Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
I went for an ultrasound convinced my swollen lymph nodes were planning my demise, only to be told they’re just dramatic and like to stay enlarged for fun. I still haven’t felt the relief, but I did get kindness brownies, deep chats with my son, and a strangely good day out of it.
It’s been over two weeks and I’m STILL trying to recover from Covid. The fatigue, headaches, pain, digestive chaos, and random coughing fits just won’t quit. And while I’m recovering from Covid, I’m also recovering from my eating disorder - and, apparently, from life itself, because this week came with even more stress piled on …
Continue reading Mostly Wordless Wednesday – The Minecraft House I REALLY Want To Escape To
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.
Some days in recovery feel pointless, exhausting, and harder than starving ever did. But then a good day sneaks in - iced coffee, Lego, laughter with my son - and reminds me why I keep going. Yesterday didn’t fix everything, but it made another flat day in recovery bearable.
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.
I didn’t follow the rules. I didn’t eat 2500 a day or stop moving. But I still gained weight—fast. My period came back. My knees hurt. My thighs exploded. This isn’t pretty recovery. It’s painful, swollen, and constant. And yet, I keep walking. Even when I don’t want to.
I thought the bath would help. Galaxy glitter, soft water, space to breathe. Instead, the mirror warped, my legs felt like cement, and I didn’t recognise myself. Recovery is a circus, and this was the funhouse mirror moment. But I got out. I got dressed. I drank the macchiato.
Crying while macrameing a tiny bag for my Jellycat bear felt like the most “me in recovery” moment imaginable—grief, chaos, thread everywhere, but still trying to make something soft. I didn’t want to keep going, but my hands kept tying knots. Somehow, that felt like hope anyway.
Recovery today was a pick ‘n’ mix: bipolar highs, Lidl bakery lows, and a Jellycat bear walk in between. I challenged Greggs and pain au raisin, surfed a mixed episode, and somehow still ate dinner. It’s not linear, but I’m still here — with biscuits and bear in hand.
On Day 4 of recovery, I gained 3kg and lost the ability to pretend I’m not grieving. Weight, for me, is a unit of time. I didn’t just gain kilos - I got dragged further from my best friend, who isn’t in this future. And today, I finally felt it.
Absurd Universe 