the Katsu chicken bake anyway.
Four hours of sleep, one mysteriously functional window and the return of the Invisible Surveyor. Between housing chaos and a surprisingly useful doctor’s appointment, I think about anxiety, OCD, perimenopause, grief, recovery and the strange guilt of resting - before retreating back to Night City with Greggs and exhaustion.
On Tuesday, all I had to do was go to the dentist. Instead, I got caught in a torrential downpour, emergency-shopped for a jacket, bought suspiciously specific DIY tools, declared war on a sofa, accidentally created a rage room, cleaned up a communal bin room disaster, and somehow still thought that was normal.
Sometimes when I wake up, my anxiety wakes up first. Before I’ve even opened my eyes my brain is already spiralling about weight, Welsh elections, quantum mechanics and whether Biscoff spread contains enough energy to power a small nation. By the end of the day, seagulls, Starbucks and my son helped ground me again.
My son turned 21 and we celebrated with pizza-induced drama, frog merchandise, half-term crowd navigation, a Primark queue redemption arc, and Biscoff Welsh cakes shaped like butts. There were meltdowns, Maple Leafs, pigeons on trains, and cavolo nero. In other words: completely on brand.
A day in Cardiff for appointments, coffee, and small joys - Lego dragons, plushies, and people-watching - followed by the quieter truth that comes after. A reminder that good days are real, home matters, and sometimes the recovery lasts longer than the outing itself.
Absurd Universe 