Day 69: JABatha Christie: The Origin Story

Alright, buckle up my darling Watsons, because Day 69 isn’t just another diary entry – this is the origin story of JABatha Christie.

The glamorous gumshoe of gastric mysteries.

The Poirot of protein shakes.

The Sherlock Holmes of suspicious side effects.

Who am I?

I am JABatha Christie: part detective, part diva, part digestive disaster.

A woman armed with a pen, a jab, and a bathroom diary that could double as a horror anthology.

I didn’t plan to start this blog, darling. I was meant to glide through my Mounjaro journey quietly, maybe lose a stone, slip into some trousers, and sashay about like nothing happened.

But then… the side effects arrived.

We’re talking nausea that felt like a slow-moving exorcism.

Bloating that made me look like I was renting out womb space.

Bathroom episodes so dramatic they deserved their own BAFTA.

And I thought: you can either cry into your protein bowl… or write about it like you’re auditioning for Netflix.

Thus, the “officially unofficial” JABatha files were born.

Why I Started?

Not because I wanted to be a runway model (although if Vogue calls, I will answer).

Not because I believed skinny = happy.

Not even because I wanted to stop looking like I was constantly in my second trimester.

No.

I started because I was exhausted.

Exhausted in body, mind, hormones, soul… and bank account (juice cleanses don’t come cheap, babes).

I did the whole health saint thing:

Salads that looked like still-life paintings.

Protein bowls that cost more than a small car.

Gave up wine… okay, I cut down… okay, fine, I considered cutting down.

And yet my body?

It clung to fat like it was hoarding it for the apocalypse.

The scale smirked at me like it had diplomatic immunity.

And the bloat?

Oh, the bloat.

It RSVP’d “yes” to every single event.

Enter: Perimenopause

This was not a graceful slide into wisdom.

No, it was a hostile takeover.

Imagine:

• Hot flushes at board-meeting level drama.

• Brain fog so thick I once googled “where are my glasses” while wearing them.

• Mood swings that could be classed as a contact sport.

Meanwhile, my metabolism packed its bags, left a sticky note that read “good luck, hun” and hasn’t been seen since.

My Failed Attempts Before the Jab

• Juice cleanse retreat: Seven days of cucumber water, yoga that felt like medieval torture, and people whisper-fighting about nut milk. Lost 3lbs. Gained back 4lbs. Left with PTSD from celery.

• Fasting: I nearly bit the postman.

• Giving up bread: May as well have given up joy.

Wine, my old frenemy.

It started innocently.

A glass to unwind.

A glass to celebrate.

A glass because the cat made eye contact.

But in reality?

It was fuelling the fog, bloating me like a balloon dog at a kids’ party, and robbing me of sleep.

I don’t want my joy from a bottle.

I want my joy in bikinis, in laughter, in energy.

(And okay, in garlic bread, occasionally.)

Clothes, Confidence & Kaftans

Let’s talk fashion crimes:

• Bought bikinis with the optimism of a Love Island contestant.

• Wore kaftans like a clairvoyant about to summon spirits.

• Clothes that once fit now live in storage like boybands waiting for a reunion tour.

I refuse to donate them.

Not because I’m delusional – but because they are evidence.

Exhibit A in the case of Me vs. My Metabolism.

Why Mounjaro?

Not a quick fix.

Not a magic wand.

But a tool.

I researched, I panicked, I spiralled on Google at 3am like any modern woman.

And I realised – this isn’t giving up.

This is backing myself with something new.

I want to eat like a human, not a Dyson.

I want to wake up clear, not foggy.

I want energy, not excuses.

I want to be alive, not just awake.

If you just joined me, What You Can Expect in This Blog?

This isn’t a wellness diary.

It’s a crime scene investigation with carbs as suspects.

Expect:

Forensic analysis of why chicken tastes like sadness.

Witness statements from vegetables that betrayed me.

Dramatic reenactments of nausea, complete with fainting couch.

Court transcripts from Bathroomgate, redacted for public safety.

Grief counselling sessions for garlic bread.

Basically, if Agatha Christie and Bridget Jones had a baby, jabbed her with Mounjaro, and left her alone with a hot water bottle… you’d get me.

The Case Going Forward

This is the case of JABatha Christie & The Mystery of the Missing Metabolism.

I don’t know the ending yet.

But I do know this:

I’m showing up for myself.

The woman underneath the bloat, the wine, the kaftans.

The woman who deserves to feel strong, sexy, and sharp again.

And like any good detective…

I’ll keep following the clues.

Day 69 verdict:

The game is afoot.

The jab is in.

The trousers are waiting.

Stay tuned, darling detectives.

With Love,

JABatha Christie