I was walking through the shopping centre in my new size 10 jeans when I smelled it.

The unmistakable sweet cinnamon aroma of a warm doughnut.

Without hesitation, I found myself heading towards the café that offered them. My mouth watered as I reached for my purse. Suddenly, I came to a halt, overcome with anxiety.

The food noise was back.

After three months on the weight loss drug Mounjaro, I hadn’t thought about doughnuts once. Or any food for that matter.

From the day I had my first 2.5mg jab, I’d had absolutely no appetite whatsoever and had to practically force myself to eat. 

After years of incessant thoughts about food – constantly fixating on it from morning till night – I was finally liberated.

I shed 6kg (13lbs) rapidly, followed by another 9kg (20lbs) over the next few months. My size 16 jeans became loose on me, and I could now fit into a size 10, a size that had always seemed incredibly small to me.

‘My deeply painful, destructive relationship with food and my body goes back as far as I can remember,’ says Justine Martine

‘It wasn’t even just noise, it was screaming. A desperate, internal howl I couldn’t silence no matter how many burgers, chips, cheese toasties and pork ribs I ate’

But I got greedy – not in the food sense, for once – and I tried to double my dose to 5mg. I got sick – headaches, blurry vision, nausea. 

I was so unwell, I struggled to function at work. 

And when I tried to go back to that original dose that had worked so well, the side effects of the higher dose remained.

I couldn’t take it anymore; I knew I needed to stop the injections.

But the idea of life without Mounjaro scared me. While I had started my journey weighing 96.5kg (213lbs or 15st 3lbs) and was now 81kg (179lbs or 12st 10lbs), that wasn’t the full story.

The medication had ended my obsession with food that had controlled my life for as long as I could remember. And I was terrified of going back. 

My deeply painful, destructive relationship with food and body image stems from my childhood, when food was a comfort.

I remember vividly the last Chinese takeaway I shared with my parents before they split up. The Vegemite and butter slathered on thick white toast my grandmother made me whenever I was feeling sad. The delicious jam doughnuts I’d gorge on after a rough day of school bullies calling me ‘the tank’ because I was the biggest in class. 

‘Mounjaro had done what I’d never been able to do. It had made the screaming stop – and the kilos drop off with ease’

Then I started to hate food. I hated that it dominated my thoughts 24/7, that I was always thinking about my next meal, that other people seemed to be able to breeze effortlessly through life without being dictated to by ‘food noise’.

It wasn’t just noise; it was screaming. A desperate, internal howl I could not silence, no matter how many burgers, chips, cheese toasties and pork ribs I ate.

At my biggest, I was 125kg (276lbs or 19st 10lbs), and wore a size 24. The only fruit I consumed was two litres of 100 per cent orange juice every morning (yes, I convinced myself this counted towards my ‘five a day’) and the only exercise I did was walking between the couch and fridge.

My greatest shame was seeing my two children become overweight, knowing I was to blame.

Food controlled absolutely every aspect of my life; it was my addiction. And food is the only addiction you can’t go cold turkey from.

Over the years, I’d had some success with Weight Watchers, managing to drop below 90kg (198lbs or 14st 2lbs), but it was when I heard about weight loss jabs that I thought I’d finally found a solution to my lifelong problem.

Mounjaro had done what I had never been able to do. It had made the screaming stop – and the kilos drop off with ease.

The sudden arrival of unbearable side effects was an enormous blow, but I had no choice. I stopped taking it. 

For two weeks, while the drug was still in my system, I foolishly believed I’d changed. I still wasn’t thinking about food. I could just about manage two scrambled eggs in the morning, some soup for lunch and a tiny portion of meat and vegetables in the evening.

‘I’m in a size 10 pair of jeans. But now I’m off the jabs, I’m terrified’

But then the smell of a doughnut unravelled me. 

The old me had returned, the me who’d eat a doughnut or three on the way home from the shops, then start browsing Uber Eats to see what I wanted for dinner.

The food noise was clawing its way back. Not only did I crave a doughnut after smelling one, but I craved any food I saw, heard or thought about.

I even started craving candy, which I’d never been bothered about before. The need for sugar was almost insatiable. 

My appetite was back with a vengeance.

One night I ordered a pizza, and was horrified when I devoured a few slices and still felt hungry. I threw the rest away, knowing how this was going to end. 

Desperately, I tried to remain in control.

For weeks, I stuck to my eggs, soup and light dinner as much as possible. But more takeaways started to creep in. Seven Uber Eats deliveries in as many weeks.

I refused to keep snack foods in the house. To me, that would’ve been like a recovering alcoholic keeping a fully stocked bar. I just couldn’t have temptation within arm’s reach. 

Now, I feel like my resolve is hanging by a thread.  

At restaurants with friends, I study the menu with unhinged precision, like my life depends on it. I can’t follow conversations or laugh at jokes because I’m thinking about what I should order. Or rather, what I shouldn’t. The fish and chips I want versus the healthy dish I know will help me stay in these size 10 jeans.

It takes every inch of my willpower to opt for a small, lean steak with a side of sweet potato. I try to eat slowly, mindfully, while my affable dining companions swipe chips from each other’s plates, order more cocktails, peruse the dessert menu. ‘I really shouldn’t have one,’ they say with self-deprecating smiles.

But then they do. I don’t. ‘I’m full, thanks,’ I say to the waiter, then I let out the breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. 

I’m not full. I’ll never be full. This is hell. 

It’s been three months since I stopped the jabs now. I’ve regained just 2.5kg, or five and a half pounds, which I’m genuinely proud of, but I feel like the wheels could fall off at any moment.

Last week, I tried to throw out my ‘fat’ jeans in a moment of defiance, but then I folded them up and put them in the drawer instead.

What if I need to wear them again one day?

I’m determined I won’t let that happen. But how can I trust myself?

The mental gymnastics are exhausting. The food noise is deafening. My appetite will never be satisfied. 

• As told to Polly Taylor