Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
I made jars of sweets filled with memories — my nan’s Quality Street, WeeGee’s Jellytots, and buttery biscuits that felt like home. These aren’t just snacks. They’re comfort, legacy, and a little bit of healing in every wrapper. Sometimes recovery is sugar-coated — and maybe that’s exactly what I needed
Recovery didn’t start with a grand moment. It started with panic, meltdowns, grocery aisles, excitement and a macchiato. Day One wasn’t perfect — but it was mine. I fought for my life in small rebellions: biscuits, salad bowls, olives, and coffee. It was messy, brave, terrifying — and beautifully, finally, real.
This isn't a choice, it's a vow. I'm not doing this because it's easy or aesthetic - I'm doing it because I refuse to stay lost. Anorexia recovery is hell. It always was. But I'm done putting my toe in the water. I'm swearing to fight for myself. No illusions. Lets jump in head first.
ED Recovery is a superposition - I’m in and out of it at the same time. Sometimes I’m brave, sometimes the chaos goblin makes me eat half a block of cheese and I feel shame. Sometimes I want to crawl back into the paperclip arms of Clippy. Tonight though? I made peanut butter toast without spiralling.
I didn’t expect to feel her again. But there she was — in a glimmer on the pavement, in two ducks blocking the path, in my chest where grief lives. For the first time in years, I felt her presence instead of her absence. Like maybe… we’re still walking together.
I’m trying to recover from my anorexia relapse. For this week’s challenge, I’m increasing my intake with tea and biscuits—using the only safe food memories I have from childhood to help me. Alongside the nostalgia and my favourite custard creams, Biscoff the bear is here with his usual fluffy emotional support.
After everything I carried through Good Friday, I wanted to share something softer—what I gave to my son, to Biscoff the Bear, and (reluctantly) to myself. These gifts aren’t just things. They’re care. They’re love. They’re survival in a crinkly Percy Pig bag and a bear mug with tea in it
Good Friday: cluster headache edition. I fought through pain, ED brain, and Supreme Court crap to buy necklaces and dress a bear in protest gear. Was it all good? No. Did I make it fun anyway? Somehow. Biscoff the Bear is now a political figure. I am simply unraveling.
I drew another reason to recover from my anorexia relapse. I want to recover from my relapse, To be more present with you — Like when we had slushies at Krispy Kreme. That memory alone Is worth fighting on through.
Restriction doesn’t just mute pain—it steals joy too. I lose my presence, my art, my immersion in games and love. Clippy’s hand offers silence from grief, but it silences everything else as well. Recovery means feeling again—and sometimes, feeling is the boulder I can’t get out from under.
Absurd Universe 