Susan Smith Facebook ad: “Husband left six month after GLP-1”

About this ad

Meta Ad Library ID

1774198393890282

Platforms

Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network, WhatsApp and Threads

Relaunches

0

How we count

Ad text

I'm 18 months and 74 pounds into a GLP-1, and my husband left at month six because he couldn't watch me die. That's what he said. A Thursday night, 9:40, standing in our kitchen with his car keys already in his hand. "I could do you fat for twenty years. I can't watch you die." The bag had been in his trunk for a week, I found out later. He'd typed up a pickup schedule for our daughter and everything. It wasn't a fight, I could have survived a fight, it was a speech he'd practiced in the car. And the door didn't slam. It clicked. I need to tell you how we got there, because the thing that ended my marriage wasn't the shot. It was something the shot did that nobody warned me about, and if you're on one right now I promise you nobody has warned you either. Let me back up. I've been on a diet since I was 14 years old. Weight Watchers four separate times. Keto twice. A trainer I paid for two years who got me strong and never got me smaller. I had a bariatric consult on the calendar and cancelled it the week before because I couldn't go through with it. So when my doctor finally said the words "we could try a GLP-1" I cried in her office and she thought something was wrong. Nothing was wrong. For the first time in my adult life something was right. Month one the food noise stopped. If you know you know, that hum in the back of your head about what you're going to eat next just... went quiet. Month two my wedding ring spun on my finger. Month three I crossed my legs in a chair at my daughter's school without thinking about it and then sat there for the rest of the meeting thinking about nothing else. I pulled jeans out of the back of the closet I'd kept for eleven years out of pure spite and they zipped. I had a folder on my phone called Journey with a photo every Sunday morning in the same black tank top, same angle, same bathroom, and I'd scroll it at red lights like it was somebody else's life. My mother-in-law said "wow, you're losing so much weight, I hope you're being healthy about it," which is mother-in-law for I think you're starving yourself. A woman at work said "are you sure you should keep going, you're starting to look gaunt." I took gaunt as a compliment. I'm telling you that so you understand where my head was. I was becoming the woman I'd had in my head the whole time. You know the one. The one you see when you close your eyes. And my husband noticed, of course he noticed, but the first thing he ever said about it wasn't "you look amazing." It was "how long are you going to be on this?" I should have heard that for what it was. I didn't, I was too busy winning. Month four I started finding a couple of extra strands on my pillow. A couple. Not a lot. I figured it was the new pillowcase. My hair tie went around one extra time and I thought oh, my hair must be getting thinner because I'm eating so clean, that's a thing right?? >>> it is not a thing. Then came the dinner I still can't think about without my stomach turning. Spaghetti. A Tuesday. Nothing special. My daughter twirled her fork and pulled up a long dark hair with the noodles and went "eww mom" the way sixteen year olds say everything. And my husband put his fork down. He didn't say anything and he didn't look at me, he just set the fork on the side of his plate and sat there with his hands in his lap until she was done talking. That was the first time I knew something was wrong. Not the pillow, not the hair tie. His fork. After that I started seeing it everywhere, and so did he. The shower drain. I'm not going to describe it, because if you're at month four you'll find out for yourself and if you're past it you already know. I started wearing a claw clip to work every day, because a claw clip hides the top of your head and a ponytail shows it. In bed his hand used to go to my hair. Twenty years, every single night, his fingers in my hair until I fell asleep. Around month five his hand started going to my hip instead, and then to the edge of the bed, and then he started going up before me. I found a lint roller on his pillow. He'd been rolling my hair off it before he'd lie down. "You look tired" turned into "are you okay" turned into "are you sick?" And then one Sunday at his mother's house I came back from the bathroom and heard her whisper, "is she doing chemo?" And my husband didn't say no. He didn't say anything. Same as the fork. I went home that night and locked the bathroom door and pulled my hair straight back with both hands and looked at what he'd been looking at. The scale kept saying winning. The drain did not. I was 48 pounds down and I had never been so proud of my body in my life, and I could see my scalp