I heart colon hydrotherapy

I don’t like it, I love it. And fortunately for me, I found another place that made my first colon hydrotherapy experience seem more akin to taking a shite in the woods. Like, this new spot was lovely. The entire process was unassisted, which I found I much prefer to having someone there the whole time, talking and pushing on my stomach to move water around in my guts.

Of course I found the place on groupon. I like to save money. But I always do my research, read the customer reviews, and visit the company website to make sure it’s a place I want to patronize. I check out their photo gallery. Does it look clean, comfortable, stylish, and inviting? And the staff—do the reviews say that they’re friendly, professional, and courteous? What are people saying about the quality of the services they received? And so on.

The place looked to be on point. So I bought my groupon and called to schedule my first appointment—as well as five subsequent appointments—since I’d purchased six hydrotherapy sessions, total. They were booked up for a while on Saturdays, and because it was a forty-five minute drive from home, I didn’t want to go during the week. So I booked out for a string of Saturdays beginning about a month from the day I called. I’d have to wait. But it was worth it. So worth it.

If you want to know why I’m so def on detoxing and colon cleansing, do a google search on the term mucoid plaque. Uh-huh. So gross. And then you’ll want it out of you, as soon as possible. And when it does come out, you’ll study it carefully, cocking your head to one side before flushing the toilet. Not to mention parasites, which don’t have to be the snake-like apparitions of your worst nightmares, but can actually be quietly colonizing your gut on the microbiotic level, feeding off of the toxic shite adhered to the mucoid plaque that you’re almost sure to have if you’ve eaten any processed food at any point in your life.

So now you know why I love it. It’s a cleanse. A purging. Think about it as toxic energy. Because everything is energy, anyway, and if you’re carrying around toxic energy—negativity, repressed emotions, traumatic experiences, etc.,—where do you think these things house themselves? My guess would be the second brain, which is the gut. Did you know that your intestines, if you were to lay them all out in a straight line, are ten to twelve times your height? So if you’re six feet tall, that’s close to 70 feet of entrails, and what exactly is stuck in there, physically, energetically, emotionally, and otherwise? How about spiritually?

Now I understand why people travel to South America to take part in shamanic medicine ceremonies using the hallucinogen ayahuasca. I totally get it. They’re going on a spiritual journey, having an experience that’s spiritual, moving and purging stagnant energy and traumatic experiences. From my research, most people participating purge in one of two ways: through the mouth (vomiting) or through the colon (diarrhea). And afterward (there’s a lot more to these ceremonies, obviously), they feel completely changed. Lighter. Clear of mind, body, and soul. And really, that’s how colon hydrotherapy is for me.

First of all, when I walked in, I immediately liked the vibe of the place. One television monitor in the waiting room, turned OFF. Neo-soul music floating through the speakers, mainly Maxwell, whose music I find extremely and beautifully soothing on a Sunday afternoon or when I’m waiting to have my colon cleansed. I went on Saturdays, and it was never crowded. Quiet, peaceful, lovely space, and patrons quietly sitting, waiting, coming, and going. The staff were friendly, efficient, and welcoming.

So the cleanses here are unassisted. For the most part. Which means that you are directed to one of a handful of colon hydrotherapy suites with names like “River” and “Lake” and other terms related to natural bodies of water. The first time, they give you the whole spiel, and explain that they never insert the irrigation tube—you have to do that yourself. Which is cool. Even cooler is the tube is no larger than a straw. So you see the setup, which is like a cream-colored plastic table that you lie on with your legs apart, and a partition to keep them that way. The position you’re in is akin to being on the table at your ob/gyn with your feet up in stirrups. So it’s familiar, natural, and actually very comfortable lying on your back with your legs apart. So there’s support for your head and back, with a pillow under your head, but down where the tube is inserted into your rectum, there is literally a commode built right into the table. So it’s like reclining on a giant, custom-made, personal toilet with a small plastic tube sticking out of it, which you put into your rectum. The tubes are disposable and only used once. When you walk in, the table has been cleaned and prepped, and the tube itself is already attached and has a huge glob of petroleum jelly on it for easier insertion. She points out to try not to get that stuff in the tube, because the tube itself is going to be steadily pumping a slow, warm trickle of water into the rectum, which in turn irrigates the colon.

So you’re directed to a room and she closes the door. The room is dark, decorated stylishly, and very cozy, with a single scented candle burning. I could sit and meditate in here for hours, but the session are only forty-five minutes. There’s a sink and a mirror, just like in a bathroom, for washing up afterwards. You undress from the waist down, lie on the table, insert the tube, cover yourself with the paper blanket they provided, and ring the bell for the attendant to return and turn on the water. Then comes the best part. When she returns, she does turn on the water, and she also brings you a heating pad of sorts, which she explains is to help with the cramping. The pad is like a bean-bag, filled with some kind of beads, which are heated in the microwave just before it’s brought in. I don’t eat microwaved food, but I figure I’m not eating the heating pad, so it should be fine, and oh, it feels so good because it eases the cramping as your gut is bound to start churning as it’s being irrigated with warm water. And she explains that you control when you defecate, and you can do it whenever you want to, which is a much better idea than the first place I went, where I had to hold it in until she’d inflated me with so much water like a human water balloon. So, yeah. The idea is to wait until you can’t wait, and then release it, and the water never stops flowing, nor does the small tube interfere with your elimination.

And like the place I’d visited once, there is a hollow plastic tube where you can see the stuff that’s coming out of you and my God, it feels so good to get that junk out, to see it leaving your body. The attendant doesn’t disturb you for the whole forty-five minutes, which is awesome because you’re basically taking a forty-five minute shite and you really don’t want to be disturbed. And I swear, sometimes it would feel like I was passing some kind of alien life form, which I expected to run shrieking, running down the hall, freed from my gut at last. But that never happened. It felt like it, though. Oh, she does check in once, but only from the doorway, about halfway through your session, to make sure you’re okay. She asks how you’re doing and you say fine and marvel at her timing because you’re passing a huge load of shite at just the moment she comes and your vocal response sounds a little breathless and somewhat strained and you wish for her to leave you alone and shut the door immediately. You’re so relieved when she does, because you have so much more purging to do.

And it was spiritual. Every time. Because as this old, toxic material was being broken down and passed out of my body, so, too, was the energy it carried. Old patterns. Negative emotions. Past traumas. Silently, I’d affirm that these things were being released from my body as my guts churned and shed their putrefied, toxic contents. And I felt this toxic energy being released. And I felt cleaner. Lighter. Clearer. Better. Like fresh water from a well, or new, crisp air floating in after spring cleaning. Purged and fresh and new.

And you’ll be conscious of the things you eat, because you don’t want to put anything else into your gut that might get stuck there because it isn’t real food. And you might start to get into juicing/intermittent fasting and detoxing and exercise and yoga and meditation and herbal supplements to help you clean out your gut, like organic psyllium husk powder, diatomaceous earth, and probiotics—three things I consume daily, without fail. Or maybe that’s just me. I really like detoxing.

And I was so pleased with my environment on one of my early visits that I made a video on my phone. Here it is on youtube.

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