Day 196-352 (Part 8): Mounjaro: The Toxic Ex I Was Finally Ready To Leave… Until It Slid Back Into My DMs

6 hours ago
4 min read

Let’s just change the subject for a minute.

Because as if PoTS, Orthostatic Hypotension, Long Covid, hospital appointments, blue feet, compression socks and my body’s complete refusal to cooperate weren’t enough…

There’s also the tiny little matter of…

Mounjaro.

Remember that?

The injection that this entire blog started with.

The injection that changed my life.

The injection I swore I was coming off.

Yeah…

About that.

If you’ve followed this blog from Day One, you’ll know I’d finally made peace with my decision.

I’d lost over 2 stone.

2 STONE.

I still can’t quite get my head around that.

Sometimes I pick up a 14 kg bag of cat litter and think…

“I used to carry this around every single day.”

No wonder my knees hated me.

I’d reached the point where I genuinely thought…

“Right… that’s enough now.”

I’d done what I’d set out to do.

I’d bought clothes two sizes smaller.

I actually enjoyed getting dressed in the morning instead of trying on six different outfits and convincing myself they must’ve shrunk in the wash.

Spoiler alert…

They hadn’t.

I’d just got bigger.

Now?

I could walk into a shop and buy something because I liked it.

Not because it was the only thing that fitted.

That feeling is priceless.

So the plan was simple.

Drop from 10mg.

Stay on 7.5mg for a while.

Then 5mg.

Then 2.5mg.

Wave goodbye.

Ride off into the sunset.

Live happily ever after.

Simple.

Except…

Life laughed.

Again.

By the time I’d dropped to 5mg, everything else was kicking off.

The nausea had settled down, which was lovely because, quite frankly, I’d spent enough quality time with the toilet to consider putting my name on the bathroom door.

Food started becoming enjoyable again.

I could actually smell something cooking without immediately wondering where the nearest sink was.

I wasn’t gagging every time someone mentioned eggs.

Progress.

Lovely.

Except something else quietly came back.

Hunger and ADHD.

Now before anyone says…

“Well, that’s normal.”

Yes.

I know.

Of course it’s normal.

The problem isn’t hunger.

The problem is what hunger does to your head after you’ve spent nearly a year barely thinking about food.

I’d forgotten what it felt like.

Honestly.

For so long I’d eaten because I knew I should.

Suddenly…

I actually fancied things again.

Not just…

“Oh, I could eat.”

More…

“Ooh… biscuits.”

“I wonder if we’ve got chocolate.”

“When did we last have crisps?”

Hang on…

Where’s this come from?

It was like an old version of me had quietly crept back into the room and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Miss me?”

Not particularly.

The scales hadn’t exactly gone mad.

I’d only put on a few pounds.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing anybody else would’ve noticed.

But if you’ve ever lost a lot of weight…

You’ll understand this.

The first couple of pounds aren’t just a couple of pounds.

They’re fear.

They’re memories.

They’re every failed diet you’ve ever been on.

Every Monday morning where you promised yourself…

“This time it’ll be different.”

Every photo you hated.

Every changing room you cried in.

Every horrible thing you’ve ever said to yourself.

All of it comes flooding back.

People who haven’t struggled with their weight think you’re overreacting.

People who have…

Know exactly why two pounds can feel like twenty.

Then there was the other problem.

Exercise.

Or should I say…

The complete lack of it.

Normally, if you put on a couple of pounds you think…

“I’ll just move a bit more.”

Go for a walk.

Go to the gym.

Dance around the kitchen.

Lovely.

Except…

My shoulder still felt like someone had replaced it with a bag of broken Lego.

Walking too far wiped me out.

The heat made me feel dreadful.

Standing too long was becoming a game of chance.

So what exactly was I supposed to do?

Photosynthesise?

Blink aggressively?

Manifest calories away?

Honestly, if burning overthinking counted as exercise, I’d have abs by now.

That’s when I started questioning everything.

Had I come off Mounjaro too soon?

Was I actually ready?

Or was I just desperate to stop feeling sick?

Because let’s not forget…

The higher doses and I were no longer on speaking terms.

Ten milligrams absolutely flattened me.

I don’t know how some people make it to fifteen.

Are they immortal?

Do they have titanium stomachs?

Are they simply built differently?

Or are they all lying?

Because I genuinely spent weeks wondering if I was allergic to food.

One smell of fried onions and I’d be halfway to the bathroom.

My poor boyfriend couldn’t even mention takeaway without watching my face for signs of impending disaster.

So yes…

Coming down to 5mg was definitely the right decision.

At the time.

But then the hunger came back.

And with it…

The fear.

Now I’m stuck having conversations with myself that would probably sound completely ridiculous to anyone listening.

One side of my brain says…

“You’ve done amazingly.

Trust yourself.

You’ve changed your habits.

You don’t need the injection anymore.”

The other side says…

“Remember those biscuits?

Remember how easy it was to regain weight before?

Remember how hard you worked to lose it?”

Meanwhile my stomach’s just sitting in the corner whispering…

“Cheese.”

Honestly, it’s exhausting.

I’ve actually ordered 7.5mg again.

Do I know if it’s the right thing to do?

Not a clue.

Will it probably make me feel sick again?

Possibly.

Is being sick particularly helpful when you’re trying to stay hydrated because you’ve got PoTS?

Absolutely bloody not but the doctor has OK'd it...

It’s like my body has become one giant game of Whac-A-Mole.

Sort one thing…

Three more pop up.

And somewhere in the middle of all that…

I realised something that hit me harder than I expected.

This isn’t just about weight anymore.

It hasn’t been for a long time.

It’s about trying to find some sort of balance in a body that no longer seems to understand the meaning of the word.