I was recently sitting in a posh tea shop, drinking an extortionately expensive cup of twig tea. £2.50 a pop. Twig tea, for goodness sake. Who’d pay good money to drink that? Clearly, I would. As I sipped the straw-coloured liquid, it reminded me of a practice I’d taken up a few years ago, a practice that had elicited the same response from all my friends. “Rita, you’re completely bonkers.” It was not the first time I’d heard this, and, as it turns out, not the last. What had caused this uproar? My confession that I’d just started drinking my own pee.
The story behind my decision to recycle my pee is possibly even more interesting than the actual urine therapy itself, a health practice that’s been carried out in places like India and China for thousands of years. I first heard about it back in 2006 when I had my initial encounter with a discarnate being called Chung Fu (aka Old Chinese).
For several years I’d been trying to get my health back on track following a near-fatal emergency ectopic pregnancy procedure which had severely damaged my intestines and digestive system. It was trauma with an upper case ‘T’. As I’ve discovered, the gut and digestive system form the hub around which everything else in the body revolves. Conventional medicine had given up on me and tossed me into the sidings, and so, out of desperation, I began exploring alternative means of restoring my health.
There was no exact plan as to how I went about this. It happened in a very organic way. I’d visit a therapist, following a referral from a trusted colleague, who’d suggest something else that might be beneficial, and invariably I’d take up the recommendation. And so it went on. It was a series of treatments with a gifted yet rather odd Serbian medical intuitive that led me to the door of Sally, a trance medium in Glastonbury.
By this time, I’d become quite comfortable with the idea of consulting a medium. Over a period of 3 years, I’d had regular contact with my late father who’d provided me with excellent support, plus I’d been given some very helpful guidance about my health and career. Well, perhaps not so much ‘career’, more advice about my burgeoning psychic and healing abilities. I knew trance mediums brought through people who were also ‘dead’, so I assumed that the process would be much the same.
Perhaps it’s just as well that I was so clueless, because nothing could have prepared me for my first session with Chung Fu. I turned up at the venue, very much expecting that I’d sit and listen whilst Sally spouted wise words at me. I was partly correct, except that the session was a great deal more interactive than I’d anticipated.
When I arrived, Sally, a tall, strong woman in her late 50s, dressed in purple with hennaed hair piled into a makeshift bun, led me into an annexe in the back garden. The interior of this room was rather inviting and womb-like, draped with silk wall-hangings and velvet cushions.
Her friendly, authoritative voice was very reminiscent of the actress, Vanessa Redgrave. She briefly explained that Chung Fu was a wise being she’d channelled for several decades. She’d discovered her psychic abilities after a heart-breaking tragedy in her early 20s and things had snowballed from there. The form of the session was that she’d sing a few Tibetan chants to get her into a meditative state, during which time she’d go out of her body and Chung Fu, a discarnate Chinese monk in the Tibetan tradition, would come into her body and use her ‘physical vehicle’ and voice box in order to talk to me.
True to her word, after a couple of minutes, her body began to jerk and contort, and her features began to take on the mien of somebody distinctly Oriental.
I was rather shocked when a genial voice rather like Yoda from Stars Wars greeted me with a throaty chuckle, saying, “Blessings and peace. Welcome, dear one.” He spent the next five minutes welcoming a cornucopia of unseen guests. These ranged from elemental beings and water devas to my ancestors and extra terrestrial beings. Part of me was utterly gobsmacked, whilst a more mercenary part of me was thinking, “Get on with it! This is costing a quid a minute!”
He quickly got down to business, relating a great deal about my past lives, telling me how extraordinary I was. (I bet he says that to all the ladies.) Over many lifetimes, I’d apparently accumulated an impressive assortment of psychic and healing abilities and had been extremely powerful. On balance, I’d also been a total bastard. Going back 5,000 years, I’d been a nomadic warrior who’d done some nasty things to women. In the meantime, I’d atoned for all this bad karma and, at the peak of my power, I’d striven to use my abilities to help a great many people and was both a gifted healer and seer. However, before incarnating into this life, I’d chosen to push it all away because It was a huge responsibility and I couldn’t hack it.
Past life information tends to make me feel quite twitchy because how can we prove it. However, I decided to give him a fair hearing and draw my conclusions at a later date. He knew about all the extreme, psychic oddities that had occurred in recent years – this was Spirit trying to get my attention. Being a rather sceptical and cynical individual, they’d had to resort to forceful means. He was insistent that it was necessary for me to reclaim all this stored up knowledge – thousands of years’ worth – and that I needed to start developing these abilities and discover who I really was (am).
He knew every bloomin’ thing about me, even the fact that I had a massive problem with the Divine/God/whatever. It seems as though I’d been tortured and much worse in many lives because of my beliefs. As a result, I’d decided that this time around, there was to be no truck with the God word.
One of the most interesting elements of the reading, which lasted for two hours, was when he spoke in great detail about the ectopic pregnancy. I’d said very little throughout the session, apart from the odd Yes and the occasional grunt. I was too shocked to murmur, a rarity for me. He acknowledged that I’d endured the most excruciating pain for far too long. Apparently there was still a lot of scar tissue causing my bowel to stick other organs, particularly my colon.
He encouraged me to drink my urine every morning – mid flow, a third of a glass – and to knock it back in one go. He claimed it was a miracle liquid containing enzymes and substances that could help heal the raw, sore tissue. Urine provided the perfect homeopathy for my body and produced an antibody to everything that’s a problem in my system.
He explained that my kidneys, which had been producing this liquid gold, had been under stress for quite a while and were like little doctors making remedies for the body. Drinking one’s urine is like a tonic for the system and provides an uplift. He likened it to putting a data disk into a computer – it reads off information about the computer, making observations like, “Oh, I didn’t know that was wrong with me…ah, that’s not working very well…”, and then the body starts to adjust. He remarked that we’ve become so hygienic that we tend to think of urine as unclean and have lost contact with its healing benefits.
The following morning I followed the instructions and caught my mid-flow urine in a cup. It was quite tricky because how would I know what was mid-flow? I had a glass of water to hand and added it to my steaming sample. The easiest thing was to chuck it down without touching the sides. It was like a delicate consommé, although I suspect it wouldn’t have tasted quite so fragrant if I’d duffed a couple of glasses of rioja the night before.
I can’t say I noticed any tangible benefits – the tonic effect wasn’t particularly apparent – but there were no unpleasant side effects either. Since then I’ve read several articles about urotherapy and there appear to be multiple benefits on the health front, everything from alleviating migraines and wasp stings to curing gastric ulcers and arthritis.
I’m awaiting the next episode of Bear Grylls’: Mission Survive with great glee. At the end of episode 1, Bear – what kind of name is that? – handed out large plastic bottles for the celebrities to pee into. Their reactions were predictably hilarious. What a fuss, you big girls’ blouses! It’s only salty water! Faced with the possibility of waking up with a hairy, venomous spider the size of a dinner plate on my face that can not only swim, but also run across the forest floor at thirty miles an hour, or having a large swig of warm bouillon that’s going to keep me alive, I know which would be more likely to make me retch. It wouldn’t be the home brew.