Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Recovery from an eating disorder isn’t just about food — it’s about facing the four horsemen that appear along the way. These conditions once tried to throw me off course, but this post is about learning to understand them, live with them, and maybe one day guide where they go.
I’ve reached BMI 20, the supposed recovery finish line. But it isn’t the shore - it’s a life raft. Safe, but stuck. My body feels calm, yet inside I’m still battling Clippy and fear. Not dying isn’t the same as living, and staying afloat isn’t moving forward.
Pretty Painful Grief Letters doesn’t ask you to process or “move on.” It simply sits with you, honest and raw. Grief is lonely, but this book makes it a little less so — like having someone beside you who understands the ache without needing to fix it.
I thought starving would erase my anger, but it only buried it alive. When WeeGee died, my anger was grief with its teeth out. Recovery means I can’t run anymore. I have to sit with Angry Rhio, feed her anyway, and let her break me open.
Recovery feels like regret stacked on regret: my knees burn, my wallet bleeds, my coping is gone. I grieve everything at once. Yet in the smallest moments - wearing shorts, playing games, hearing my son say he missed me - I know regret says “go back,” but I’m still moving forward.
Recovery has been chaos — crying, swelling, and thigh muscles outgrowing knee sleeves. But between the spirals, I found soft moments: plush pigeons, macramé bows, iced coffee with my son. Small, silly joys that felt like little lights in the dark. Somehow, they’ve been enough to keep me going.
My son is one month on T. He’s becoming more himself every day, despite a world that tried to make that impossible. We’ve done this alone — through misgendering, medical neglect, and transphobia — but he’s still thriving. Not because of support, but in spite of its absence. He’s extraordinary.
Some days in recovery feel pointless, exhausting, and harder than starving ever did. But then a good day sneaks in - iced coffee, Lego, laughter with my son - and reminds me why I keep going. Yesterday didn’t fix everything, but it made another flat day in recovery bearable.
I bought the Starbucks. I blogged. I showed up. I did the things that are supposed to help. But sometimes self-care feels like shouting into a black mirror - a screen that only reflects your own tired face back at you. And still, people ask if you’ve tried yoga.
Recovery isn’t soft lighting and healing crystals. It’s grief. It’s crying in Asda over leggings that no longer fit. It’s showing up for meals you don’t want. It’s rage, numbness, hunger, and hope tangled together. I’m not healed - but I’m trying. And that trying is what healing really looks like.
Absurd Universe 