I found myself standing by a fireplace next to half a dozen Buddha-themed tapestries, holding a shot-glass full of bitter-smelling brown liquid and a piece of pineapple, and my heart was pounding inside my chest like it was being buried alive under my rib cage.
I wasn’t alone, however.
Next to me were 20 others standing in a circle; some bore the same confused look as I did, and some seemed to know more than they would reveal. My thoughts were shuttling between “Now it’s too late to walk away” and “What have I gotten myself into?”
I only knew the facts. I was in Alicante, Spain, attending a five-day healing retreat run by Om-mij, a Dutch organization specializing in healing retreats. (Update 2025: They got busted in a raid and the owners are accused of multiple financial crimes.)
One word came to my mind: a cult. “That’s what it is,” I was telling myself. My fears about joining a league of brainwashed zombies started to drift back to my history of anxieties, panic attacks, and bursts of anger I have learned to bottle up.
Was I voluntarily participating in a ritual that, for outsiders, might seem like something out of Jim Jones’ Wikipedia entry? Would I do it when I damn well knew that some or all of us would have to die tonight? Well, not die clinically but transform and change, to be born again, if you will. Even if I wouldn’t be buried, transforming into a different person sounded scary enough. Well, it was too late to regret it.
I gulped the drink and washed it down with the pineapple to prevent the intuitive gag-reflect, which usually follows after consuming revolting substances such as motor oil, Kool-Aid, urine, or a shot of Unicum with sprinkles of mold on top. Or, like tonight, Ayahuasca, the Vine of Soul, a potent psychedelic that is more commonly referred to as The Medicine or Mother Aya.
Names aside, it’s nothing to be taken lightly, in any case. Ayahuasca is not something you snort in a back-alley trance club or smoke with those bros in your mom’s basement to a soundtrack by Bob Marley. It’s a heavy hallucinogen that puts you down for a lengthy period and shows you potentially scary images of yourself without the option to look away. So you better enjoy mental mud-wrestling or stay away from it.
A lengthy set of hugs and farewells made the bitter taste soon forgotten, and I four-wheeled to my mattress. Next to it was a vomiting bucket, a pack of Kleenexes, and a water bottle. It was time to let go.
What was I doing in a place like this?
My journey began a couple of years ago when I took a long trip from Helsinki to Singapore, traveling overland through Russia, Kazakhstan, China, Taiwan, Laos, Thailand, and Malaysia.
When I left my hometown for Singapore, it was a little more than a year after a soul-tearing breakup with my ex, and I decided to change that by entering a new realm of soul-seeking. I had no friends other than those from hostels. I had no hometown, familiar streets, relatives to visit, or favorite cafes… Indeed, I had left my life and culture behind in search of a new way of being, completely detached from anything and anyone.
I see it now: I was such a stereotype—a big pile of clichés for a 30-year-old solo traveler. I had only a small rucksack, sandals, and a toy monkey hanging from a zipper, who was there to remind me to let go and chill out even if the road called. Sure enough, he was doing a lousy job since I never quite learned just to be and breathe, to live in the moment and appreciate what I have right here, in my body and mind. I was speeding through the continent, on the fast lane, ready to leave each town before I even had set foot on it. I carried a monkey on my back, literally.
Eventually, I came back to my hometown of Helsinki. But still, after seven months of lonely travels, random encounters, and a few minor heartbreaks, I felt devastated and not healed. I still hated my life and the people who had wronged me. I was still going through that, blaming people for every problem we had left unsolved, and spent my days figuring out how to pay them back. I was tormented, I was bitter, I was angry, I was vengeful.
But I had changed, even if just a little. Yes, a cliché for a 30-something anxious soul like me, traveling alone in Asia truly is a crash course in humbleness and connectedness, and I had come back home with a fresh set of tools. Instead of clenching my fist in frustration, I was openly talking about my problems and looking for ways to improve myself. I didn’t bottle up my emotions, and I had learned to trust people, especially myself. But still, things were off. So, I was looking for the answers more vigorously than ever before. Why did I feel like an outsider? Not just with the society but with my persona, too.
Naturally, after trying “everything,” like watching many TED Talks and YouTube videos on how to live without the constant commentary track inside my head, I gradually began to discover the truth of Ayahuasca.
