Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Recovery hasn’t been quiet. It’s been relentless, painful, and full of Biscoff-fuelled chaos. I’ve eaten over maintenance for two weeks straight, cried through meals, and battled rapid weight gain and oedema - but I’m still here. Not thriving, maybe. But surviving. Even when I really, really don’t want to.
We planned a soft day, but the universe sent us to minor injuries instead. My son’s foot was crunchy (yes, really), and this post captures everything from NHS chaos to waiting room characters, a Crunchie bar craving, and the strange way a detour turned into a whole story.
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.
Bartholomew Bear Junior arrived during a rough week, and brought more comfort than I expected. A tiny bear with big softness, sent when I needed it most. I’m so grateful to Jellycat for the kindness - and to Biscoff, who’s learning how to be a big brother, crumbs and all.
This is the messy middle — not crisis, not triumph. Just limbo. A breath held. A rope bridge swaying in wind I can’t control. I’m scared, not failing. I’m resting. Gathering strength. One day I’ll step forward. But today, I make camp. I make tea. And I don’t go back.
He doesn’t fix my pain, and I don’t ask him to - but his love still reaches me, even in the darkest spaces. My son has been the Sun in my universe lately, shining warmth and light on days that felt impossible. I keep orbiting because his light still finds me.
I resisted for years. No Premium. No corporate sellout. Just me, my adblock, and stubborn principles - until YouTube broke my spirit at 4am with a Dutch ice cream ad in the middle of my 10-hour rain video. I cracked. I paid. I am now part of the problem. Enjoy my descent.
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.
Recovery didn’t bring joy rushing back. It brought pain. Grief. The feelings I ran from. But I keep going- eating, walking, packing a Jellycat - because I want to be here when joy returns. Not the muted kind, but real joy. The kind that stays. The kind that wraps me in fluffiness.
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.
Absurd Universe 