Thank God I’ve stopped microdosing Ozempic – this is what it’s really like
Is it 32 clicks? Or 37 clicks? I’m holding my Ozempic pen, a prefilled injection containing the active ingredient semaglutide, and trying to remember how many clicks I should listen out for when turning the pen dial to split my 1mg dose in half to 0.50mg. But then I realise I have no more needles left – each pen has four doses and I’m trying to get six doses out of it.
Damn! I could buy another new box of them online for next-day delivery. I’ve done it before. Or should I leave this dose in the fridge for a rainy day – and bring it out if an insatiable hunger returns and I start laying into a loaf of bread?
I’ve also been spacing out the 1mg dosages for a while, so instead of taking it weekly, as per the instructions, I take it every two weeks, or even three. It certainly saves money – a 1mg pen costs about £160 for four weeks – and it still seems to do the trick if I make it last for longer.
It’s not an exact science, though at least I don’t get side effects like nausea and fatigue on the lower doses. But I do feel confused. I’m back to my pre-pregnancy weight six years after my last child was born, but I’m not the same person. What is my comfortable weight now I’m older and a mother?
I have too many questions, and don’t want to be dependent on a drug forever. Is low-dose Ozempic a good way to maintain weight loss for the foreseeable future? Or else, I could just use it liberally, as and when needed. What happens if I stop? Should I wean myself off it?
It sounds insane – and it is. Welcome to the world of microdosing weight loss drugs. If I’d had this conversation with myself a few years ago, I would have sounded like I was from another planet but now it’s the new normal. I didn’t even know I was microdosing when I was playing around with doses of my own accord.
But now it’s an open secret: celebrities are microdosing to be red carpet ready by losing a few pounds, rather than tons of weight. In the quest for perfection, we’re inundated with a new super skinny body seen on runways and at the Oscars, which is setting us up for unrealistic beauty standards – and reversing years of healthier body positivity and self-acceptance.
Recent figures suggest more than half a million people in the UK are taking Mounjaro or Wegovy (the version of Ozempic approved for weight loss, rather than diabetes control, although private doctors still prescribe Ozempic off-label for weight loss), and many of them will try out microdosing.
The idea behind microdosing is that you may be able to get the same benefits with less of the drug. There are no specific studies to compare microdosing regimes with approved dosages, so nobody has a clue about how safe it is.
Never mind! Let’s face it “microdosing”sounds so much more palatable and tempting than going full-throttle Ozempic. But take it from me, it’s not. Counting the clicks is no way to live.
I threw the last dose in the dustbin – and I feel liberated. I can’t deny it did the trick with weight loss, however: I’d put on 16kg (about two-and-a-half stone) after my two pregnancies, which I’d used as an excuse to overeat. Comfort eating away my feelings after my partner died became a way to deal with the stress of looking after my elderly dad. My cholesterol levels went sky-high. I didn’t want to go on statins as my GP advised; he gave me six months to make lifestyle changes. Instead, I got Ozempic privately – I never looked back. My cholesterol levels are now normal.
But I felt miserable on the drug. Now we’re told depression could be a side effect. Just as the government is planning to put millions of the British population on these drugs known as GLP-1 agonists, a new study published in the journal Scientific Reports has found that taking slimming drugs can triple the normal risk of depression and suicide – and double the risk of anxiety compared to people who weren’t on the drugs, according to the researchers from Chung Shan Medical University in Taiwan.
It’s not worth the rotten headspace. I’ve given up the incessant worry about the long-term health risks – I’d seen on the leaflet that in studies with rodents, medicines that work like Ozempic and Wegovy cause thyroid tumours, including thyroid cancer.
How could I justify using it as a single mum with two young children, when I wasn’t going to die of obesity? While they are hailed as a slimming miracle, with those overweight able to lose up to a fifth of their body weight within a year of starting treatment, as happened to me, we don’t yet know about long-term safety.
Muscle wastage was another terror. The basic rules of healthy weight loss when using the GLP-1 injections are to eat less calories and up protein intake to help maintain muscle mass – plus resistance training to preserve those muscles. I struggled to maintain high protein levels as I’m vegetarian.
Most people on Ozempic drink chicken broth – I tried the vegan equivalent of fish bone broth. It was so disgusting I nearly threw up. I ended up eating so much high-protein yoghurt with nuts and blueberries that I couldn’t go on. I lost the will to live. I had no social life – I’d grab a calorific chocolate protein drink to up my protein levels rather than have supper with friends. I never sat down with my kids to eat – and I didn’t realise how much I missed it. I appreciated how important food is: the taste, the cooking, the connecting to others.
I was at risk of falling into a nutritional deficit too. There was secrecy: I was hiding the Ozempic in the fridge behind the carrots in the bottom drawer – I didn’t want somebody coming over and seeing it when I got the milk out. Neither did I want my children to see me jab myself with a weight loss drug.
And what about the hours worrying about “Ozempic rebound”? Reports show that nearly one in five who come off it will regain all, or even more, of the weight they lost. I was so terrified of stopping, I felt like a hostage to the pharmaceuticals raking in billions of pounds from the booming weight loss industry.
I’d pretended I’d stopped taking it to friends who could clearly see I’d reached my target weight – not because I had an eating disorder – but because I was body-shamed for taking it and not sure how to stop it. I needed to do it at my own rate, but I didn’t feel I had the space or guidance to do that. When I was overweight nobody mentioned anything, but as soon as I lost it, I was the talk of the school gate.
I was worried I was hooked on it – I’d be on it for life. What if I had a dodgy batch and ended up in A&E as I’d read about in scare stories? I also had no idea how to travel with it as it needs to remain in a fridge – and out of sunlight.
Of course, fans of these drugs trot out the additional health benefits: reports suggest it lowers the risk of heart attack, stroke, and even dementia. But mostly for me everything felt dulled. It helped me reset my eating habits and lose excess weight, but always having an injectable pen at the ready is, well, simply bonkers. I’m now free from the hell of microdosing – just as the rest of the world embarks on it. Quite frankly, I’m overjoyed not to be clicking the pen like a dependent. Ironically I feel back in control of my own life – and my body.
