My experience of a weight-loss drug was hell – I felt like I was being poisoned

A doctor friend said Mounjaro was perfect for people in my situation, but a dodgy prescription left me sick and nauseous

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I’d been wanting to lose weight for a while and the traditional methods just weren’t working for me. Deprive myself of carbs for a week and I would drop a measly 2lb. Hire a personal trainer – the scales barely budged. It was all a bit demoralising.
Then, in 2022 – in a blaze of stardust – the GLP-1 agonist drugs arrived on the scene. These medications had been used for years to treat Type 2 diabetes, but were now being prescribed for weight loss alone. A medical compound called semaglutide – more widely known by its snappier brand names, Ozempic and Wegovy – promised to shrink your size by 15 per cent without you even having to leave the sofa.
Alongside millions of padded midlifers, I watched with intrigue and macabre fascination as Oprah Winfrey, Sharon Osbourne – even Jeremy Clarkson and Elon Musk – waxed lyrical about their easy, new-found svelte silhouettes: all from a weekly jab to the stomach.
This wasn’t just about weight loss, however. For the past two years, an increasing body of research has shown that the GLP-1 agonists have the potential to transform our health to an almost miraculous degree, lowering the risk of heart attacks, cancer, dementia – even alcoholism.
This sounds great, I thought, but maybe too great. Where, exactly, is the catch? The catch appeared to be the side effects of semaglutide that some were experiencing: nausea, vomiting and explosive bowel movements.
No, I decided, there’s surely no such thing as a free lunch (not that you could eat the lunch on Ozempic anyway). If there is one thing I hate, it’s feeling and being sick. When Boris Johnson told the world: “one minute I’d be fine, the next talking to Ralph on the big white phone”, I knew that semaglutide was not for me.
I have doctors in my family. “Wait for tirzepatide,” my brother, Miles, a professor of endocrinology, told me last year. “That will be the real game-changer.”
In November 2023, tirzepatide – better known as Mounjaro – was licensed in the UK for weight loss. Mounjaro is similar to Ozempic or Wegovy, but as well as working on GLP-1 receptors, which suppress the appetite, it works on the body’s GIP receptors, stimulating insulin release to regulate blood sugar. Clinical trials show that people lose an average of 10 per cent more weight on Mounjaro than on Ozempic or Wegovy.
While Mounjaro is a bit more expensive, the word on the street was that the side effects (at lower doses) are more tolerable than those of Ozempic or Wegovy.
Until recently, Mounjaro was only available privately if taken for weight loss. But last month, the Government announced that the jab will be available on the NHS for a limited number of people with a BMI of 40 or over. However, to have a BMI of 40, you have to be really quite overweight. This translates to being 5ft 3in and weighing a little over 16st, or 5ft 7in and 19st.
And while I weigh more than I would like – and some of that is muscle, or at least, that’s what I tell myself – thankfully I’m nowhere near this morbidly obese marker. For the past six years, my BMI has fluctuated between 29 (the last notch of “overweight”) and 30, the first rung of “obese”. It doesn’t feel good to write this.
But like most other people, this means I couldn’t get Mounjaro on the NHS and would have to rely on private clinics for that quick weight-loss fix. I’m telling my story here because I want people to be aware of the pitfalls of obtaining the medication in this way.
Until eight years ago, I was slim and athletic. I exercised, ate healthily and – apart from my pregnancies – never weighed more than 8st (I’m 5ft 2in). Then in 2010, my marriage ended suddenly, plunging me into anxiety, depression and disabling insomnia.
Over the next few years, doctors put me on a succession of antidepressant medications that a) didn’t work and b) caused my weight to almost double. I recovered entirely by 2019 and lost a good chunk of the weight over the following years.
But even today, if I catch sight of my reflection in a shop window, I think: who’s that? I’m sure I look great in photographs until I see them: the picture shows me an image double the size I think I am. In my head, I am still 7¾st.
It’s no longer just about my appearance, however. Recent blood tests have told me that, at the age of 56, my cholesterol levels are becoming worryingly high.
My sister-in-law, Sarah, is a GP. I have discussed the weight-loss drugs with her several times over the past couple of years. Sarah agrees that Mounjaro could be good for me. “Diet and exercise is such hard work, and the results take ages,” she said. “But even on a low dose of Mounjaro, you can lose a lot of weight. I think it would be especially good for your situation, as you mostly live a healthy lifestyle and you’ve clearly got ‘stuck’.”
Sarah told me about two GPs in her practice who were now on Mounjaro. One female colleague took the jabs to lose 2st for a family wedding; another male doctor lost 3st on Mounjaro and is “transformed”. This latter GP is so passionate about the potential for Mounjaro, he is considering opening his own weight-loss clinic.
With all these things in mind, in September, I decided to take the plunge. Most Mounjaro is sold online – and I was naturally suspicious of that approach. Hence, I felt the sensible option would be to visit an “in person” clinic, near my London home.
I booked online, getting a Thursday afternoon appointment surprisingly easily – within days. The clinic also performed aesthetic medicine, dentistry and “vitamin jabs”. Should these have been red flags as to their suitability for this? Quite possibly, but once I’d decided I was “going ’Jaro”, nothing was about to stand in my way.
A charming young GP explained how the drugs worked, that they would make me feel fuller for longer, and that I would initially possibly suffer nausea and constipation, but these would soon wear off. He would give me the first injection into my stomach that day, then I’d have to inject myself for the following three weeks, returning a month later for a consultation.
