Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
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.
Grief is a wave function. It runs in the background, unseen, until it collapses. I held mine off for years to be strong for my son. But after 2023, it caught up with me — and I’m still petrified. Grief, love, fear — it’s all tangled. And this isn’t even everything.
Frankie Frog, my son’s Build-a-Bear, became a harbinger of connection during a dark year of grief and relapse. We threw him a birthday party with cake, sandwiches, and Froggy wine. He’s more than a plushie — he’s comfort, chaos, and a reminder that love and joy persist, even through the fog.
Grief and relapse go hand in hand. The person I’d turn to for strength is the one I’m grieving. I’ve retreated into survival mode — the airlock, as I call it. It numbs the grief and quiets my thoughts, but it’s a trap. Right now? It’s where I am
When my psychiatrist appointment was cancelled during a mental health crisis, I felt adrift. Instead of spiraling, I escaped to Cardiff—a place that usually feels like home. This is about frustration, yes, but also continuing to keep on keeping on when the system fails to show up.
These new Jellycats aren’t just adorable— they’re symbols of love, and the light my space baby brings even near the black hole of depression. From Sir Isaac pondering the gravity of peanuts to adorably caffeinated plushie coffees, they remind me that together, we transcend space, time, and darkness.
In the quiet chaos of ED recovery, one bowl of cheesy beans becomes a battle cry. From airlocks and equilibrium to the bittersweet flood of emotions, this is a story of nourishment, resilience, and small victories that taste like hope. A journey back to life, one cheesey bean at a time.
Navigating life near a depression black hole, I find hope in small moments: pigeons at my window, a Blueberry fan club, and physics books that ground me. Even when it feels impossible, these moments remind me who I am — a person who celebrates love, connection, and the light within
Navigating life with an eating disorder feels like being trapped in an airlock, caught between the crushing pull of a black hole and the safety of my ship. Recovery is about survival, fear, and the hard choices to step through pain for freedom. Let’s explore the illusion of the airlocks safety together.
Absurd Universe 