Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
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
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.
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.
Cluster headaches aren’t migraines — they’re worse. This post isn’t medical advice; it’s my lived experience inside one of the most painful, misunderstood conditions out there. Written mid-episode, with humour, rage, and the occasional ridiculous t-shirt, this is what it means to be diagnosed with Cluster Headaches.
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
Today was meant to be restful, but my brain woke me up yelling “BOOTS!” like it was a threat. I got my meds, made my bear a bowtie, and ignored all signs of needing to lie down. A cortisol-fuelled quest, featuring pigeons, macramé, and one very overdressed bear.
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 