Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
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.
I never expected this. Jellycat reached out and sent me a surprise package—and not just a little keyring, but a full Jellycat haul! As someone who’s never been ‘picked’ for things, this meant more than just plushies. Here’s what they sent me—and why it mattered so much.
This week was chaos incarnate. I had MANY meltdowns, became an anti-capitalist hero via a magazine subscription app, my son delivered an epic BBC takedown, and I spent a lot of time hugging Jellycats—when they weren’t in quarantine. But somehow, I’m still here. And honestly? I’ll take that as a win.
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
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.
Absurd Universe 