A day in Cardiff with my son: blood tests, NHS rage, plushies, coffee, and the reminder that recovery — though exhausting — is worth it. We celebrated with bath bombs and bears, laughed at cathedral flats, and found light in the dark, together.
Tag: mental health support
Sorry This Post Went Rogue – A Recovery Update
I meant to write a neat recovery update. Instead, the post went rogue - just like recovery itself. Stability at BMI 20 hasn’t silenced Clippy or erased grief, but it’s brought real wins too: no more chaos hunger, a steadier heart, and even glutes that make sitting easier.
The Myth of Magical Healing Fat (and Other Protein Myths in Recovery, With Science)
Protein isn’t diet culture. It’s survival fuel. In recovery, fat gain matters — but lean mass matters too: bones, heart, muscle, even your brain. Fat doesn’t magically turn into lean mass. Only food, especially protein, rebuilds you. Recovery is bodybuilding, whether you like the sound of it or not.
I’m Feeling the Whiplash of a Bad Day in Recovery
Recovery isn’t a straight line — it’s whiplash. Some days I can eat without thinking, others every bite feels like a fight. I delay meals, restrict without meaning to, and feel crushed by my body’s weight. It’s like crash-landing from space, suddenly aware of gravity pressing on everything.
Schrodingers Trousers (And Other Recovery Realities)
Sorting my clothes in recovery AGAIN isn’t a cute “new wardrobe” montage. It’s expensive, exhausting, and a reminder of how fast my body’s changing. I’m saying goodbye to trousers I wore Tuesday, selling Jellycats to afford leggings, and discovering even Primark sizing plays cruel games.
Little Lights in the Dark – Pigeons, Bows and Silver Linings
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.
WHAM! Hit by a Bus on the Road to Recovery
Sick, starving, and betrayed by a single Biscoff biscuit, I’ve been trying to navigate recovery while my digestive system does parkour. Extreme hunger didn’t get the memo that I’m ill. Meanwhile, Clippy’s screaming about productivity, and Lidl’s haunted canoe won’t leave. Healing’s wild. No one warned me about buses.
The Lymph Nodes, the Liver Enzymes and the Lack of Caring.
Woken by my GP and a ringtone loud enough to break the dead, I found out my liver enzymes are high and my lymph nodes still swollen. I didn’t feel much about it. Just took Sticky Junior to the doctors and kept eating sausage rolls like nothing’s wrong. Maybe nothing is.
The Night We Grieved Everything All At Once
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.
All Aboard the Recovery Struggle Bus
Join me on the anorexia struggle bus: where recovery is messy, the rules are ridiculous, and Clippy wears a different-coloured cape. I’m unravelling extreme hunger, joy restriction, and righteous fury - one cursed bus stop at a time. It’s chaotic, it’s honest, and yes, there are emergency Lidl trips involved.
Absurd Universe 