A decade-old health kick led me to try the hydrotherapy craze known as colonics. Three booty irrigations later and this is my story.

I was young, curious, open-minded, and health-conscious. Twenty year old me had recently gone from eating meat, to being a vegetarian, to becoming a full-blown vegan. I was up for trying new and exciting methods to improve my health, and it was right around this time (a little more than a decade ago) that the colonics craze was spreading like wildfire among Hollywood A-listers.

Droves of celebs were lining up to have their colons irrigated, and they weren’t afraid to let it be known. Back then, their open praise for the booty blasting procedure made the taboo idea of having a therapist stick a lubricated speculum, erm, “up there” a little less crazy. And being the slightly impressionable (okay, super impressional) health nut that I was, I hightailed it to the nearest colonic hydrotherapy center.

Before I get to the down-and-dirty part of my experience, I thought I’d mention that colon hydrotherapy is a personal choice, but is one that some physicians actually advise against. What I’m trying to say is that, should you choose to partake in colonics, it’s best to do so in an informed and educated way at a reputable spa. If you have any preexisting health conditions, it’s always wise to clear it with your doctor first. Plus, the results you experience will vary from person to person. Some claim to feel lighter, healthier, and cleaner with lots of immediate and long-term health benefits, while other published studies have linked colonics to the reason for some unfortunate emergency room visits.

So, as I was saying. I walked into the ReNew Life Clinic in Clearwater, Florida, and was immediately impressed by the super-clean-yet-not-in-a-sterile-way atmosphere. The office was inviting and there wasn’t another person in sight, which is nice because colonics is sorta like heading down to your local sex shop — you need more lube, but you don’t exactly want to run into your mom’s next door neighbor.

Bonnie Barrett, the owner of ReNew Life Clinic and first-hand colonics user and success story, actually made me feel pretty relaxed. Once I shimmied out of my pants and slid under the blanket, I was able to lie down on a comfy, hospital-style bed and remained on my side throughout the hour-long procedure, which was kinda nice since I was able to face away from the complete stranger who was about to become well acquainted with my butthole.

Unlike the crazy, hi-tech, otherworldly, abducted-and-probed-by-aliens kinda contraption I was expecting to encounter, the colonics machine wasn’t really all that intimidating. In fact, it was quiet and discreet. I never saw one speck of poop, which was a quadruple plus in my book. As for the speculum, or disposable tip that gets inserted between the cheeks, it was small (thank gawd) and lubricated prior to insertion. I’m pretty certain I was told to relax, although I don’t actually remember that part since I was bracing myself for impact, but all in all, putting the speculum in place was painless and not the traumatizing experience most think it will be.

When you have a colonic, somewhere around 30 gallons of purified water are infused into the rectum. The theory is that the built-up fecal matter (ew) and toxins are expelled, leading to regular bowel movements, weight loss, and detoxification. As the nearly body-temp water was whooshing in and out of my body, Barrett continuously massaged my stomach to move the expelling process along. This didn’t stop the cramps from coming, nor did it help the overwhelming feeling of having to poop, but I made it through the process. I’m not gonna lie, it was kinda uncomfortable, but never, ever painful.

I spent several minutes using the squatty potty afterwards, which is said to be a dream if you ever have difficulty with hemorrhoids or pooping in general, to eliminate the remaining water and stuff from my colonic. Immediately after, the first thing I noticed was how empty I felt and how flat my stomach was. I ended up going back two more times before calling it quits.

Yes, my skin was glowing (or at least that’s what people told me), and I did feel pretty good, but, honestly, it continued long after the sessions were through. Not only was I a young twenty-something, I also consumed zero dairy or meat as a vegan, which hindsight tells me was probably the real culprit behind feeling healthier and looking better. Besides, I was a busy college student back then, which made finding time for colonics, or anything outside of studying, the real pain in the ass.

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A firsthand account of a one-time colonic.

The billion dollar weight-loss industry is booming like acne on a hormone-riddled teenage boy, and there are no signs of it slowing down. As long as there are wedding dresses to fit into, bikinis to look good in, and ex-boyfriends to make merry, products and services promising the svelte figure of a prepubescent girl will have a lucrative place in our world.