It was either through divine guidance or social media algorithm, but the word started popping into my real life and virtual reality newsfeed. For example, a friend talked about “some cactus they drink in the Amazon that should take you to other realms and back with new knowledge.” Okay, well, that sounded cool. Some other friend mentioned that if the pot isn’t doing the trick for you, why not try Ayahuasca? That was less cool, but it still fits into the story and was slowly starting to make sense.
My daily scrolls around the blogosphere took me to podcasters like Aubrey Marcus, Tim Ferris and especially Joe Rogan, who were constantly (well, it feels like that when you learn a new word. Look up Bader-Meinhof-Phenomenon) talking about this magic substance that makes your heart pop open, your ego dissolve, your lies-ridden reality crumble making you embrace the world around you like it just gave you the best blowjob of your life. Some of their podcasts are rough takes on self-discovery, wiped clean of any traces of new-age bullshittery. Ok, I admit that’s not the exact imagery they used, but you get the point: it feels heavenly sound, and everyone should experience the magic of it, if not repeatedly, at least once.
I also found some YouTube clips, like the two guys of the travel show Madventures tripping on it. They talked about a never-ending horror show of memories, vomiting, and crying in the Peruvian jungle. It didn’t look all that appealing, but I was sold after the self-development channel Charisma on Command made a video about his blissful journey into the realms of the unconscious. Numerous blogs across the Internet had nothing but good to say about it; for many, it cured their alcoholism; for some, it rekindled old friendships, guided them through the death of a relative, helped end a dead-end career, erased all violent tendencies… It seems like Ayahuasca has a special gift of making everyone speak candidly about its effects on you like a truth serum wiping away all inhibitions, shame, and fear of being labeled a junkie or a new-age hippie looking for the next ego-trip on awareness. This is precisely what I felt: a strong desire to talk about it, yet no fear about the consequences of doing it publicly. I no longer care what people think of me so long as I live truthfully.
***
Through dozens of hours spent listening to first-hand experiences, I found out that Ayahuasca is, in fact, not a drug at all but a sacred medicine that is consumed in rituals almost sacramentally in indigenous cultures. And it’s not a cactus. It’s a potion made of two vines, one with a high dose of DMT and one that makes your body absorb it instead of rejecting it. It is a mystery how these two plants were found to work together like this. The shamans will tell you that the plants themselves told them how to be used. Go figure.
Once taken, the medicine affects you pretty similarly to other hallucinogens like LSD and Magic Mushrooms. It will show you all the colors and patterns of the world and then some, penetrating your ego system, making you less self-centered and more conscious of others’ pain and struggles. The stuff that hippies talk about. Still, unlike most other hallucinogens, Ayahuasca is told to penetrate deeper into your subconscious, to the abandoned warehouse of memories that reeks of rotten fruit and smothered anger—the basement of your very own Grand Archive of Deeds and Disappointments. As I’m about to tell you, it starts a rigorous and much-needed cleaning operation that is not for the faint of heart.
For many, if not for everyone, the archive is where you store all the experiences that were too painful when they happened. Your brain did a great job protecting you from the immediate violence, but in force-forgetting the incidents, it also forgot to keep the archive tidy and organized. In the years after, things got dusty, and the possibly valuable life lessons grew in size into horrible traumas that now trigger you every time you get reminded of it without you even realizing what’s happening. Every time you go there to pick up the tools you genuinely need to resolve the task, you either can’t find the right one or get a load of smudge and slime as a bonus, making you anxious, hateful, nervous, or resentful instead of calm and collected. The traumatized child takes over the adult in you. For instance, you might get sudden bursts of anger when someone accidentally cuts you in the line, or you get the creeps every time you smell the same perfume your uncle, who always used to call you ”the little whiny mouse,” used to wear. For me, getting accused of lying, stealing, or hurting someone on purpose is the ultimate insult that I cannot handle, turning me into a ruthless swordmaster of tailor-made insults to bring my opponents to their knees, begging for mercy. Some people have so profoundly buried anger they have created severe back pain or rash instead so they can focus on healing their bodies instead of minds. The mind and body work seamlessly together. The brain treats these occurrences the same way your stomach treats food; it has detected it to be harmful or reminding you of food poisoning; it can’t ingest it but instead throws it up, resulting in a state of shock.
