Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Christmas felt like survival mode. I kept moving, eating what functioned, resting when I could. The Long Dark made sense when nothing else did: stay fed, stay hydrated, don’t bleed out, wait. Somehow I survived the cougar, the days, the quiet apocalypse, and kept going, even when hope flickered briefly.
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.
Depression is a black hole, pulling everything in while forcefully ejecting emotions you thought you’d buried. It corrupts time, leaving the good unreachable and the bad amplified. But even here, in the void, I know the bird of hope is alive. I can’t hear it yet, but it’s still singing.
Absurd Universe 