Day 60: The Case of the Vanishing Stomach & a Pulled Back Muscle

Sep 15
3 min read

Wow.

Sixty days on a jab.

SIXTY.

I feel like I should get a medal, or at least a badge that says “Ask me about my suppressed appetite and questionable cushion collection.”

Two whole months of jabbing, nibbling, nausea-ing, and… somehow… thriving? Don’t get me wrong, it hasn’t all been rainbows and NFL touchdowns. The jump to 5mg had me feeling like I’d swallowed a tiny gremlin.

The leap to 7.5 was like that gremlin had invited his friends over for karaoke in my stomach.

But today?

No major sickness.

Appetite = still missing in action.

Speaking of missing… I think my stomach has left me. I chewed two pieces of southern fried chicken tonight (oven-baked, because let’s not get dramatic) for what felt like a full 20 minutes, and my body said: “Sorry babe, no room at the inn.” WHERE IS MY STOMACH?

The Pulled Muscle Saga:

Now, let’s talk about the drama that is my back.

Last night I tried to sleep but ended up perched on eight massive cushions like a disgruntled parrot.

Every time I shifted, my body woke me up with a violent “NOPE!”

I have never pulled a muscle before, and I did not expect it to feel like a toddler is living inside my back, kicking me in the kidneys for fun.

So my day consisted of:

2 wholemeal toasts with Marmite for breakfast.

Lovely coffee laced with collagen brought to me by my lovely and caring other half.

Mustard supervising my painkillers.

Ruby doing sympathy purrs (aka snoring directly in my ear).

Netflix whispering, “Don’t move, I’ll take it from here.”

Me… becoming a human burrito.

I eventually took a walk in the rain because staying in bed all day = fossilised spine.

Did it feel good?

Not really.

Did it make me look like a tragic Disney princess wandering through drizzle with wet hair?

Absolutely.

10/10 recommend if you’re going for the “moody indie film” aesthetic.

NFL Night Fever:

Came home, shoved my tiny dinner into my microscopic stomach, then settled in for NFL Sunday like the obsessed fan I am. Seahawks WIN! Against the Steelers! Which means I got to smugly yell, “Have some of THAT, DK Metcalf!” across the living room.

Meanwhile, my other half stayed up for his beloved Eagles - and they won too. So now he’s strutting around like he personally called the plays, while I’m just over here wondering if I burnt calories by chewing.

And now…

JABatha’s Day 60 Q&A Special

Q: Where is my stomach?

A: Probably on holiday in Ibiza. Not answering texts.

Q: If I ate two bites of chicken and called it dinner, is that portion size for humans or pigeons?

A: Congratulations, you’ve joined the pigeon diet club.

Q: Is chewing Southern fried chicken for 20 minutes considered exercise?

A: Yes. Jaw gains incoming. “ChewCamp 2025” fitness program launching soon.

Q: If I’m lying on 8 cushions, am I a Princess and the Pea situation or just a badly wrapped burrito?

A: Burrito. With Marmite spread.

Q: Can I start renting out my unused stomach space as an Airbnb?

A: Yes, but only to very small guests. Worms, maybe.

Q: Why do cats head-butt you when you’re injured?

A: To remind you who really owns the cushions.

Q: If my boyfriend screams at NFL for three hours, is that considered cardio?

A: Yes. He’s burning calories. You’re burning patience.

Q: Can walking in the rain be marketed as ‘urban hydrotherapy’?

A: Absolutely. Bonus points if your mascara runs = you look like a warrior.

Q: If Mustard keeps head-butting me, do I evolve into Catwoman or just develop a permanent dent in my forehead?

A: Dent first. Catsuit later.

Q: After 60 days on Mounjaro, why don’t I have abs yet?

A: You do. They’re just shy. They’re hiding under a cushion.

So here we are.

Sixty days in.

Appetite gone, stomach on strike, back muscle throwing tantrums, cats using me as a scratching post, and somehow…

I’m still obsessed with Marmite toast.

Tonight I’m going to bed early (on the cushion mountain, of course) with Mustard as my nurse, Netflix as my lullaby, and one final unanswered question floating around my brain:

“If I survived 60 days of this chaos… what fresh madness is waiting at Day 61?”

