Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Three years ago, I gave up drawing because of pain that felt like a heart attack. Now, in the middle of a relapse—and a storm—I picked up a pencil again. This post is about art, disability, grief, and the terrifying hope that maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to let go again.
Recovery isn’t just about eating the food—it’s about the mental war behind it. This week, I challenged Clippy and pushed past fear foods, even if I cried after. It’s messy and exhausting, but I’m doing it slowly, in a way that works for my body. That still counts.
I reached my goal weight, and I lost everything. My joy, my passions, the parts of me that made life feel real. I thought it would make things better. It didn’t. Nothing is better here. Clippy lied — and I miss the version of me I was before I listened.
I took the biggest D known to man—25,000 IU of swamp-flavoured regret—and somehow, today felt better. Between the compression leggings, noise-cancelling headphones, and bravery it took to put cheese in beans, I found a moment of calm. Not cured, just coping—with a little penguin, some wax melts, and hope.
Prioritising myself isn’t just a cute wellness trend—it’s necessary. Recovery isn’t waiting for perfect conditions; it’s making it work in reality. I’ve started structuring my days around what I want, creating comfort, and finding support in new places. It’s helping—but prioritising yourself isn’t always easy, or without grief.
I went from ultra-controlled to absolute chaos goblin in seconds. My body took over, demanding everything it had been denied. Peanut butter, Biscoff, sandwiches, cereal—MORE, MORE, MORE. And for the first time in a year, I was full. Then came the regret, the panic, and a realisation: something has to change.
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.
Today’s mission: obtain cheesy hot cross buns, lose yet another psychiatrist, and try not to lose my mind in the process. Clippy is feral, the NHS is playing musical chairs, and my son and I are both running on fumes. At least Beean Beeale had fun. Priorities: coffee, pickles, and survival.
Absurd Universe 