At least four times a week, Id stop at three different shops on my way home: Co-op for a pizza, family-sized chocolate bars, sharing bags of sweets; then onto Tesco, for Jaffa cakes, more bars of chocolate, tubs of ice-cream; and lastly Waitrose, for those squidgy bakery cookies and multiple packs of buttery pain au chocolat.
Id hide it deep within my rucksack so none of the shop workers could see the full extent of what I was going to eat that night. I would pretend I was on the phone to friends when buying enough food for four. Id pick up flour alongside bags of chocolate chips so the cashier might think I was making a cake. Anything to avoid the guilt, shame and judgement of people who certainly had better things to think about than me.
When I got home, Id lay it all out on my bed and, like a ritual, eat each item one by one. Sometimes it was thrilling, my ravenous eyes gleefully taking in the illicit spread; other times I cried as the compulsion drove me to put another bar of chocolate in my bloated, resentful body until I threw up and, minutes later, started eating again. Either way, I couldnt stop.
A few years ago, I was deep in the grips of binge eating disorder. Its difficult to pinpoint the exact moment that I knew I needed help, but what I do know is that if I hadnt made the terrifying decision to quit my job; if I hadnt decided enough was finally enough; if there hadnt been that tiny shred of evolutionary survival instinct that willed me to realise I did deserve a future, I wouldnt still be here today.
Blindly convinced that the solution to all of this pain was simply to lose weight, I signed up for three months at a residential bootcamp, at which, in my mind, I would have my self-loathing sweated and starved out of me.
Weight-loss bootcamps were the product of a fitness craze and obsession with thinness that swept the UK in the early 2000s. The medias fascination with size zero celebrities, and outright disgust at normal-sized bodies (remember Heat magazines cellulite specials where theyd take a marker to ring parts of celebrity bodies), as well as the chokehold of the Atkins Diet, fuelled a toxic diet culture that made us believe a 130lb Bridget Jones was overweight. The result of this was an explosion in retreats known as fat camps (or fat farms in America) that promised extreme, rapid weight loss in return for your hard-earned money.
In 2002, these camps were given primetime television slots: ITVs Celebrity Fit Club sold Britons the idea that Vanessa Feltz and Alison Hammond enduring weeks of tough military fitness was not a dangerous form of entertainment, but instead an aspirational answer to all our yo-yo dieting prayers. Marrying gruelling workouts with luxury accommodation birthed a residential bootcamp industry that is still booming, albeit in a different guise, to this day.
At these camps, clients would exercise for around six hours a day, burning between 300 and 600 calories in each of their five or so fat-busting sessions. Combined with a strict diet of 1,200 daily calories for women or 1,600 for men they guarantee weight-loss of 7-12lbs a week. I ended up at several of them. At the point I first signed up, I felt that if I wasnt losing weight it wasnt worth being alive.
Over a period of four years, I spent more than 20,000 on these fat bootcamps; my father and I both persuaded ourselves that spending the equivalent of a downpayment on a house would be worth it for every pound of fat I could lose. I ended up staying for 21 weeks at one.
Exercise would begin daily at 7am with 45 minutes of pre-breakfast running. After that came three 60 to 90 minute sessions of boxing, spinning, circuits or weight training: some were devilishly monotonous rounds of burpees, bear crawls and tyre flips, others were mercifully varied intense HIIT workouts.
Lunch and dinner were flavourful, if very small, affairs. Everything was rounded off with low-intensity walks in the beautiful countryside to remind you there is a world outside of the sodden field you spend 80 per cent of your day in. At the end of each week, your weight is taken and your inches are measured.
It can lead, as you might expect, to scenes of desperation at both ends of the spectrum. During my time at these camps, there were campers faking injuries and sneaking in contraband to get through the week, while others fell into disordered eating patterns to bring down the scales.
I learned that for every humorous anecdote of camp managers finding vodka bottles hidden behind bath panels; catching campers sneaking ham and chips at the local pub; or confiscating car keys to stop runs to Sainsburys, there was a far more disturbing story. The intelligent, late-twenties professional who hid her Type 1 diabetes and mismanaged her insulin until she ended up in hospital because she was so desperate to lose weight; the young woman and it is predominantly women who attend who had a mini stroke from overexertion.
For me, being there was near impossible at first. I had tantrums, I screamed, I swore, I got injured some real, some exaggerated. I was probably one of the worst campers theyd had, holding inside me an incredible amount of anger. I wanted my life to change, but I still sabotaged myself at every turn.
I was, I suppose, eventually a success story. I lost my excess weight, I could deadlift 100kg, I was running 5k (like I wasnt the same person who spat blood the first time I tried to jog). But as soon as I left, the real world hit me like a barbell. Like many who attend, nothing I did, no matter how healthily I ate or how much I worked out, could keep the weight off. Within a year, I was seeking treatment for bulimia. Im not saying the camps were entirely to blame but my experience of relapse is far from an unusual story.
One former trainer, who worked in the bootcamp industry for five years and wishes to remain anonymous, claims that around 75 per cent of campers fail to maintain their weight loss, which leaves these businesses cashing in on repeat returners.
Were not about giving you an after-package. Were not the NHS; were a business. Bootcamps have flourished because people want a quick-fix, not because well sort you out for the rest of your life, he says.
Ema, now 27, spent 8,000 on an eight-week programme at a UK bootcamp that promised to help her conquer her food addiction with a holistic therapy-led approach.
I was at such a low point in my life and I needed help to overcome what was going on in my mind. I was consumed by a binge eating disorder, she says.