As a victim of 20 years of I-have-no-discipline-and-I-procrastinate-eating-healthily-but-need-to-be-thin-this-weekend dieting research, I’m here to bestow some useful yet non-expert advice: never get a colonic for weight loss.

If someone told me I could lose weight by crawling on all fours through hot coals every morning, I’d have some seriously callused kneecaps and a keen hatred for BBQs. Similar to donuts, cheese, and a good glass of wine, weight loss snake-oil is a weakness of mine that borders on addiction. When you live in a weight-conscious city like Los Angeles, searching for a miracle weight loss cure is modus operandi. From grapefruits and cabbage soup, to cayenne pepper and lemon juice, to infomercial exercise products to carb-cutting and the good ole chew and spit – I’ve tried it all short of anorexia and foreign diet pills.

So when my friend told me how she lost “5 pounds of feces” in one colonic session it was no surprise that I was on her therapist’s table in a bunless gown with no underwear on before I could Google the word “colonic.” Had I researched the treatment like a normal person before making the appointment, I would have discovered that colon hydrotherapy utilizes special equipment and tubes to inject water into your colon via your rectum. This is the kind of information you want to know before it’s being done to you.

As I innocently lay on the table, Sonja, a Ukrainian woman with more hair on her forearms then on her head, started snapping on latex gloves and lubing up a 6-inch plastic disposable tube attached to what looked like a giant electric toothbrush with a hose attached. Quickly I begin to scan the walls for any sort of diagram illustrating how this process worked, or for some sort of certificate or diploma; I figured if my manicurist has one, this woman should, too.

“Roll over,” she said in her thick accent, the smell of onions and sauerkraut from her lunch distracting me long enough not to realize what she was doing. SLURP. The plastic tube was in.

I’m going to avoid any sort of medical terms because I don’t know any, and the experience was not what I would describe as medicinal or healing in any way. In layman’s terms, it felt like my body was a water balloon and she stuck a hose up my ass to fill it. Before I could come up with an excuse as to why I couldn’t continue with the treatment, 100-degree water started to pump through the tube. “This is going to fill your body cavity.  The more the better, so let me know when you can’t take it anymore,” she said.  At first I felt a calming warmth, but was then overcome with a feeling of the worst case of diarrhea, constipation, vomiting, and a hatred for all things beautiful all at once.

Sweat started to drip down my face.

“STOP!” I yelled.  I couldn’t take it anymore. Then she told me she was going to release the water, and to keep an eye on the tube to see what was coming out of me. The excitement on Sonja’s face felt out of place; it was like she was giving me a sonogram only it wasn’t a baby we were looking at, it was a turd. There it was. Christmas dinner from 1983, gone. I was attempting to find the positive in this traumatic situation, but no amount of “mind over matter” thinking, dim lighting, faux flowers, potpourri, or Yanni playing softly on the ipod dock speakers in the background over the hum of the poop machine could make this entire experience okay. She was able to repeat the inflation and release process two more times before I cried “uncle” and threw in the towel. She then attempted to console me by telling me that first-timers always struggle.

SLIP. The tube was out.

When I got home, I ran to the computer to read up on what miracle I had coming to me now that I was done suffering. According to Wikipedia, “No scientific evidence supports the alleged benefits of colon cleansing. The bowel itself is not dirty and improperly prepared or used equipment can cause infection or damage to the bowel.” What the *@$#?  Not only did I not lose a pound, but I spent the next three days farting water.

As an intelligent woman who knows better, I’m embarrassed to say I succumbed yet again to the false hope of an easy weight loss answer. I am not going to blame colonics, my friend, Sonja, or even the weight-loss industry because it’s not evil. Like the tobacco industry, it’s built on people’s conscious decisions to ignore the truth. In the end, I deserved to be out $125 and to have a memory burned so deep into my soul that I quiver whenever I start my electric toothbrush or see a lawn hose.

Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Image: His_beautiful_girl94

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