Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
I woke up in a panic, handled NHS frustrations better than usual, found comfort in Starbucks and plushies, and ended the day very on-brand with an existential crisis over my medication increase. Don’t know why I’m hoping—so fucking naive. Falling for the promise of the emptiness machine.
It took two days to get an emergency dentist appointment, which gave Corrupted Clippy—my eating disordered thoughts—full reign. I could barely eat, and Clippy was LOVING it. Even after the dentist, it whispered, “What a shame you can’t eat. Guilt-free restriction!” I shook my head. Shut up, Clippy.
This week was chaos incarnate. I had MANY meltdowns, became an anti-capitalist hero via a magazine subscription app, my son delivered an epic BBC takedown, and I spent a lot of time hugging Jellycats—when they weren’t in quarantine. But somehow, I’m still here. And honestly? I’ll take that as a win.
Self care is supposed to help you feel better, but when you’re battling depression, it can feel like a chore with little payoff. I created Pinterest-worthy spaces and tried everything, but the crash still came. At least now I know: it’s better to cry in a cosy haven.
Absurd Universe 