I thought I’d feel better on Mounjaro but I broke down after 28 days

After years of mood swings, sleepless nights and depressive crashes that left me unable to function, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in my early 20s.

At my worst, I spent three weeks in a psychiatric ward and had countless admissions through A&E and crisis teams.

Those traumatic memories are seared into me and for the last decade I’ve built my life around never going back. With the help of anti-psychotic medication, therapy and complete sobriety, I have managed to bring it under control.

Now 32, I have a happy, stable life: a career I love, close friendships and a relationship built on honesty and calm.

I know what steadies me and what destabilises me. If I stick to my non-negotiables – sobriety, enough sleep, exercise, a careful routine, not saying yes to too much – then I can usually maintain stability. If I don’t, I will topple.

My life depends on my ability to manage the illness. Which is why what I did this summer came as such a shock – particularly to me.

Hoping to lose around a stone, I ordered Mounjaro, one of the so-called ‘miracle’ weight-loss injections that have been dominating headlines. Within weeks, I had become suicidal.

There’s no doubt in my mind that using Mounjaro had triggered a bipolar episode of the most severe kind. After all, I began to feel better after stopping the jabs.

That these weight-loss drugs could have this effect on mental health has not exactly been shouted from the rooftops. And even the experts are torn. But the European Medicines Agency and the FDA have both reviewed reports linking GLP-1 agonists like Mounjaro and Ozempic to mood changes, including suicidal ideation. Manufacturers advise patients with a history of depression or bipolar disorder to consult a doctor before use.

In my own case, I gain weight when I am low, usually comfort-eating my way through the weeks. And this year I felt particularly self-conscious about it. London was sweltering. I’d just started a new role and was still finding my feet, my carefully-honed routines fraying at the edges.

Instagram was full of ‘beach body ready’ taunts. I would scroll and see the lives of other women flattened into polished squares: bronzed legs on white sand, Pilates-toned stomachs, women deadlifting in the gym, their captions about ‘discipline’ and ‘consistency’. Meanwhile I was grazing endlessly on biscuits, pizzas and chocolate, telling myself it was ‘comfort food’ but feeling queasy with shame.

Then came the moment that tipped me over the edge. I was out for lunch with a particularly slim friend. We’d chosen a little cafe in Soho; marble tables and bright salads. She ordered a green juice; I ordered pasta. I heard myself asking her if I’d put on weight. She looked uncomfortable. ‘Go on, I won’t mind,’ I said, though of course I would.

I think I asked because I wanted confirmation of a fear already gnawing at me, as if saying it aloud would let me regain control over it. But it only made it worse.

Finally she admitted, ‘Maybe on your arms.’

It was like being slapped. I smiled, pretended to laugh, but inside my stomach turned to stone.

I went home burning with humiliation. I weighed myself immediately and saw I’d gained a stone. I felt disgusted and panicky, like I was losing control again, and that fear quickly tipped into a familiar shame spiral.

That night I spent hours trawling the internet, specifically researching weight-loss injections and other ‘miracle’ fixes, clicking through TikTok videos of before-and-afters, women half my size holding up their old jeans like sails. I read threads about Ozempic and Mounjaro, ‘amazing’ results described in breathless tones.

I knew, vaguely, that weight-loss injections like these weren’t a good idea for people like me. There were warnings buried at the bottom of some articles about mood disorders and side effects. But nothing was conclusive. In my head, I could handle it.

I found one of the many sites selling the jabs; slick, clinical, with soft colours and reassuring fonts. It was easy to order. You answered a questionnaire, uploaded a photo, and that was it.

They did ask detailed questions about my mental health, including whether I was on medication and if I had ever had any psychiatric diagnoses, but it was frighteningly easy to just tick ‘no’.

There was no verification or follow-up, no cross-check with medical records. For vulnerable patients, that feels dangerous.

People with mental health conditions are, by nature, more likely to minimise or conceal their illness, especially when in an impulsive or distressed state. There should be a safeguard that bypasses the patient’s own answer and cross-references their NHS or GP records before approval.

I lied my way through it, shaved 5in off my height to push my BMI over the threshold, exaggerated my weight by about a stone, and took the most unflattering picture I could, forcing my stomach to spill over my waistband.

For some people, there might have been a pause, a moment to reflect before handing over their details, but bipolar makes you impulsive; the urge to act comes suddenly, decisions that might take others days can be made in minutes. I remember my heart hammering as I filled out my payment details.

When I pressed ‘confirm’ I felt a surge of something like relief, like handing the problem over to a higher power.

The first month’s dose was £109, a figure just low enough to feel manageable. The second month, at a higher dose, would cost £239, and the third £279. Nearly £630 for three months of injections. In that state of mind, the money barely registered. I closed the laptop with a shiver of excitement.

To my relief, my application was approved. The pen arrived within days. I sat at my kitchen table, read the instructions three times, and jabbed it into my stomach. You’re meant to use the same pen once a week, gradually increasing the amount with each injection so the dose gets stronger over time.

