Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Grief therapy is over, but my depression isn’t. I try to hold onto the things that used to bring me joy, but they slip through my fingers. I keep surviving, but it doesn’t feel like living. The lights are dimming, but I’m still reaching—hoping to find the switch one day.
Grief therapy has made me realise how much I’ve hidden parts of myself out of fear. This week, I’m challenging that. I’m sharing my truth, sitting with my emotions, and letting people misunderstand me if they choose to. It’s time to stop being ashamed of my rock—one stone at a time.
My son’s 20th birthday was filled with brownies, Jellycat bears, and love — but also an exhausting battle with my depression. I gave everything I had to make his day special, even when my mind was fighting me every step of the way. He smiled all day. I just wish I could’ve felt it too.
Imagine sitting in the metaphorical waiting room for therapy, convinced your name will never be called. Then suddenly, it is — and an hour later, you’ve had massive realisations about grief, silence, and finding yourself again. My first grief therapy session was unexpectedly eventful, and it’s just the beginning.
Escaping to Seren felt like the only thing to do while waiting to see if my crumbling tooth situation could get any worse. The Roost was warm, the coffee pixelated but still comforting. I was alone—until my son arrived, bringing life to my island, and a much-needed distraction.
When everything crumbled — blood tests, eating disorder relapse, endless chaos — I leaned into maximum entropy. Physics couldn’t fix it, but it made sense of the mess. So, while our universe succumbed to entropy, I bleached my son’s hair. Order emerged in the chaos, his hair flawless, my new Jellycat pig, Hamilton, watching.
Greggs was my safe haven—until Corrupted Clippy hijacked it. Standing at the pastry counter, dread replaced joy. My eating disorder, unnoticed for weeks, now controlled me in ways I couldn’t deny. I’m grieving not just food, but the pieces of myself it’s quietly stolen. A fight I didn’t see coming
Squidgeon and Goose arrived in my life during a time when grief and isolation felt overwhelming. They perched on my windowsill, not just as birds, but as little carriers of hope. Through their antics, trust, and fluffy presence, they reminded me that even in loneliness, connection can unexpectedly find you.
I woke up with one simple goal: put the washing away. Instead, I found myself crying in a pile of clothes while my brain played the “Greatest Hits of My Failures.” Laundry Mountain loomed large, my ribs hurt, and the chaos felt endless. Why is something so small, so hard?
I still visit you through your blog, your home in the digital world. The world got darker when you left, but you’re still a constant guiding light. I light this candle for you — not as a goodbye, but as a hello again. You’re always with me. I miss you.
Absurd Universe 