Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
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.
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.
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.
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.
I didn’t want sympathy, I just didn’t want to disappear again. These swollen glands might be nothing, but the peanut butter of resistance night? That was everything. A step off the rope bridge. I want to bring you with me — with balloons, and peanut butter, and something like hope.
This is the messy middle — not crisis, not triumph. Just limbo. A breath held. A rope bridge swaying in wind I can’t control. I’m scared, not failing. I’m resting. Gathering strength. One day I’ll step forward. But today, I make camp. I make tea. And I don’t go back.
He doesn’t fix my pain, and I don’t ask him to - but his love still reaches me, even in the darkest spaces. My son has been the Sun in my universe lately, shining warmth and light on days that felt impossible. I keep orbiting because his light still finds me.
I resisted for years. No Premium. No corporate sellout. Just me, my adblock, and stubborn principles - until YouTube broke my spirit at 4am with a Dutch ice cream ad in the middle of my 10-hour rain video. I cracked. I paid. I am now part of the problem. Enjoy my descent.
Absurd Universe 