Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Woken by my GP and a ringtone loud enough to break the dead, I found out my liver enzymes are high and my lymph nodes still swollen. I didn’t feel much about it. Just took Sticky Junior to the doctors and kept eating sausage rolls like nothing’s wrong. Maybe nothing is.
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 soft lighting and healing crystals. It’s grief. It’s crying in Asda over leggings that no longer fit. It’s showing up for meals you don’t want. It’s rage, numbness, hunger, and hope tangled together. I’m not healed - but I’m trying. And that trying is what healing really looks like.
Join me on the anorexia struggle bus: where recovery is messy, the rules are ridiculous, and Clippy wears a different-coloured cape. I’m unravelling extreme hunger, joy restriction, and righteous fury - one cursed bus stop at a time. It’s chaotic, it’s honest, and yes, there are emergency Lidl trips involved.
Recovery hasn’t been quiet. It’s been relentless, painful, and full of Biscoff-fuelled chaos. I’ve eaten over maintenance for two weeks straight, cried through meals, and battled rapid weight gain and oedema - but I’m still here. Not thriving, maybe. But surviving. Even when I really, really don’t want to.
It’s getting hot in here — and not just because my Bose headphones nearly caught fire. Between summer heat, rapid weight gain, and the chaos of recovery, I’m just trying to survive with giant T-shirts, Lidl air-con, and emotional support Biscoff. This is me, showing up, sweat and all.
I didn’t follow the rules. I didn’t eat 2500 a day or stop moving. But I still gained weight—fast. My period came back. My knees hurt. My thighs exploded. This isn’t pretty recovery. It’s painful, swollen, and constant. And yet, I keep walking. Even when I don’t want to.
I didn’t want sympathy, I just didn’t want to disappear again. These swollen glands might be nothing, but the peanut butter of resistance night? That was everything. A step off the rope bridge. I want to bring you with me — with balloons, and peanut butter, and something like hope.
This is the messy middle — not crisis, not triumph. Just limbo. A breath held. A rope bridge swaying in wind I can’t control. I’m scared, not failing. I’m resting. Gathering strength. One day I’ll step forward. But today, I make camp. I make tea. And I don’t go back.
Burnt out from recovery, grief, and just existing, I hit a wall - and my body hit back. This is the day I didn’t plan to rest, but had to. From chaos drawers and cereal trails to wax melts and Super Salads, this was the day off I was forced to take.
Absurd Universe 