Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Turning 42 wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. Between cramps, cancelled plans, free Starbucks, Jellycat penguins, and Biscoff cake, I found glimmers I didn’t think I’d feel again. Even though the gold didn’t last all night, it existed - and that alone felt like a tiny miracle in the dark.
I’m not okay right now — I’m tired, hormonal, broke, and held together by scaffolding, pistachios, and spite. But even in the mess, little lights keep showing up: cursed toothpaste, shiny bargain-bin hair, and Squigeon still visiting me through the net. It’s not much, but it’s something.
After a night of The Bad Thoughts™️, I planned a calm day of blogging, coffee, and Greggs. Instead, I faced the NHS boss level. Between hold music, bureaucracy, and a mixed episode, I somehow survived - Festive Bake in hand, chaos intact, still hoping for Schrödinger’s tomorrow.
For years, Christmas food ambushed me with grief. This time, buying a Festive Bake felt different. I still miss her fiercely, but the memories came with warmth, not only pain. I tasted pastry and remembered laughter, comfort, and love. Somehow, joy returned - quietly, wrapped in white Greggs paper.
I went for an ultrasound convinced my swollen lymph nodes were planning my demise, only to be told they’re just dramatic and like to stay enlarged for fun. I still haven’t felt the relief, but I did get kindness brownies, deep chats with my son, and a strangely good day out of it.
Tomorrow I have a scan, so today I cleaned my kitchen and tried to quiet the chaos in my head. Time is slipping or stretching—I can’t tell. My mixed episode dials me up to 9000, but at least future-me will come home to a little order and one small mercy.
I woke up hungover from a binge, full of regret, and went to buy a Greggs sausage roll. It didn’t heal me, but it was an act of not giving up. Recovery isn’t light breaking through clouds—it’s staying alive through entropy, bear biscuits, and the black dog’s chaos.
My windows are replaced but there’s rubble everywhere - literal dust, emotional debris, and the remains of a routine I’m rebuilding. Recovery isn’t about waiting for life to calm down; it’s cleaning as you go. Sometimes that means hoovering the dust. Sometimes it means making the burrito.
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.
Monday threw me three curveballs - Covid recovery, a bed bug letter, and surprise new windows - and somehow I’m still standing. I keep doing things I don’t know how I’m doing: eating through pain, cleaning through panic, surviving chaos on adrenaline and sarcasm. Three strikes, but I’m not out.
Absurd Universe 