Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
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.
Recovery isn’t linear. Sometimes you cry over beans while getting emotionally slapped like Chris Rock at the Oscars—by grief, rage, and trauma. This is a story about relapse, cheese, corrupted Clippy, and why I’m still doing recovery anyway. I didn't feel like I won. But I ate the beans.
Friday was a hard day (well, it became two). I’m in early recovery from an anorexia relapse. There were CHAOS GREMLIN Biscoff binges and zero sleep—but also moments of clarity, love, bears, bath bombs, and reminders of why I’m still trying.
Three years ago, I gave up drawing because of pain that felt like a heart attack. Now, in the middle of a relapse—and a storm—I picked up a pencil again. This post is about art, disability, grief, and the terrifying hope that maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to let go again.
Recovery isn’t just about eating the food—it’s about the mental war behind it. This week, I challenged Clippy and pushed past fear foods, even if I cried after. It’s messy and exhausting, but I’m doing it slowly, in a way that works for my body. That still counts.
I reached my goal weight, and I lost everything. My joy, my passions, the parts of me that made life feel real. I thought it would make things better. It didn’t. Nothing is better here. Clippy lied — and I miss the version of me I was before I listened.
Took 25,000 IU of vitamin D and my body said “no thanks” by collapsing, rash included. Spent Mother’s Day shrimped on the sofa, ragey and weak. Still ate food. Still cried. Still blogging. Recovery arc: glitchy. Perfectionism can piss off—I’ve got knees that fold and a blog backlog now.
I took the biggest D known to man—25,000 IU of swamp-flavoured regret—and somehow, today felt better. Between the compression leggings, noise-cancelling headphones, and bravery it took to put cheese in beans, I found a moment of calm. Not cured, just coping—with a little penguin, some wax melts, and hope.
Prioritising myself isn’t just a cute wellness trend—it’s necessary. Recovery isn’t waiting for perfect conditions; it’s making it work in reality. I’ve started structuring my days around what I want, creating comfort, and finding support in new places. It’s helping—but prioritising yourself isn’t always easy, or without grief.
I went from ultra-controlled to absolute chaos goblin in seconds. My body took over, demanding everything it had been denied. Peanut butter, Biscoff, sandwiches, cereal—MORE, MORE, MORE. And for the first time in a year, I was full. Then came the regret, the panic, and a realisation: something has to change.
Absurd Universe 