Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
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.
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.
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.
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.
During one of the hardest weeks of my life, my son handed me a purple Liberty bag with a Jellycat bear inside. This is the story of Enfys — a rainbow in bear form — and how she reminded me I’m loved, even when I can’t feel it.
Good Friday: cluster headache edition. I fought through pain, ED brain, and Supreme Court crap to buy necklaces and dress a bear in protest gear. Was it all good? No. Did I make it fun anyway? Somehow. Biscoff the Bear is now a political figure. I am simply unraveling.
Biscoff the Bear has arrived, and frankly, he’s the best decision I’ve ever made mid-breakdown. He’s soft. He’s chonky. He’s emotionally supportive and doesn’t judge my reactive Biscoff binges. He even has his own jar. 10/10 life coach. Would cuddle again.
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 