The effects were instant. Within 24 hours the gnawing cravings that had driven me to consume whole packets of biscuits disappeared. I could walk into the kitchen without feeling the need to eat something.

At first, I felt calmer and even slightly euphoric, the way control can masquerade as serenity.

The second week was even better. I was eating yoghurt and berries for breakfast, chickpea and tomato salads for dinner. I weighed myself obsessively, every morning, heart leaping as the numbers dropped.

By the end of the third week I had lost 5lb, and by the fourth, nearly 9lb. My jeans fit again. My jawline had sharpened. I would catch myself running a hand over my ribs, feeling the outline of bone.

It worked, and fast. I should have been ecstatic. Instead, I was unravelling.

It began with irritability, snapping at friends over small things. I cried at a sad song on the radio. My concentration fractured.

Then came the darker turn a few days later. I recognised it quickly: I was sliding into a mixed state, the most sinister territory of bipolar disorder. This combines the agitated energy of mania with the despair of depression. You feel frantic, impulsive, wired, and at the same time consumed by bleak, suicidal thoughts.

It is the state most associated with suicide, and I know it well.

I was having intrusive thoughts about ending my life. They came like flashes, sharp, insistent, terrifying. I’d be taking my mood stabilisers and imagine swallowing the whole tube. Standing at a train platform, I’d feel an urge to step forward. These were not plans but impulses, flickers of self-destruction.

At first, I didn’t make the link to Mounjaro; I blamed myself, or the weather, or my hormones. But at the end of the fourth week I phoned the weight-loss company’s helpline, hands shaking. I confessed everything: the suicidal thoughts, the moods, the terror.

The woman on the other end was extremely kind and professional. She immediately cancelled my plan, despite my three-month commitment. She gave me numbers to call if I was in danger, the Samaritans and NHS 111, and told me I could contact them any time. She also urged me to speak to my GP as soon as possible. I hung up and sat on the kitchen floor, shaking with relief. I dropped the Mounjaro pen into the bin.

Shame stopped me telling my doctor. I couldn’t bear to admit that I’d lied on the form or that I’d risked my stability for something as trivial as weight loss. It felt easier to recover quietly and pretend it hadn’t happened.

It was only once I stopped and the symptoms eased that I realised how direct the connection between Mounjaro and my bipolar episode had been. The realisation was terrifying, that something hailed as revolutionary could so quickly pull me under.

My appetite returned within two weeks, though not to its previous excesses. My mood stabilised after about three weeks, and I began to feel like myself again.

Looking back now, I can hardly believe I risked everything for the fantasy of being thinner. Particularly after my experience of psychiatric wards, of fighting tooth and nail for stability. That is how powerful the pressure to be thin is, how warped the logic becomes.

It is not just me. Across social media, there are endless conversations about what some have started to call ‘Ozempic personality’. By which they mean the cluster of mood changes people report on these drugs. Some describe anxiety, depression, even suicidal ideation.

‘The impact of drugs like semaglutide on mental health is not yet well understood,’ says psychiatrist and obesity medicine specialist Dr Elizabeth Wassenaar, MD. ‘We don’t yet understand which patients are vulnerable to the negative impact of these medications versus which patients may find mental health benefits.’

The brain requires steady supplies of amino acids, healthy fats, B vitamins, iron and glucose to sustain mood regulation. Observational data has linked restrictive diets to increased depressive symptoms, particularly in people with elevated BMI.

Experts disagree about the science, though. A large study recently found no firm link between GLP-1 drugs like Ozempic and Mounjaro and suicidal thoughts.

Doctors at Harvard and Stanford argue that most patients are thrilled with the results and that the drugs change people’s relationship with food, not their personality.

Others note that GLP-1 drugs act on the brain’s dopamine and reward pathways, which could affect not just food cravings but the experience of pleasure more broadly. For people whose dopamine systems are already fragile, such as those living with bipolar or ADHD, that could pose risks.

While the science is nascent, research into restrictive diets supports the notion that extreme calorie deficits can worsen mood. A recent BMJ Nutrition study found that low-calorie diets were associated with higher depressive symptoms, and experts warned that these findings may reflect how nutrient deficiencies and metabolic stress destabilise neurotransmitter balance.

The truth is Mounjaro and the other jabs are extraordinary. They can help patients lose 20 per cent of their body weight. They reduce the risks of diabetes and heart disease. For many, they are life-changing. But for people like me, they are dangerous.

Our illnesses distort appetite and weight, already swing us between bingeing and fasting, already make us impulsive enough to click ‘order’ without thinking. Introducing a drug that so radically alters hunger is like adding fuel to a fire.

I wish I could say I will never care about my weight again. But I know that isn’t true. The cultural pressure is too deep, the desire to be thin too ingrained.

What I can say is that I will never again risk my mind for it. Because that is what it came down to: not a smaller waistline, but my sanity.

• Lexie Turner is a pseudonym
• For confidential support call the Samaritans on 116123 or visit a local Samaritans branch. See samaritans.org for details.