Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
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.
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.
I thought gaining muscle would make me feel strong. It didn’t—not like I expected. Instead, it cracked open questions about identity, womanhood, and trauma I didn’t know I was carrying. This isn’t just a post about thighs or weight gain. It’s about the weight of becoming someone new.
Buying clothes in recovery isn’t a glow-up montage - it’s a fight with Clippy, grief over leggings you've burst out of, and a quest to not be bottomless in Lidl. But somehow, in navy and Nike Air Max, I’m finding pieces of myself again. Not just clothes - breadcrumbs back to who I used to be.
Twelve years in recovery, and I still wore clothes like camouflage. Now, in relapse recovery, my body changes daily—and suddenly I have to ask: who am I dressing for? Who have I ever been? This time, I’m choosing clothes that fit me, not just physically, but the parts I buried to survive.
Recovery is hard, but Biscoff helps. From ice cream to iced lattes, each bite fights back against my eating disorder, Clippy. These sweet, caramelised moments aren’t just food - they’re acts of rebellion, comfort, and joy. Come join me (and Biscoff the Bear) as I put the scoff in Biscoff.
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.
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.
Absurd Universe 