Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
I’ve tried grief therapy. It didn’t work. This book - The Pretty Painful Grief Book - actually is. It doesn’t sugar-coat or preach. It just asks the right questions. Some of them hurt. Some made me cry. But they helped. This post is about how I’m using it, and why it matters.
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.
He doesn’t fix my pain, and I don’t ask him to - but his love still reaches me, even in the darkest spaces. My son has been the Sun in my universe lately, shining warmth and light on days that felt impossible. I keep orbiting because his light still finds me.
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.
Every time I eat, I feel her absence more. The last time I recovered, she was here. This time, she’s gone - and now the grief is louder than ever. I’m eating, I’m crying, I’m remembering. Recovery isn’t separating grief from food. It’s learning to carry both, one bite at a time.
Spirit City gave me something I didn’t know I needed - a quiet space where my digital self could sit, eat, cry, and heal beside me. It’s not just a game. It’s a soft place to land when the world is too loud. Recovery, raccoons, and rain sounds included.
I challenged a Macchiato at Starbucks today. It felt like fighting a raid boss with no healer—just me, my son, and two plushies. The drink was awful, but I did the thing. Recovery isn’t always rewarding. Sometimes it’s just surviving the fight. And sometimes, that is the reward.
I thought the bath would help. Galaxy glitter, soft water, space to breathe. Instead, the mirror warped, my legs felt like cement, and I didn’t recognise myself. Recovery is a circus, and this was the funhouse mirror moment. But I got out. I got dressed. I drank the macchiato.
Recovery isn’t about food—but here’s a recovery food post anyway. From boss battles in Greggs to Biscoff-fuelled defiance, I’ve been eating through the chaos. These aren’t aesthetic snack wins. They’re real, messy, funny little triumphs I fought for—sometimes while on fire. (Metaphorically. Mostly.)
Crying while macrameing a tiny bag for my Jellycat bear felt like the most “me in recovery” moment imaginable—grief, chaos, thread everywhere, but still trying to make something soft. I didn’t want to keep going, but my hands kept tying knots. Somehow, that felt like hope anyway.
Absurd Universe 