The traumas make surprise stealth attacks, making you lose your calm and serenity when it’s useless. This unwanted garbage is the price you pay for not sorting out your painful memories, facing them bravely, and instead running away from them only to find all of them in front of you over and over again. Ayahuasca, or The Medicine, or The Mother is there to take care of the shit you left behind, believing it’s never to be seen again. Mothers are the best, even if taken internally in a liquid form. The Amazonians consider Ayahuasca the Grandmother spirit, a feminine entity that shows you the secret door to your inner world, the long-forgotten archive.
One way to translate the word Ayahuasca is Vine of the Soul. However, some argue that it’s initially called Ayahuasca, the Vine of bitterness, and it’s supposed to wash away grudges and anger in one word: bitterness. Any reference to its awful taste seems to have gotten lost in translation. Nevertheless, this washing also happens physically when, after drinking, you involuntary purge, release any unwanted smudge through vomiting, laughter, crying, and, what seems genuinely frightening, a messy diarrhetic shotgun blast out of your behind.
But there is more to it. The Mother only initiates the work, but you must participate. That might get messy, too. Once the Grandmother gets inside your brain, she starts wiping the clutter and layers of dust you have collected in your subconscious. Once she finds something that’s causing the bitterness, she unhesitatingly digs it out for you to examine (whether you want it or not) and to decide if that’s something you still need in the future or if it’s something that should be released to the toxic waste year of your history. Rest assured: Aya cannot erase your memories, but it will organize the archive room little by little so that you can have room for love and happiness. It sounds more hippie than it is. I repeat: this is not something to take lightly. The experience may be between a nightmarishly horrifying album of monstrous images and real-life events you wish you had buried deeper for Aya never to find them or a fast-forwarding film reel of colorful paintings of bliss and light.
Hallucinations are common, and so are physical seizures and out-of-body experiences, sudden bursts of tears, and compulsory dancing, singing, laughter, and shouting. You may feel cold, hot, out of breath, or full of breath. You may feel like entering different dimensions, ancient kingdoms, visiting dead relatives… basically, everything the human mind can imagine is possible. Some say that Ayahuasca is capable of showing you supernatural realities like Daniel Pinchbeck and Sophia Rokhlin say in their book “When Plants Dream”:
Throughout Shamanic cultures, dreams are understood to be portals that connect to the evanescent realms of spirits. Dreams can offer information about the past – or even the future. Shamans often retrieve helpful messages from the oneiric and hypnagogic realms, translating them into waking reality. The ayahuasca trance, in itself, has dream-like qualities. The drinker enters a state of being where the ordinary laws of physics, reason, and order no longer hold. Under the effects of the medicine, drinkers viscerally experience visionary dimensions with their bodies and minds. They learn lessons, encounter old trauma, solve riddles, meet the unborn and undead, and encounter mythical creatures. Sometimes, they bring information back into ordinary reality.
I doubt you can enter anything that doesn’t exist in your mind, but I can’t rule that out either because I am just a rookie in Ayahuasca travels. Snakes and dragons are familiar visuals. If you meet them, feel free to follow their lead. It’s said that they tend to take you somewhere deeper to explore your true self in their world — outside the one you know.
Some don’t see visuals; others can see all the colors and patterns imaginable and beyond. Wherever you enter your psychedelic journey, it’s worth noting that every action or image you see in the ceremony (or after it) carries a more profound message for you to think about. You are the one doing the actual work. Ayahuasca is only there to organize and clean the storage, and you have to make sure it stays the way Aya left it.
You can count on Mother Aya to always give just what you need at the right moment and nothing more than you can handle. Expect nothing; accept everything. Give her your trust, and she will take care of you.
The hard work happens in the ceremonies, but the real work is done between ceremonies, in your free time reflecting on the previous night, chatting with your tripmates, or sleeping. Your actual dreams (not the Aya-enhanced visions) may become more vivid, and the messages may become more meaningful. After the first ceremony, as I went to sleep, I saw my mother telling me that all my memories are just audio/video and that I must replace them with emotions. I only realized what she was saying after a few days: I spend too much time absorbing information and entertainment, substituting reality for virtual reality, numbing my emotions and feelings.
