Mum, moody, messy, manic. Retired musician and aspiring writer.
From dark, sordid, private journaling, this website became my greatest recovery asset for major depression and anxiety, and the eating disorder and self harm behaviours I used to mask them.
I imploded like a smashed egg, and from within I've found a fledgling bird, ready to spread its wings and fly.
I hope within these pages, you find a moment of connection, truth, revelation and understanding. This is my story. Perhaps it's yours too.
Relapse. For those of us in recovery from one mental health issue or another, it's a filthy word. Who wants to relapse? There's a classic meme showing the difference between reality and expectations when it comes to mental health recovery - expectation is a nice straight line on a consistent upward trajectory. Reality looks like a ball of wool under siege from a horde of rabid kittens.
It's 35 days since I touched down on terra firma. Jet lag's done and dusted, the big adventure receding into once upon a time status, and I'm settled back into normality - taking for granted the luxuries of my pillow, my car, and our pristine drinking water. Yet for most of those 35 days, my mental health has been really shit.
While you'd think fear and loathing around body size would make me eat less and move more - proven methods of weight loss - it does in fact increase my anxiety which makes me eat more food, more often, and much faster. Counter intuitive. But my reality. This in turn makes me more unhappy and I find myself in a vicious downhill spiral.