I thought starving would erase my anger, but it only buried it alive. When WeeGee died, my anger was grief with its teeth out. Recovery means I can’t run anymore. I have to sit with Angry Rhio, feed her anyway, and let her break me open.
Tag: eating disorder
I’m Feeling the Whiplash of a Bad Day in Recovery
Recovery isn’t a straight line — it’s whiplash. Some days I can eat without thinking, others every bite feels like a fight. I delay meals, restrict without meaning to, and feel crushed by my body’s weight. It’s like crash-landing from space, suddenly aware of gravity pressing on everything.
Oui, Je Regrette Tout – Yes, I Regret Everything
Recovery feels like regret stacked on regret: my knees burn, my wallet bleeds, my coping is gone. I grieve everything at once. Yet in the smallest moments - wearing shorts, playing games, hearing my son say he missed me - I know regret says “go back,” but I’m still moving forward.
A Day in the Life of Being Spectacularly Wrong
Today was a masterclass in being spectacularly wrong - from misreading dates to creating chaos worthy of a sitcom. Between ADHD brain noise, accidental drama, and Clippy-level self-critique, I somehow still found joy in coffee, pastries, and my son’s laughter. A disaster? Yes. But a warm, funny one.
Schrodingers Trousers (And Other Recovery Realities)
Sorting my clothes in recovery AGAIN isn’t a cute “new wardrobe” montage. It’s expensive, exhausting, and a reminder of how fast my body’s changing. I’m saying goodbye to trousers I wore Tuesday, selling Jellycats to afford leggings, and discovering even Primark sizing plays cruel games.
Little Lights in the Dark – Pigeons, Bows and Silver Linings
Recovery has been chaos — crying, swelling, and thigh muscles outgrowing knee sleeves. But between the spirals, I found soft moments: plush pigeons, macramé bows, iced coffee with my son. Small, silly joys that felt like little lights in the dark. Somehow, they’ve been enough to keep me going.
The Weight of Getting Better – Creatine, Coping Mechanisms and Leaky Cells.
Being sick in recovery forced me to stop, and without distractions, all I could do was feel. Getting better meant facing my changing body, creatine panic, oedema, and weight gain — all at once. And through it all, I realised something: coping mechanisms work so well, they stopped me from coping.
WHAM! Hit by a Bus on the Road to Recovery
Sick, starving, and betrayed by a single Biscoff biscuit, I’ve been trying to navigate recovery while my digestive system does parkour. Extreme hunger didn’t get the memo that I’m ill. Meanwhile, Clippy’s screaming about productivity, and Lidl’s haunted canoe won’t leave. Healing’s wild. No one warned me about buses.
Yesterday Made Recovery Feel Worth It.
Some days in recovery feel pointless, exhausting, and harder than starving ever did. But then a good day sneaks in - iced coffee, Lego, laughter with my son - and reminds me why I keep going. Yesterday didn’t fix everything, but it made another flat day in recovery bearable.
The Lymph Nodes, the Liver Enzymes and the Lack of Caring.
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.
Absurd Universe 