I’m pretty experienced in self-discovery, but it’s give and take. Semi-professional kitchen psychologists may get deeper down the archive than those new to questioning themselves. For instance, I have been to psychoanalysis and talked about my life to a therapist for some 500 hours or so, and this makes it a little bit less frightening to face your hidden self in the ceremony. The flip side is that you may think you know everything already and have expectations of the outcome. You tend to explain everything in psychoanalytic lingo, thus blocking your genuine emotions. A clean slate is less contaminated.
Still, no amount of research can fully prepare you for Ayahuasca since its effects are still a mystery, and nobody will ever have the same experience as you. No, not even you will have the same trip twice because you are not the same anymore after taking it. This I hadn’t internalized before embarking on the journey of my life.
First Night: Holy Nightmare Batman! It’s the Joker!
Remember the first time you had sex? All the fuss and talk about the experience may have led you to believe it will be all fireworks and shooting stars of love and companionship. Still, the harsh truth is that it was a clumsy couple of minutes of confusion and awkwardness.
I knew my expectations were only an illusion as I was lying on my mattress, ready to give in to the Medicine. I was briefed that the three ceremonies form a triangle, where each night represents one side to complete the journey. So, whatever happens, the first night will be the beginning, and no great revelations are to be expected, though you can never be sure.
Life is about decisions. I had decided to be here and now and drink Ayahuasca. My ideal setting for these retreats would be nowhere near Spain, preferably in South America or far away from my culture and people I feel genetically related to.
Yet here I was, lying alongside people from all over the world, in a candlelight, ready to leave my mind and body to the care of some old lady living inside a plant.
Ayahuasca is taken ceremonially, so there is always a specific procedure. First, we formed a circle. Then the guides provided us Rape, which is a kind of tobacco taken nasally. It feels soothing, and there is nothing to write home about. Then, all participants gave their intentions for Mother Aya, their wishes, or a question. Many were hoping to surrender and not guide their thoughts. I intended to find out what is holding me back because I’m a man of many words and few actions. I wanted to know what had made me the coward I am.
I found that a little unnecessary since whatever I was saying out loud might have had nothing to do with what Mother Aya had in store for me. But I wanted to take part in the community and forget about my cynical self that would laugh about this kind of hippie bullshit of candles, drums, and holding hands.
Half an hour went by, and people around me were vomiting, dancing on their mattresses, and quietly sobbing—the usual stuff. I felt nothing. I asked for another shot. Time went by, and this time was slower than ever. Still, nothing, though the music sounded louder now, but I figured my senses were only getting sharper.
And what did I do? I gave a detailed commentary about my ceremony, taking notes of every possible feeling and action I was experiencing. I didn’t realize that I was not living in the moment and letting go. My critical mind was racing, and I didn’t like that at all.
After four shots of this ancient miracle cure, I doubted it. I felt I was being duped by snake-oil merchants, paying hundreds of euros just to sit in a room and watch people having fun around me. I constantly jabbed silently, telling what was happening to me like a voice-over and speaking about the experience to my friends. I tried to make something out of every feeling and movement, calling every yawn and itch a sign of Aya kicking in.
This is incredibly hard for me. My mind was a maelstrom of anxiety, doubt, worry, a fast-forwarding highlight reel of nothing particular, high praise for mundanity. How on earth do I even begin to let go?
The reality was that nothing was happening to or for me. I felt hopeless, a failure who couldn’t even surrender to one of the most potent hallucinogens in the world just because I always needed to be in charge. I still had to make all the decisions, though my control freakery was way better nowadays than ten years ago. It still felt terrible to be such a mess.
I started to cry about my fate as an incurable loser who is destined for eternity as an outsider, a mere spectator in the spectacle of life with everyone else playing and having fun. Then I laid down to ponder the sad life I had been given to live through. I dimmed the lights of my rational mind and called it a night.
Then, something happened. My lips started to numb, my jaw cramped, and my torso began to squirm like I was trying to hide a snake inside my shirt. My neck twists and stretches, like someone gently pushing my forehead.
After a moment, I felt my mouth open like I could eat a whole apple without chewing. Someone I felt was trying to pull my teeth and told me they were in the way. I was not in control anymore, but my hands reached for my gums, gently massaged the cheeks, and forced them into a smile. I had seen the Joker a couple of days prior, and I saw myself as Joaquin Phoenix reluctantly putting on a smile when all he felt inside was pain and darkness.