None of this was a problem for me. I’m not squeamish around needles. But I was very clear about my intolerance of nausea: that I had a busy job and couldn’t afford any time off sick. For that reason, I asked to start on the lowest dose.
The GP smiled, reassuringly. “As these drugs are so expensive, we feel it’s a waste of time to start on the very lowest dose,” he said. “You may not have any side effects: in fact, don’t think about them, because you might start imagining them. But just in case, we will give you some anti-sickness pills to take away with you, as well as some laxatives because you’ll probably get constipation as well. But, you will lose weight.”
With £20 for anti-sickness pills added in, the monthly bill would be £300. I decided to swallow it.
So convincing was the GP, I couldn’t wait to get that jab into my stomach. The injection itself was fine. Just before I left, the doctor weighed me (this seemed a bit odd, should it not have been before the event?) but I batted away my misgivings.
On my drive home I felt giddy, light-headed, excited. I took the remaining medication out of the box to share the information with my family. The box told me that the dose I’d taken was 7.5mg. “Seven point five?” said Sarah. “That sounds rather high. The recommended starting dose in the Nice guidelines is 2.5mg. Normally what happens is that a patient will be on that for a month, see how they do, then it goes up to 5mg, and then, four weeks later, to 7.5mg if required.”
I was slightly alarmed at this. But while both Sarah and Miles agreed this was unusual, they reasssured me that this dose wasn’t “dangerous” – people with Type 2 diabetes had been receiving it for years. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I felt thrilled, however.
By that evening, I started to feel queasy, I reached for the box of anti-sickness pills. It was empty. The clinic had sent me home with just a cardboard box. So I had to ring for a new prescription and had to pay again for it to be dispensed.
Within about 12 hours of the jab, the effects began in earnest. My toast and jam the next morning looked like an alien being. I nibbled a corner and barely took a sip of my tea. At the same time, the nausea really kicked into gear: the best way to describe it was like morning sickness, a constant, low-level feeling of being poisoned.
But unlike morning sickness, this nausea didn’t get better as the day went on. In fact, it got worse. I was to suffer like this for a week and had constipation – i.e. I couldn’t go at all – for the same amount of time.
Three or four times, this nausea progressed to actual throwing up. On the Friday night, I had to leave a cinema screening to vomit, and then went home, missing the rest of the film. I met my partner for lunch the next day and could only manage three spoonfuls of soup, staring resentfully at the evil bread and salad. In the end, I moved them to the neighbouring table so I wouldn’t have to look at them.
Clearly, this couldn’t continue. I tried to reach the clinic, emailing the doctor and practice manager, eventually getting hold of the receptionist on the Tuesday. I told her I wasn’t tolerating the dose, that I would like to return to the recommended 2.5mg, please could they help?
“Oh, we might not be able to get that for you,” said the receptionist. I told her I would be there in person later that afternoon.
I was shown into a room with the original prescribing doctor. Sitting next to him was the lead doctor at the clinic, a man in his 60s, at a guess. I told them that I appreciated their help, but I couldn’t tolerate the side effects at the 7.5 dose. I would like to switch to 2.5mg, please, as recommended by Nice, and every single other Google result of my research.
“You have interpreted the guidelines wrongly,” said the older doctor. “That starting dose is for Type 2 diabetes, not for weight loss.”
A little taken aback, I stood my ground. “No,” he said. “We are the doctors. If you want to lose weight, you have to do what we say.” So you won’t give me the 2.5? I asked, incredulous. Again, the doctor refused. “Well,” I said. “This clearly isn’t the treatment or the clinic for me. I don’t want to continue.” Both clinicians looked a bit taken aback, especially when I asked for a refund. “We don’t give refunds,” they said, though I insisted on getting £20 back for the empty box of anti-sickness pills (slapped unceremoniously on the counter by the receptionist as I made my way out).
I was astonished and angry, as well as feeling guilty and stupid. Call yourself a health journalist? I rang my family medical team to make sure I had the correct information. They assured me that I had. “This looks like bad medical practice,” said Sarah. “You had horrendous side effects, and actually, this can be dangerous, because there are stories of people ending up in hospital with dehydration.
“The guidelines are very clear and are there for everyone to use,” says Sarah. “It sounds like they were just full of bluster. The only reason I can see is that they didn’t have the 2.5 mg available.”
I contacted the clinic to complain about my experience. A day or so later, they responded, “apologising for the issues caused leading to your dissatisfaction” but reasserted that their protocols were “in line with clinical studies conducted over a 20,000 audience with regards to weight loss”.
It took a week for the sickness and constipation to wear off. As the days passed, I was gradually able to look at a plate of spaghetti without wanting to leave the room. Oh, the relief of going to bed without having to get up half an hour later to retch into the loo.
And yet, I must mention here the silver lining. After a week on Mounjaro, I had lost 4lb. I was obviously delighted about this. In fact, so motivated was I that this has kickstarted my determination to intensify my healthy eating and exercise regimes, to lose the weight without any jabs.
Sarah, my GP sister-in-law, still feels I should return to Mounjaro. “Used properly, these drugs are a fantastic option for people who need to lose a significant amount of weight,” she says. “The benefits are enormous, for your heart health, your joints, your mental wellbeing. In the future, we could possibly see half the population on maintenance doses of Mounjaro. Who knows?”
For now, the midlife-overweight must still rely on the private clinics and online pharmacies.
If this can work for you: by all means, go for it. Many people have reported miraculous results. But: please, caveat emptor. Learn from my mistakes: don’t put yourself through what I just experienced. Before that syringe goes anywhere near your stomach, read the label on the box.
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