For a James Beard Award–winning food writer, the suffering is how he knows the drug is working.

Let’s keep this between you and me: I started taking a GLP-1 six months ago. My doctor wrote me an insurance-friendly prescription for Zepbound, one of the popular new weight-loss drugs, which I kept incorrectly calling Ozempic—the most recognizable brand—in his office and at the pharmacy and will continue to do so for the same reason I call all sparkling wines Champagne.

I inject 15 milligrams of Zepbound into my belly once a week. I started with 2.5 milligrams. The first time I injected myself, I felt sick to my stomach a few hours later. The side effects the next day were worse, a gastrointestinal Chernobyl. Over the next few weeks, I slowly, deliberately, kept going up in doses, jabbing myself every Sunday morning regardless of the amount. On those evenings, even the sight of a greasy slice of spicy pepperoni pizza makes me queasy, and that’s how I know the drug is working. This is my theory, anyway. I’m like a German Shepherd with a shock collar who gets a jolt if he’s doing what he shouldn’t be doing, and in my case, that’s eating—or even thinking about eating—foods I want to eat but can’t stomach anymore. Just the idea of eating rich, fried, fatty foods has me reaching for a Zofran, the anti-nausea medication I was also prescribed.

Here’s how my doctor explained it: Glucagon-like peptide-1 receptor agonists are molecules that mimic GLP-1, a hormone released by the intestines after eating that signals to your brain that you’re full. This slows digestion and triggers insulin release. These “miracle” drugs, my doctor said, are directly impacting the lives of people living with diabetes and those struggling with obesity. Also celebrities.

I asked him if they would help me, a 238-pound 51-year-old man, manage my high blood pressure and maybe shed a few pounds. That’s precisely what I said, too: “shed a few pounds.” As in, two or three. He cheerfully replied, “Yes.” I cheerfully responded, “Great.”

What I didn’t tell him was that I hated how I looked. I felt like a human Boston cream doughnut. I’d look at photos of myself and see someone heavier than I’d ever been.

I tried willpower. I tried walking ten thousand steps all around New York City every day. I tried joining a gym and hiring a personal trainer. I tried diets and downloaded all the apps. Meanwhile, I continued to gain weight. I was prescribed an SSRI for the first time to help quiet my anxiety, and I ballooned on it. These mood-boosting drugs made me ravenous. When I came off them, the weight stayed. There were nights I’d swipe through selfies that I didn’t dare post to Instagram because I saw a man who looked like he’d eaten his own identical twin and doubled in size.

I have always been an eater and overweight, and it took me years—longer than it should have—to connect these two things. Eating is one of my God-given talents.

I used to be proud of my appetite. At my family’s dinner table, I was always asked, “Are you full?” If I answered no—and I always said no—then there would be more to eat. More Stouffer’s scalloped potatoes, more refried beans, more buttered egg noodles. I came home from school one day in fourth grade and told my mom some kids had called me fat. So she fried me up a pile of gooey quesadillas made with corn tortillas and American cheese and told me I was handsome. No one ever stayed hungry in my house. And I was often hungry. In fact, I have always been hungry—until now.

When I think about what being on this medication has done to me, I am reminded of A Clockwork Orange, director Stanley Kubrick’s graphically violent dystopian sci-fi film from 1971. A Clockwork Orange is the ugly story of a sociopath subjected to an experimental treatment by the state that makes him physically ill when confronted with the heinous crimes that previously brought him perverse pleasure. One of the themes explored in A Clockwork Orange is whether free will makes us human. I am certain that my ability to order and enjoy a bodega chopped cheese defines who I am, or at least it did before my injections.

A therapist once asked me if I was an emotional eater, and my first answer was an incredulous “what?” My second: “Obviously.”

If GLP-1s sound like torture, that’s because they are—until I step on the scale and, for a brief, delicious moment, I’m as light as pink cotton candy. I lost another three pounds the other day, though I don’t see it in my selfies yet. Some people take GLP-1s without suffering the way I do and lose weight faster. But I’m still here, dreading the shot and slowly dropping pounds, and rarely thinking about what’s for lunch. Or dinner.

I used to eat out of boredom. Or when I was drunk. Or after sex, especially if the relationship was new and I was feeling vulnerable. That kind of vulnerability always made me hungry. I’d wait till my partner was asleep, then silently eat the cold rotisserie chicken in the fridge and wonder if she found me attractive without my clothes on. When I finally sobered up, I’d look forward to the free off-brand Oreos I’d find at my AA meetings. I could fit two or three in my mouth at a time.

Food never numbed me, but feeling full was like love. Safety. A warm, satisfied belly. After my dad’s funeral, a quiet procession of neighbors showed up at the house with Tupperware containers full of homemade, slow-cooked brisket. When I visit my brother in Austin, Texas, we seek out those same slabs of moist beef served on butcher paper with slices of white bread.