As the Medicine was working, I kept asking her questions and commenting on her movements. I was distracting the moment and not giving in; instead, I was fighting to focus on everything and nothing in particular.
My head rested on the pillow while my chest started to rise more, and when I reached my physical limits, my diaphragm cracked open, turning into a glowing volcano and letting all the light through.
My mouth was still gaping, sucking all the air inside for eternity. My stomach was almost bursting with air. This must be how it feels to breathe fresh air after dwelling nine months in total darkness of your mom’s stomach, holding your breath. Every vein in my body had an overdose of oxygen, and when I was relieved of all the tension in my body, I realized the Medicine was working for me after all.
A triumph! I wasn’t hopeless after all! I was so euphoric that I felt this instant relief of happiness rush through my body and started to giggle, and after holding it in, I just cracked up laughing my ass off from the bottom of my belly.
Feeling slightly embarrassed, I tried again to hold it in, this time with added force. I didn’t want to get attention and disturb others with my giggling, but I was too much in the flow of the moment to feel ashamed of myself anymore. I let it die off naturally and sat up as the invisible force gently guided me to stretch my back from side to side, slowly swinging my torso like a snake dancing to a piper, releasing my everlasting pain in the lower back and sides. The Mother told me I was not stiff; I only believed I was and started massaging my muscles all over my body, focusing on my most painful areas: jaw, back, and neck, the usual disposal sites for repressed anger, suppressed opinions, and hidden sorrows. It was both as painful and pleasant as ever, being revealed and relieved simultaneously.
As the ceremony ended, I had been sober for some time. I was sober but puzzled by the images I was shown, the harsh truths about my identity that seemed more fraudulent and constructed than I wanted to admit.
Am I the Joker? Man with forced feelings or no genuine feelings at all? What is it with my neck? And what was I blocking with my teeth so adamantly that The Medicine had to work long hours pulling them out? The facial massage seemed to hint at a carefully painted mask so deeply rooted to my face it had become my second, or rather first, nature.
I had also seen vivid images of people who had guided me in my past, making me the person I had become, leading me here without ever thanking them for their efforts. For instance, I just remembered I had to send a message to that Taiwanese girl, Tilde, who supported me when I was going through hard times on my travels. She gave me invaluable comfort and tips leading to my current love relationship. The world is a whole of benevolent people I had taken for granted. Shame on me! I knew I had entered the realm of the subconscious, and there was no turning back, or the uncovered secret would haunt me forever.
***
In the five-day retreat, the three ceremonies are only one-fourth of the whole experience or the healing process. More should be said about the time in between. Because when you’ve been digging into the deepest catacombs of your mind in a tight-knit circle of strangers, they quickly become friends. Whether you spend time alone or in a group, you simply cannot Un-think about your personal history, all the mysterious findings The Medicine gave you, and the most important relationships that have made you you.
Every waking moment at the retreat, your mind is constructing anew with freshly acquired building blocks, throwing seemingly unnecessary ones away, connecting the ones that fit together, and digging through walls that used to be there to protect the ugly truth from unveiling. Your group points to the dark corners you hadn’t dared to look at. The whole process is like playing Tetris on level 29, which is nearly impossible to manage for over a few seconds – unless you trust your intuition solely. But on Ayahuasca, your mind can get so precise and fast that everything flows perfectly, like in a slow motion, without you doing anything. Hell, you cannot do anything even if you tried!
This is the real magic behind Ayahuasca. I was not consciously controlling the crashing Tetris blocks but intuitively placing every block where they fit best. Aya was shooting me with info with a machine gun; I examined it and buried it in my heart. Ayahuasca brings people together. In this kind of Ayahuasca retreat, no one is left alone.
People share their experiences, past traumas, and fears for the future. They share invaluable insight with everyone, making them question their past. After every ceremony, or right before the next, the group gathers to discuss the previous one. It gets very emotional. Big men cry, and strong women feel weak. They became my family for the weekend: Ulrica, our senior, had lost her husband three years ago. Her daughter was seriously ill, her son had gone to prison, and she was struggling with thyroid problems. She was about to commit suicide three years ago, but Ayahuasca had stopped her from making the ultimate decision. She was there to revisit that comforting feeling and seek strength to cope with her disease.
Martin, a very outspoken German, had found himself drifting away from his family and came here to find a way to reconnect with his wife and children.
