Week 5 carried the same rough rhythm as the previous month. What kept me going was faith—faith that this so-called miracle drug would eventually do what it was supposed to do for my health. I clung to that hope, because every time I looked in the mirror at my stomach and those so-called “love handles,” I felt defeated. Whoever named them “love” clearly wasn’t staring at my version of them.
Still, I pushed on.
Cass was still struggling to understand what I was going through, and every explanation I gave sounded more like an excuse—never a good look in our dynamic. Sundays were her favorite breakfast days, but after my Friday night injections I was never in great shape by Sunday morning. I’d planned Friday-night shots specifically because I was pretty sure I’d need two days to recover before the workweek—and I was right.
At those breakfasts I’d end up eating things that had been banned from my diet for months. Toast, hash browns, steak and eggs. I’d eat the eggs and toast, pick at the hash browns, and take the steak home. And every time, I felt guilty—like I was trading being thin for worse A1C numbers. I was still on Metformin, and we had just increased my dose because I was creeping closer to that dreaded 6.4 again.
Travel for work didn’t help. Weekends alone meant lying on a hotel sofa binge-watching series. Not sports—those days have passed. Mostly rom-coms and anything comforting or distracting. I had hit a point where I was doubting my self-worth. I was convinced I held very little value to Cass.
Work itself was tolerable, but not enjoyable. Management has its perks, mainly not having to do heavy physical labor—which I was grateful for—but dealing with employees who complained nonstop was wearing me thin. I’d tell myself, If Cass can tolerate me without reaching for her paddle, then I can tolerate these employees without firing someone.
Food choices on the road were limited. I wanted to eat healthy, but vegetables and salads had become a hard no. I tried, but my body decided it was done negotiating. I used to love fresh spinach… until Week 7 betrayed me. After a dinner of grilled shrimp and most of a small bag of fresh spinach, I woke up in the middle of the night to a full-scale disaster. No warning. Just green betrayal. Thankfully I was traveling or Cass would’ve gotten front-row seats to the chaos. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night—my body had lost its credibility. I haven’t touched spinach since.
On the chastity side of things, all of this created an unplanned break from the device. I have a love–hate relationship with it: without it, I feel lost; with it, I have to wrestle my pride and ego the moment it clicks into place. More on that in another post.
The rest of the month followed the same pattern:
No sexual intimacy.
No chastity.
No discipline.
Not a great recipe for a boy in my position.