I wish I hadnt been sucked in by the false promises made when I first went there. I was told by the owner that she was invested in helping change my life. Instead, my time [there] was overwhelming, difficult and caused a rapid decline in my mental and physical health. They didnt have the professional training to fix what was going on in my head.
Vomiting from exertion in nearly every exercise session and struggling with restricted food portions, Ema ended up being taken by her parents to hospital after six weeks. I was having such bad stomach pain. It turns out I had dehydration and a stomach ulcer.
Like many who attend, Ema had initially turned to the NHS for help with conquering weight loss but faced a two-year waiting list to access the right support.
I feel like I wasted a lot of money on a helpless solution and, if there was more support available elsewhere with a short wait time, people would not feel the need to turn to camps, she says.
In the end, I had gastric sleeve surgery and made positive lifestyle changes through the help of a qualified psychologist. I only wish Id done it earlier.
Sarah*, a nurse who lives in London, was similarly battling binge eating disorder when she signed up to a residential bootcamp several years ago. She was shocked at how easy it was to join a long-term programme with little assessment for those with disordered eating. Worryingly, there are no industry regulations for these types of private long-term programmes and no obligation to tell your GP before, during or after your stay.
My decision to go was driven by my low self-esteem, poor body image and struggles with binge eating at the time. I was seeking rapid weight loss and a quick fix, admits Sarah.
I was more concerned with addressing my weight and improving my physical appearance as I thought it would lead to an instant improvement in my mental, social and emotional wellbeing. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried, it ended up having the opposite effect long-term.
The temporary feelings of accomplishment and euphoria she got from the weight loss during her time at camp were replaced with harsh, shame-laced internal thoughts and feelings of hopelessness when she returned home. It led to a more entrenched cycle of binge eating.
I feel that, for some individuals, bootcamp can be a positive place. However, I feel for the majority of people, especially those with eating disorders, it can be dangerous, Sarah says.
I strongly feel that greater regulations should be put in place for people who attend long-term bootcamp programmes, as they can do a lot more harm than good in many cases.
Hannah*, 25, a police officer, found herself hooked on bootcamps after she attended a trial day at one near her home in the Midlands. Id moved back from London, started in the police and my health went out the window. I was drinking loads and I gained 80lbs. I was in a low place mentally and physically but at camp I could lose 10lbs a week. I was probably one of the slimmer and fitter people there at the time and it made me feel really powerful. I would compare myself to the others and it made me feel amazing while I was there.
But the bubble soon burst when she got back home. I was completely lost trying to do it on my own. You physically cant commit to that amount of exercise and eating that little on your own. Hannah found herself oscillating between periods of starvation and bingeing, all while blotting out her problems with alcohol.
The camp solved my weight issues temporarily but it wasnt my actual issue, in retrospect. While I could focus on losing weight, it meant I didnt have to acknowledge I had a problem with drinking.
However, now she is no longer drinking, Hannah is more positive about her camp experience: I would 100 per cent go back to lose weight quickly. It does not fix you mentally and it does not fix you long-term, but it can make you feel good and lose that last five pounds. Bootcamps have a place, but not for the reasons they say they have a place. You go there to build your resilience, mental discipline, fitness levels and your mindfulness, she says.
Therein lies the rub. These bootcamps keep people coming back. Although weight loss culture has changed since the early noughties, theres a steady market in those who see the benefit to this weight-loss approach. Personal trainer Rhys Jenkins-Hayhow, who taught at a bootcamp for 18 months after spending five years in the military, is pragmatic about what they can achieve. Rhys notes theres been a huge post-lockdown boom at his gym in the number of people wanting to lose weight, something he predicts will have boosted the bootcamp industry too.
I see residential bootcamps as very similar to prisons, explains Rhys, who now owns Empire Fitness in Stourbridge.
They only work if the person wants to change themselves. You cannot rehabilitate someone whos not ready in the same sense you cannot get someone to lose weight whos not ready to. For him, they can deliver what they promise, but the end result massively depends on the reason you attend in the first place.
As the diet industry desperately rebrands itself in 2018, Weight Watchers changed its name to WW with the tagline wellness that works these camps have done the same. The fat camp hard sell has been replaced with language like wellness retreats or holistic resets. Nutrition workshops, counselling sessions and neuro-linguistic programming all slot into the schedule. On the surface, they seem the perfect kickstart for the cash-rich and time-poor, but are these places really so far from their previous iterations? Can they really change lives for the better?
In a time when theres a noticeable shift in anti-diet messaging on platforms like Instagram, there remains that friction point between self acceptance and self improvement. Where loving yourself just as you are grates against the desire to look that bit better.
Last year, I took a step I never thought I would: I got a gastric sleeve. I went under the knife to have 80 per cent of my stomach permanently cut out of me, and I consider it the best decision I ever made. Ive worked hard, time and time again, to lose the weight, but now I have a lifelong tool that will last much longer than a month at bootcamp.
As lovely as it would be to imagine a world of genuine body positivity, there will always be a market for weight loss. In 2022, when every penny is tight, perhaps its time to look deeper at who is profiting off our obsession with pounds. Twenty years on from Celebrity Fit Club, I think theres still a darker side to fat camps that cant be rebranded out.
*Names have been changed
Beat, the UKs eating disorder charity, has helplines open 365 days a year from 9am8pm during the week, and 4pm8pm on weekends and bank holidays. The general line is 0808 801 0677, the youth line is 0808 801 0711 and the student line is 0808 801 0811. There is also a one-to-one web chat service.
If you or someone else is in immediate danger and its outside of helpline opening hours, contact 999 or the Samaritans on 116 123.
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The dark story of Britain's weight-loss bootcamps: 'I spent 20000 in four years' - iNews
