The Good Place star Jameela Jamil has declared war against detox teas – and the celebrities and influencers that promote them. She’s shared a video where she parodies the industry, sitting on the loo trilling ‘I’ve lost 35lb…I’ve been on here for, like, three days.’
She’s criticisedIggy Azalea, the Kardashians and Cardi B among others, saying ‘it’s embarrassing and causes eating disordered behaviour. BE BETTER ALLIES!’ The sponsored posts are getting harder to avoid. Every time I look at Instagram I see a slender celebrity suggesting that I could look more like them if I bought the tea that they’re holding, and there’s a discount card in their bio. I know from bitter experience that I should not go near them – but if I’m feeling sad and insecure, I think about clicking the link.
If I were a tree, you could find out how old I am by cutting me in half and counting the rings of my trunk. However, I’m a human woman, and you could probably guess my age to the nearest six months by listening to me telling you about my complicated relationship with the word ‘detox’. Science is pretty clear on what detoxing is and isn’t. If we’re fortunate enough to possess a functioning liver, and kidneys, our body does the work for us. If we have problems with substance abuse, we might need to detox for medical reasons, as various substances leave our systems. But most of us don’t need to detox from moderate amounts of caffeine, alcohol and cheesy chips.
Yet, I was a teenager in the late nineties, and right before the Millennium, ‘detoxing’ was a fabulous, fashionable code for drinking lemon juice in hot water first thing every morning. Before green juice was invented, it was a trendy person’s way of compensating for a diet that was 70 per cent cigarettes and black coffee. So now, at 33, when I hear the word ‘detox’, my mind is telling me no, but my body is telling me ‘this is probably something you should do.’ This is why, a few years ago, I asked a colleague to bring me some detox teas from America. I told her quite a lot of lies about how it had been claimed they would be good for sleep and anxiety reduction, and that they promoted general wellbeing. I didn’t tell her that someone on a reality show had claimed that after a week of tea, you would lose a minimum of five pounds in weight. That’s the trouble with the context of ‘detoxing’. It’s insidious and sneaky. It’s a nebulous idea marketed to people who are unhappy about their bodies, but too scared to admit to their own unhappiness.
I was aware that there might be some side effects, but I assumed that the warnings of ‘extreme diarrhoea’ and ‘paranoia’ were simply covering the company’s bases and protecting them against litigious Americans. I had my first cup of tea on a Saturday morning, and I felt fine. Positive. I was taking control of my life! I would be thinner when I next saw my ex boyfriend! I left the house, bouncing along the pavement and smiling at strangers before I felt a severe stomach cramp. I took a sharp intake of breath and waited for the pain to pass. Then there was another cramp. Moving as though my legs were fused at the knee and ankle, I slowly rolled myself into the nearest M&S. I think I said a prayer on the escalator. I stayed in the Ladies for almost an hour. What happened in the toilet bowl was bad, but it was easy to manage compared with the sweat. My clothes were soaked through. I ended up lying on the floor of the cubicle, in my knickers – I could barely summon the energy to get dressed when it was over. I got a taxi home.
From bed, I asked the internet what had happened and found forums reassuring me that once I’d got the first weekend out of the way, my body would adjust and everything would feel great. Looking back, I can’t quite believe I did this – but I made myself another tea before bed. I remember thinking that I’d spent too much money to give up at the first hurdle, and that persevering through the pain was a sign of strength. Against all odds, I survived the night.
When I came to work on Monday, I felt as though I was recovering from a long illness. I lost my appetite, partly because all I could think about was how long it would take to get to the nearest loo, and whether I should be worried about the gurgling sound coming from my stomach. My mood swung between snappy and irritable, and vulnerable and weepy, with the odd, brief pocket of unbearable smugness. I made a big, obnoxious deal of turning down birthday cake.
After seven days of tea, I was able to zip up my ‘thin’ jeans and sit down in them. I was also exhausted, sleep deprived, furious and constantly on the brink of tears. My boss took me to one side and asked if anything was happening at home, and if I needed any time off. My skin broke out. I could barely finish a sentence.
Now, not all ‘detox teas’ are created equal, and I don’t think the one I used is on the market any more. I did lose weight, as promised. However, the regime simply exacerbated my already poor relationship with food and body image. It made me miserable, obsessive, and 90 per cent more likely to shit myself. I’m sure some toxins were flushed out of my body, given everything else was being evacuated – but my brain was filled with poisonous thoughts.
Detox teas are marketed very explicitly to very vulnerable women. The companies manipulate us, acknowledging the fact that we live in a world that conspires to make us insecure about our bodies – and capitalise on that insecurity. They promise easy transformation, and hope. These companies don’t want us to know that we can have the bodies of our dreams by simply dreaming bigger.
Ultimately, although I’d like to make a full and unreserved apology to Marks and Spencer, I’m glad I tried the tea. The experience taught me that living in our bodies is hard, and loving them is harder still. I never want to feel that desperate, lost and unhappy again. I never want to hurt myself when I could just buy some larger jeans. Detox tea was bad for my body – but it was much, much worse for my brain