Stay tuned.

Same jab time, same jab channel.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

Wow.

Sixty days on a jab.

SIXTY.

I feel like I should get a medal, or at least a badge that says “Ask me about my suppressed appetite and questionable cushion collection.”

Two whole months of jabbing, nibbling, nausea-ing, and… somehow… thriving? Don’t get me wrong, it hasn’t all been rainbows and NFL touchdowns. The jump to 5mg had me feeling like I’d swallowed a tiny gremlin.

The leap to 7.5 was like that gremlin had invited his friends over for karaoke in my stomach.

But today?

No major sickness.

Appetite = still missing in action.

Speaking of missing… I think my stomach has left me. I chewed two pieces of southern fried chicken tonight (oven-baked, because let’s not get dramatic) for what felt like a full 20 minutes, and my body said: “Sorry babe, no room at the inn.” WHERE IS MY STOMACH?

The Pulled Muscle Saga:

Now, let’s talk about the drama that is my back.

Last night I tried to sleep but ended up perched on eight massive cushions like a disgruntled parrot.

Every time I shifted, my body woke me up with a violent “NOPE!”

I have never pulled a muscle before, and I did not expect it to feel like a toddler is living inside my back, kicking me in the kidneys for fun.

So my day consisted of:

2 wholemeal toasts with Marmite for breakfast.

Lovely coffee laced with collagen brought to me by my lovely and caring other half.

Mustard supervising my painkillers.

Ruby doing sympathy purrs (aka snoring directly in my ear).

Netflix whispering, “Don’t move, I’ll take it from here.”

Me… becoming a human burrito.

I eventually took a walk in the rain because staying in bed all day = fossilised spine.

Did it feel good?

Not really.

Did it make me look like a tragic Disney princess wandering through drizzle with wet hair?

Absolutely.

10/10 recommend if you’re going for the “moody indie film” aesthetic.

NFL Night Fever:

Came home, shoved my tiny dinner into my microscopic stomach, then settled in for NFL Sunday like the obsessed fan I am. Seahawks WIN! Against the Steelers! Which means I got to smugly yell, “Have some of THAT, DK Metcalf!” across the living room.

Meanwhile, my other half stayed up for his beloved Eagles - and they won too. So now he’s strutting around like he personally called the plays, while I’m just over here wondering if I burnt calories by chewing.

And now…

JABatha’s Day 60 Q&A Special

Q: Where is my stomach?

A: Probably on holiday in Ibiza. Not answering texts.

Q: If I ate two bites of chicken and called it dinner, is that portion size for humans or pigeons?

A: Congratulations, you’ve joined the pigeon diet club.

Q: Is chewing Southern fried chicken for 20 minutes considered exercise?

A: Yes. Jaw gains incoming. “ChewCamp 2025” fitness program launching soon.

Q: If I’m lying on 8 cushions, am I a Princess and the Pea situation or just a badly wrapped burrito?

A: Burrito. With Marmite spread.

Q: Can I start renting out my unused stomach space as an Airbnb?

A: Yes, but only to very small guests. Worms, maybe.

Q: Why do cats head-butt you when you’re injured?

A: To remind you who really owns the cushions.

Q: If my boyfriend screams at NFL for three hours, is that considered cardio?

A: Yes. He’s burning calories. You’re burning patience.

Q: Can walking in the rain be marketed as ‘urban hydrotherapy’?

A: Absolutely. Bonus points if your mascara runs = you look like a warrior.

Q: If Mustard keeps head-butting me, do I evolve into Catwoman or just develop a permanent dent in my forehead?

A: Dent first. Catsuit later.

Q: After 60 days on Mounjaro, why don’t I have abs yet?

A: You do. They’re just shy. They’re hiding under a cushion.

So here we are.

Sixty days in.

Appetite gone, stomach on strike, back muscle throwing tantrums, cats using me as a scratching post, and somehow…

I’m still obsessed with Marmite toast.

Tonight I’m going to bed early (on the cushion mountain, of course) with Mustard as my nurse, Netflix as my lullaby, and one final unanswered question floating around my brain:

“If I survived 60 days of this chaos… what fresh madness is waiting at Day 61?”

Stay tuned.

Same jab time, same jab channel.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

Comments