Adam Dalva at Longreads:
Every Sunday evening, I open the fridge, reach into the vegetable crisper, grab a pen, screw in a needle, pinch my stomach, and inject Ozempic. It hurts a bit, but I’ve gotten used to it. Twenty-five pounds down, 20 to go. I put on the weight after my brother died—the distortion in the mirror, random heavy breathing, strange hunger panics around 4 p.m., the constant need to self-soothe—and I wanted to let go, move on, heal.
That’s one rendition of truth, the one I wish I could sell you. Claiming I’m injecting to recover from grief deflects simple humiliation into potential empathy, rendering me unmockable for taking a medication that I’ve seen called “easy mode” and “stolen valor” online, a workaround for people lacking the willpower to lose weight the old-fashioned way.
Really, though, my bereavement was internal and external justification for something I would have wanted to try anyway. I’ve trended toward heaviness my entire life, and food has always been a font of shame. When I eat in public, when I order in restaurants, I feel overly visible, fearing that every bite could contribute to the perception that I lack self-control. And so I sneak food.
More here.
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