Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
I didn’t follow the rules. I didn’t eat 2500 a day or stop moving. But I still gained weight—fast. My period came back. My knees hurt. My thighs exploded. This isn’t pretty recovery. It’s painful, swollen, and constant. And yet, I keep walking. Even when I don’t want to.
I didn’t want sympathy, I just didn’t want to disappear again. These swollen glands might be nothing, but the peanut butter of resistance night? That was everything. A step off the rope bridge. I want to bring you with me — with balloons, and peanut butter, and something like hope.
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.
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.
Recovery today was a pick ‘n’ mix: bipolar highs, Lidl bakery lows, and a Jellycat bear walk in between. I challenged Greggs and pain au raisin, surfed a mixed episode, and somehow still ate dinner. It’s not linear, but I’m still here — with biscuits and bear in hand.
Recovery isn’t just about food—it’s about everything that not eating kept buried. On Day 10, grief, bipolar symptoms, trauma, and even sinusitis hit all at once. I tried to fix it all, fast. But recovery isn’t Pipe Dream. I can’t stop the leaks—I have to survive the flood.
Recovery with bipolar isn’t just hard—it’s a war between two dark sides. Anorexia gives stability. Eating gives chaos. I fight Darth Bipolar every time I eat. There’s no lightsaber, no peace, just me—dragging myself through it, hoping it’s worth it. Maybe the only way out… is through
Absurd Universe 