Today marks six years since my best friend WeeGee died. It’s the first year I’ve lived this anniversary without running away from it. So my son and I went out to do all the things she loved - coffee, candles, little gifts - carrying her with me in every small joy.

Being sedated has made mindfulness accidentally achievable. My brain is finally quiet enough to exist without spiralling. It won’t last, and I know that, but for now I’m living inside the stillness — decorating my base, rescuing teddy bears, and letting slowness be enough.

In psychiatric waiting rooms, time doesn’t move forward; it pools. Medication becomes another chair, another number called eventually. You wait inside your body while side effects pass like weather. The work is not fixing anything, only staying warm, fed, and alive until the fog lifts. Surviving and creating meaning while you wait.

Christmas felt like survival mode. I kept moving, eating what functioned, resting when I could. The Long Dark made sense when nothing else did: stay fed, stay hydrated, don’t bleed out, wait. Somehow I survived the cougar, the days, the quiet apocalypse, and kept going, even when hope flickered briefly.

I look well. I even look strong. But what’s visible isn’t the whole story. Recovery doesn’t move in straight lines, and strength doesn’t guarantee capacity. Some battles leave no marks at all. Sometimes staying upright is the work, and sometimes that means being still to gather strength.

A day in Cardiff for appointments, coffee, and small joys - Lego dragons, plushies, and people-watching - followed by the quieter truth that comes after. A reminder that good days are real, home matters, and sometimes the recovery lasts longer than the outing itself.

I’m done shrinking myself for people who never actually saw me. This is the story of why I left the wrong room, reclaimed my voice, and renamed my blog. Goodbye Seren Bear. Hello Absurd Universe—where I write with my whole self, rock visible, no more sanding down the truth.

Meaning once came easily to me - through motherhood, physics, rain, creativity. When I lost it after losing WeeGee and my son growing up, everything felt empty. This is my attempt to trace that disappearance, the monotony that followed, and the brief, rain soaked moment meaning returned when my son’s glasses broke.

A real “what I eat in a day” from a 42-year-old in recovery who hates Greek yoghurt, needs 150g of protein, and lives on big bowls of food and nightly quark rituals. Not advice, just what actually works for my goblin metabolism and keeps my blood sugar and brain from mutinying.

I meant to get a festive bake, but accidentally walked home in a full Cyberpunk flow state instead. Somehow, lowering my meal plan gave me back my legs, my mood, and the ability to enjoy rain again. I’m exhausted by living, but today I’m still glad I’m alive.

Between the mould, the leaks, and feeling like I’m swimming in lava in Minecraft, a random Black Friday coffee machine somehow became the hero of my week. It’s ridiculous, but every Starbucks pod feels like a tiny joy-bringer in a flat that’s currently held together by buckets and hope.

Covid recovery and ED recovery have collided, exerting their own gravity and bending everything out of shape. Hunger isn’t honesty right now—just noise from a body out of calibration. I’m caught between forces, trying to tell whether I’m being pulled toward a brighter star or into something that feels like collapse.

Turning 42 wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. Between cramps, cancelled plans, free Starbucks, Jellycat penguins, and Biscoff cake, I found glimmers I didn’t think I’d feel again. Even though the gold didn’t last all night, it existed - and that alone felt like a tiny miracle in the dark.

After a night of The Bad Thoughts™️, I planned a calm day of blogging, coffee, and Greggs. Instead, I faced the NHS boss level. Between hold music, bureaucracy, and a mixed episode, I somehow survived - Festive Bake in hand, chaos intact, still hoping for Schrödinger’s tomorrow.

For years, Christmas food ambushed me with grief. This time, buying a Festive Bake felt different. I still miss her fiercely, but the memories came with warmth, not only pain. I tasted pastry and remembered laughter, comfort, and love. Somehow, joy returned - quietly, wrapped in white Greggs paper.

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.

Tomorrow I have a scan, so today I cleaned my kitchen and tried to quiet the chaos in my head. Time is slipping or stretching—I can’t tell. My mixed episode dials me up to 9000, but at least future-me will come home to a little order and one small mercy.

I woke up hungover from a binge, full of regret, and went to buy a Greggs sausage roll. It didn’t heal me, but it was an act of not giving up. Recovery isn’t light breaking through clouds—it’s staying alive through entropy, bear biscuits, and the black dog’s chaos.

My windows are replaced but there’s rubble everywhere - literal dust, emotional debris, and the remains of a routine I’m rebuilding. Recovery isn’t about waiting for life to calm down; it’s cleaning as you go. Sometimes that means hoovering the dust. Sometimes it means making the burrito.

When builders replaced my windows, they also stole my stars. Between the Adele-singing workmen, sealant fumes, and scaffolding, I lost my favourite place to breathe and think. I’d love to say it’s a metaphor for clarity - but really, it just stinks. At least Minecraft windows still open.

Monday threw me three curveballs - Covid recovery, a bed bug letter, and surprise new windows - and somehow I’m still standing. I keep doing things I don’t know how I’m doing: eating through pain, cleaning through panic, surviving chaos on adrenaline and sarcasm. Three strikes, but I’m not out.

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 top. I’ve tried to write about it six different times today, but honestly, my brain isn’t cooperating.

In the way life seems to hand me one battle after another, I’ve now become riddled with Covid while already in the trenches with my anorexia recovery. That’s unfortunately why I haven’t been posting here lately. Screenshot I’m on day 11 and still really poorly - no voice, barely able to get out of bed. If it’s not the coughing, it’s the fatigue, made worse by the nightly coughing fits that keep me awake half the night.

Well, given that four horses were obviously not enough to deal with in my last post, I’ve now been approached by a very anxious horse too. My anxiety has flared up pretty terribly, and it’s riding alongside its friend - the rider of the perimenopause hormone horse. Right now, I’m all horses and definitely no stable. And there was no greater indicator of that than what happened last night and today.