Do I eat when I’m stressed? Yes; that’s why God invented ice cream. A therapist once asked me if I was an emotional eater, and my first answer was an incredulous “what?” My second: “Obviously.” I also write about food, which means I found a way to monetize my appetite. I used to obsess over my culinary lusts all the time, and as a writer, I could pitch publications about meals and delicacies that piqued my interest—and made me hungry.

I once wrote an essay about Texas-style bean salad because, for a brief time, I was really into bean salad. These days, thoughts about eating come and go, and they’re usually about foods that I can tolerate. Right now, I’m thinking about cottage cheese, one of my favorite “safe” breakfasts. I won a pair of James Beard Awards years ago for an essay about Taco Bell. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could choke down a beloved Cheesy Gordita Crunch right now. To write about food is to tell the story behind every bite. And the main story I think about these days is the one I’m currently writing: I’m on a weight-loss drug that’s very effective, and I’m aggressively ambivalent about it.

I’m writing about GLP-1s now because they are the only food topic I’m qualified to write about at the moment. Although, to be honest, I could probably crank out 800 words about the low-key charms of cottage cheese.

On the days when the Ozempic isn’t turning my stomach inside out, I am strangely calm. I do not crave strawberry Pop-Tarts or BLTs. I do not long to fill the empty space inside me with a large takeout container of pad Thai. I sometimes even forget to eat. Not as in, “Silly me, lunch must have slipped my mind!” My body just doesn’t feel hungry anymore. I never think, “I’m starving.” The drugs dampen “food noise,” a phenomenon best described as internal, intrusive mental chatter about food. I wasn’t familiar with the phrase until I read about it on Instagram (it didn’t take long for the algorithm to figure out I was on a GLP-1). In my case, food noise was a tiny voice that said things like “Babybel cheese time!” and “Is 10:30 a.m. too early for lunch?” But that voice has been replaced by silence.

Now I set reminders to eat during the week, because there are days when I suddenly feel woozy and lightheaded at 3 p.m., and I realize that’s because I haven’t eaten a thing since the morning. When I remember to eat, I make sure to consume simple, bland, inoffensive foods: slices of almost-too-tangy green apples, kindergarten-style peanut butter sandwiches on spongy, processed white bread, and lumpy oatmeal studded with blueberries, but only if I’m feeling decadent. I eat hard-boiled eggs like my life depends on it. The idea of devouring my favorite foods, which include Peking duck, Jamaican meat pies, and patty melts, makes me wince. I used to be a proud “buffet guy”—a connoisseur of crab rangoon—but now visiting an all-you-can-eat Chinese food buffet sounds like a nightmare.

Objectively, these new habits are good for my health. I am eating so much fiber. So many gut-biome-pleasing leafy green salads. My meals have become intellectual exercises: I am eating for sustenance and to avoid horrible side effects. But at the same time, I feel lonely. Hollow. Scooped out. As if my appetite has been wrenched out of me. Then the paranoia sets in: Do I look unhealthy? Emaciated? Like I’m on Ozempic?

I could stagger my injections and take them every other week, like a foodie I know. When he’s off the juice, the effects of the drug fade. His hunger roars back, and he can enjoy hot pot or a can of Pringles or whatever he craves. But I’m committed to my current weight-loss routine if it means possibly adding a few flavorless years or even months to my life. At least I’ll be used to hospital food by the time I’m in the nursing home. Please fill my coffin with nacho cheese, though.

Today everyone knows (or suspects they know) someone in their life who is jabbing themselves with GLP-1s, and millions are: one in eight Americans, by recent reports. The thing is, no one really knows exactly who they are, and so I find myself sitting down to meals in mixed company, narrowing my eyes as I watch someone gently push aside a half-eaten Niçoise salad. I ask myself the same questions over and over: “Has he lost weight?” “Did she not touch her fries?” “Will they eat that last soup dumpling? Because I can’t.” It’s the newest dinner party game.

I kept my own GLP-1 use a personal state secret until, well, now. I know that people are judgmental about these drugs because I, too, am judgmental.

I didn’t finish a tuna melt for lunch a few weeks ago, and a friend said, offhandedly, “You’re not hungry?” I replied, just as offhandedly, “If I eat it, I will die in the bathroom.” That was an intense response, yes, and so I doubled back. I was honest: “Ozempic,” I said. He replied, “Aahhh.” Then we continued with our small talk and never mentioned the topic again. Ever.

Recently an in-law told me I looked like I had lost weight—the first time anyone had ever said that to me. For a moment, I glowed. I wasn’t fat. I was handsome. And then the moment passed, and I was flooded with darker thoughts. Does she know I’m on Ozempic? That it’s a drug, not my own self-control, that’s keeping me from inhaling greasy slices of spicy pepperoni pizza? I want to want a slice of pizza right now. I miss missing it.