under the bathroom light, and both of those things were true at the same time in the same mirror on the same woman. I'll tell you something I've had a year to sit with. He was right. I did look sick. A woman dropping weight that fast with her hair going at the same time looks like she's dying. His mother thought so. The lady at the pharmacy thought so. I thought so. So when he stood in the kitchen with the keys and said he couldn't watch it, a part of me understood him. That's the part I hate. The door clicked and I sat down on the kitchen floor and I didn't cry that night. I cried the next night, and the night after that, and what I was crying about wasn't him. It was that I'd finally gotten the body and it had cost me the one thing that made me look like myself in it. And I didn't know why. Nobody had told me why. So I did what you're supposed to do. I asked my prescriber. She looked at my chart, not at me, and said "rapid weight loss, it's temporary, just keep your protein up." Temporary. Like a cold. I force fed myself a hundred grams of protein a day on a stomach that didn't want ten. Shakes at 6am, chicken I couldn't taste, two months of it. The drain didn't care. I bought the hair skin and nails gummies from the checkout aisle. Two bottles. My nails looked great. I rubbed rosemary oil into my scalp every night like TikTok told me to and went to bed smelling like a roast. And then I did the thing I'm most ashamed of. I dropped my dose. Three weeks I took less than I was prescribed, because I thought if I slowed the weight down I'd slow the shedding down. The scale stopped. The drain didn't. I gave up the win and I still lost. That was the week I understood this wasn't a trade I could make even if I wanted to. Then I did the other thing I'm ashamed of. I asked him to come home. Two months after he left I sat in his car in the school parking lot after pickup and asked if we could try again. He looked at my claw clip. He actually looked at it. And he said: "Come find me when you look like you again." And I nodded. That's the part that still gets me. I nodded, because I believed him. I believed I was only me with my hair, and that he got to decide. My daughter turned sixteen that summer and I threw her a party in the backyard because I'd promised, and I wore a baseball cap to it. Into the kitchen. In the middle of summer. To cut the cake. My friend Dana was there. We've known each other since our girls were in preschool. She's a family doctor, and I want you to know that's the second thing she is, the first thing is she's my friend. She came into the kitchen and reached up and took the hat off my head. Just took it, before I could stop her. She looked at the top of my head for about two seconds and then looked at me and said: "You're on a shot, aren't you." I didn't answer. She opened my fridge to put the ice cream away and saw the pen box on the shelf next to the milk, and she shut the fridge and leaned on it and said the thing that changed everything. "Nobody warns the women on these shots. Not one. I know because I'm one of the ones who doesn't." She writes these prescriptions every week. She said the whole visit is the scale, the dose, the nausea, is the number moving. The prescription is for the number. The visit is for the number, the insurance approval is for the number, the follow-up is for the number. There's no line on the form for your part. Nobody's looking at the crown of anybody's head. And when a patient does bring it up, the answer she was trained to give is the one I'd gotten. Eat more protein. She said "I've said that to women. I've said that to women and watched them come back in a hat." Then she sat me down at my own kitchen table, party going on outside, and explained it the way nobody had. She said think of the fat you lost like a reservoir. Your body stores estrogen in it. Not all of it, but a lot. And estrogen is the roof over your hair. Every follicle on your head sits under it. You burned the reservoir down in six months. Which is the whole point of the shot, that's the win, that's why you're on it. But the estrogen went with it. And when the roof comes off there's a hormone underneath called DHT that's been waiting its whole life for the roof to come off. The weight drops. Your estrogen drops. DHT moves in. She said it three times so I'd remember it. She calls it losing the roof. I said, so it's my protein, right, I need more protein. She said "It was never your protein. Your protein was fine. It was the roof." Something in my chest let go when she said that. Two months of choking down shakes and it was never the shakes. I asked her about the three weeks I dropped my dose. She said the roof was already off by then. Slowing the weight down doesn't put a roof back on, it just stops the weight. I asked about the gummies and she laughed, not at me, at the gummies. "Half that aisle is candy. There's nothing