The Tamesis
A year ago, before I first took Zepbound, I thought taking GLP-1 would force me to give up my appetite in exchange for weight loss, my love of flavor and cook a delicious meal in exchange for a constant drop in the number on the scale (if I even had a scale; the truth is, since my anxious, mildly anorexic days in my early 20s, I don’t have a scale at home, preferring to weigh myself at the doctor’s office).
For some people, chronic loss of appetite occurs after taking GLP-1, but that’s not the case for me—at least not yet. Like many others who receive GLP-1 for treatment of eating disorders, I find that the “food noise” of the intrusive breed quiets down significantly, but I’m still happy making ravioli at home, or going out for a steak dinner with friends, or eating In-N-Out on a road trip (with a puppy meatloaf for my dog on the side). I have not experienced negative side effects of any kind, and to be honest, after increasing my prescription for Vyvanse a few years ago, I have experienced more loss of appetite and anhedonia than I have with Zepbound to date.
This is the part where I start to worry that this sounds like a shill for Big Pharma, and this is where I reveal to you readers how I pay for GLP-1. The answer is simple: I’m not, my mom is. Currently, Zepbound costs me about $400 a month, which is money I don’t need to spend at all; my insurance does not cover any version of the drug (I have confirmed this through endless stonewalling calls with representatives who always need me to know they are “trying to help”).
At first, I was hesitant to accept my mom’s generous offer to pay for my medication, just as I was hesitant to fill the prescription in the first place. I don’t want to feel like a failure and admit to myself or anyone else that I can’t (1) continue to struggle with my menstrual issues that don’t stem from losing weight, (2) lose weight the so-called “natural” way, or (3) even afford my own GLP-1 as a 32-year-old adult who is considered independent and working full time. Doesn’t it feel complicated and sometimes childish to require my mom to give me a large amount of cash every month while she, along with my dad, has supported me throughout my upbringing and is rightfully expected to fulfill her parental responsibilities? Sure, but the fact is, she has the money and I don’t, and to some extent, refusing her help—or, for that matter, refusing to try GLP-1 out of some vague but not entirely rooted concern about fat liberation—starts to feel churlish.
Let’s get back to the big pharma and fat release parts because they are important. There are many, many legitimate reasons to be skeptical of GLP-1’s current mass distribution in the United States and around the world, but you’ll never hear me argue against these drugs becoming cheaper; I believe all health care should be free (or, failing that, at least not too expensive), and I know that when most people are prescribed a drug that might help them but they can’t afford it themselves, they don’t have the opportunity to text their mom and request a cash shot from Venmo. I don’t think Eli Lilly, the manufacturer of my Zepbound, cares about me or any of the other patients it profits from, but being put off by the ubiquitous “slimming is all” rhetoric in GLP-1 advertising (to be clear, I care deeply), there’s no reason to hope that others’ path to accessing these drugs – if they do find they are beneficial – should be any harder than it is.
