Virtuously Full

On not being hungry

Photo by Diana Polekhina on Unsplash

A few months ago, I started taking Zepbound—a GLP-1 drug for weight loss. Insurance approved it for my sleep apnea but I’m really taking it to quiet food noise, a term I didn’t know before GLP-1 drugs emerged yet instantly recognized. It’s the buzz, the hum, the constant chatter in my brain: foodfoodfoodfoodfood.

I was a happy, moon-faced baby who loved to eat, which delighted my grandmother but worried my doctor. He told my mother to put me on a diet. My father would look over my dinner plate and ask, are you sure you need to eat all that? I started to sneak chocolate. I would secretly dig at my mother’s pecan pie without daring to cut myself a slice in broad daylight. In puberty, as my hips widened and I couldn’t fit into the straight Levi’s 501 jeans that were all the rage in 1980s Israel, did I think that Levi’s needed to design more inclusive jeans? Of course not. I absorbed the teachings of magazines and movies and concluded I was the problem. Food was my comfort, my secret sin. I fantasized about what I wanted to eat and felt guilty once I’d eaten it.

Zepbound made it all go away. It was like getting a brain transplant. Oprah, bless her honesty, said it best: “All my life, I thought thin people just had more willpower, they ate better foods, they were able to stick to it longer, they never had a potato chip. And then I realized, the very first time I took the GLP-1, that, oh, they’re not even thinking about it. They’re only eating when they’re hungry, and they’re stopping when they’re full.” I recognized the disbelief in her voice. It is mind-blowing to realize that other brains don’t torment their owners like this. I mean, WTH, brain¹.

Now I was suddenly not-hungry. I didn’t want any chocolate, thank you. I was soooo full. One time, I even forgot to eat! I never believed people actually forgot to eat; I thought they were lying. But one day, around 3pm, I felt lightheaded and realized I hadn't had lunch, and I walked into the kitchen feeling as light as a breeze. I was a waif. I was Joan Didion, all intellect, slim and elegant in oversized sunglasses.

Here’s the thing: not wanting to eat felt like a virtue. It sounds awful. I know all about anorexia. I would be horrified if my kids equated not-eating with being good. I could give an impromptu lecture on gender and body image right now (and probably have, to my kids, many times). That feeling of virtue-by-fullness is probably its own kind of eating disorder. But I also know where the feeling of virtuousness came from—my brain and behavior aligning with what society always told them they should be. Finally, I was fixed!

(Of course, thinness as virtue has a long Christian tradition, including this incredible piece by Hilary Mantel about “spectacular saintliness.” On the other hand, I’m Jewish and my saintly fullness is more of the secular kind).

This is not an endorsement of GLP-1 drugs; unfortunately, I’m not being paid by Big Pharma. And let me tell you, the side-effects are real. A few weeks ago, the Zepbound made me very sick. I went off the medication and poof, my old brain was back, asking what’s for dinner. Trying to keep the weight off was like putting my finger in the dam, only the dam was my brain. It made me wonder how much I’d be willing to suffer to be virtuous again. Is it ok to take a drug that is not strictly medically necessary and can actually make me ill if it also makes me feel better about myself?

I guess I know the answer because I am now back on Zepbound, on a lower dose. I no longer think I’m the problem, but I also don’t want to have to think about my weight. Ironically, I can now eat whatever I want without feeling guilty. I guess if a brain transplant is what it takes then, here, take my old brain; I’m a little ashamed to admit it, but the new one looks much better in a bathing suit.

1. I know other brains torment their owners in different ways. Even being thin doesn’t make your life perfect!