in a gummy that so much as looks at DHT, it's biotin and sugar, that's why your nails were great." And the rosemary oil? Rubbing something on top of your head doesn't touch what's happening under it. Then she got up, peeled a Post-it off the side of my fridge, wrote two words on it with my daughter's birthday Sharpie, and stuck it right on the pen box. Bloom & Bond. "It's pumpkin seed oil and saw palmetto in one softgel. The pumpkin seed oil turns the DHT down at the source, like turning down a tap. The saw palmetto stands at the follicle and catches what still gets through." I said I could get pumpkin seed oil on Amazon for nine dollars. She said don't. Most of those capsules are heat processed and the heat kills the part that matters, it has to be cold pressed. And you can't get to the amount they studied by eating the seeds, you'd be eating a bag a day. "You can't get it at the pharmacy either, it's online only. It's what I'd take. It's what I do take, I'm on the same shot you are." Four years I'd known her. She'd never said that. I ordered it on my phone at the kitchen table before she went back outside. She didn't tell me to. She was already holding the cake. Three weeks. I know because I counted, I'm the kind of woman who counts. Week one the drain looked the same and I thought here we go, another gummy. Week two, less. Week three I stood in the shower and looked down and had to look twice. Month three my daughter was brushing my hair in the bathroom, which she hasn't done since she was eight, and she stopped and said "mom you've got little baby ones" and touched the top of my head with two fingers. I didn't say anything either. It was a different kind of not saying anything than his. Month six the claw clip went in the drawer, and I wore it down to work and my boss asked if I'd done something different and I said no, because what am I going to say. We had spaghetti a couple of weeks ago, just the two of us. Nobody put a fork down. I never stopped the shot. Not one dose after Dana. I kept losing. I'm 74 pounds down now and I'll be 80 by the time you read this if I have anything to say about it. At my check-in my prescriber looked at my chart, then actually looked up at me, and said "whatever you're doing, keep doing it." I didn't tell her. She should already know. That's the point. And then last spring, month seventeen, our daughter had prom. I was on the front lawn with my hands in her hair, pinning the last piece, when his car pulled up. He'd said he'd come by for pictures. He'd said he was bringing someone. Fine. He got out and stopped. Just stopped, halfway up the walk, with the car door still open behind him. My hair was down. All of it. I hadn't thought about it, that's the thing, I'd stopped thinking about it months ago. He said "Wow, you look..." and nothing came after it. Our daughter said "Dad. Take the picture." He didn't move. "Dad." And from the passenger seat, his girlfriend honked. One short honk. The kind you give a man standing in the street staring at his ex-wife in front of his own kid. He took the picture. His hands weren't steady. I have it, she sent it to me, and he's not looking at the camera in it. At 10:47 that night my phone lit up with his name. "You looked like you tonight." I didn't answer it. I put the phone face down and went and stood in front of the fridge, where a Post-it in Sharpie is still stuck to a pen box, a little curled at the corner now. My sister started her shot this spring. I didn't ask her. I mailed her a bottle with a note that said "month four. trust me." She called me at week three from her bathroom, whispering, "there's almost nothing in the drain." Dana hands the Post-it to her patients now. Actual Post-its. She says it's the only thing she writes that nobody argues with. It's ninety days, money back, so you don't have to take a stranger's word for it either. You just have to take it. 👉 thebloomandbond.com/products/new-pumpkin-seed-oil-softgels And him? I do look like me. He was right about that too. That's exactly why I'm not coming. If you're four months in right now, and the ring is spinning and the jeans are zipping and your hair is fine, I need you to hear me, because I was you at month four and nobody said this to me: You're reading your own calendar. You don't have to pick. You never did. Keep the shot. Keep your hair. 👉 thebloomandbond.com/products/new-pumpkin-seed-oil-softgels P.S. Three weeks, less in the drain. Month three, baby hairs at the crown. Month six, hair down, clip in the drawer. Your timeline might be different but that's mine and my sister's, give or take a week. P.P.S. It's a small company. Dana didn't know that when she wrote it down and neither did I, she just knew what was in it. They sell out. If the page is up, get it now, not at month six.

Where the ad sends people

trybloomandbond.com

Husband left six month after GLP-1

45,000+ Happy Customers