Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
I thought “sitting with the discomfort” would feel calm, controlled, maybe even empowering. It doesn’t. It feels repetitive, frustrating, and loud. Like arguing with myself every day over the same things. And still, despite all of that, I keep choosing to stay and do it anyway, even when it feels impossible.
I don’t track because I love control. I track because, at 42, I’m done waiting for “eventually.” My body doesn’t run on hope or slogans. It runs on structure. Scaffolding isn’t glamorous, but neither is pretending I don’t need it. This is about longevity, not perfection.
Recovery from an eating disorder isn’t just about food — it’s about facing the four horsemen that appear along the way. These conditions once tried to throw me off course, but this post is about learning to understand them, live with them, and maybe one day guide where they go.
Pretty Painful Grief Letters doesn’t ask you to process or “move on.” It simply sits with you, honest and raw. Grief is lonely, but this book makes it a little less so — like having someone beside you who understands the ache without needing to fix it.
Twelve years in recovery, and I still wore clothes like camouflage. Now, in relapse recovery, my body changes daily—and suddenly I have to ask: who am I dressing for? Who have I ever been? This time, I’m choosing clothes that fit me, not just physically, but the parts I buried to survive.
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.
On Day 4 of recovery, I gained 3kg and lost the ability to pretend I’m not grieving. Weight, for me, is a unit of time. I didn’t just gain kilos - I got dragged further from my best friend, who isn’t in this future. And today, I finally felt it.
I reached my goal weight, and I lost everything. My joy, my passions, the parts of me that made life feel real. I thought it would make things better. It didn’t. Nothing is better here. Clippy lied — and I miss the version of me I was before I listened.
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.
Absurd Universe 