With his broad Australian accent and red beard, Willie was like the cheerful uncle I had never had. He was searching for a way to forgive his wife, who had cheated on him.
Ross, one of the most literate and well-spoken men I’ve ever met, was constantly analyzing and studying everything, making him a little know-it-all-ish but not in the wrong way. Every time he spoke, I felt like it was me talking. I called him the Professor. I respect him a lot. He didn’t have any significant issues coming here and seemed happy with his previous findings with Ayahuasca. But he, too, was taken for a ride to the unconscious by the Medicine, as I would find out.
Jan, my traveling mate and one of my best friends, was feeling stuck in life and – I presume — quite anxious about his upcoming role as a father.
Then there was Steve, a quiet Briton, who reminded me of The Chief from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. He could whisper only a few words out of his mouth, like each syllable was apologizing for being heard. Wow, I thought. In silence, I bonded with him. I used to be like that. A treasure chest waiting to crack open, revealing the inside for the world to behold.
Little did I know that my chest was not just about to open. It was about to explode, leaving no survivors.
Second Night: Let There Be Beasts
I came well-prepared for the second ceremony, knowing I had a good warm-up the night before, and was ready to break out of my shell. Easier said than done.
After drinking a double shot of the brew, I again found myself ruminating about my miserable life, my reluctance to surrender to chance or strikes of destiny, and, indeed, what the Ayahuasca has in store for me. As all the others started to wriggle around, giggle alone, or spit their insides into the buckets, I remained stoically in the driver’s seat, observing my surroundings with the added commentary track, the critical edition, in the back of my head.
What is this music about? Some new-age hippie shit? Get out of here with your vibes and shit.
And these Buddhist settings? With South American heritage? Fuck this. I am so above this cultural mega-mix of tree-hugger kitsch. I was steaming inside. I had paid serious money to be healed, once and for all, or at least get shit-faced by an exotic plant. Neither was happening. Of course, The Mother was slowly preparing me for the ride without me even noticing.
I raised my hand to order another drink, but like the responsible manager, Klaudia, one of the retreat’s owners, was firmly but friendly. She told me to relax, close my eyes, and trust the medicine. Okay, fine. Let’s not heal, let’s not get shit-faced, and let’s spend the evening alone watching the kitschy tapestries get smudges in vomit. Fuckers.
So, I decided to sleep it off.
Ah, the critical mind, my old friend, welcome home. I was not fond of it, but it seemed inevitable to take it with me. I needed to find a way to ditch it off. I tried my best, and it didn’t work out. I tried even more, and I got only more sober.
In the first ceremony, I ended up drinking four cups of Ayahuasca before anything worth mentioning started to happen in either the senses or the body, which I realized later was a wake-up call for something of importance.
One portion should be enough for most; two would do the trick, even for the most stubborn ones. That being said, it takes time for your mental and physical receptors to get used to a new kind of stimulant, and most likely, the amount needed reduces time after time — that makes Ayahuasca a one-of-a-kind medicine — to get deeper and better results with each dose.
The medicine always tells you something important. If you feel nothing after three cups, that is the lesson for you to take; you have grown an impenetrable resistance, and you’ll have to find ways to loosen up. Just like me. But I wasn’t paying attention or feeling it then and there. She said, “You have trust issues,” which I knew already from the first ceremony. True, I am afraid of trusting anyone or anything (including myself), and I soon realized this is precisely what I needed. I am one of the stubborn ones, the masked frown, in dire need of acceptance and hugs, the courage to let my public persona vanish before the authentic one lets loose.
My harnessed ego was blocking me from laughing, smiling, crying, hugging, and dancing, i.e., showing feelings and revealing my true self, undoubtedly making me vulnerable to critique. It’s the super-ego telling me to hold it in, whether at a party to get drunk or with friends having dinner.
I won’t relax because I always have to be on guard to control my appearance no matter which poison I am on. My face and body are made of impenetrable stone, covering the fact that I am deeply ashamed of who I am. I’m the champion of staring contests – the dead don’t laugh.
Being in the flow is the most challenging hurdle imaginable. It’s not just a bad habit; it’s my definitive personality, formed in childhood and youth. I sacrifice the joy of the moment for calculated manners that will never upset anyone, except when the suppressed anger finally leaks through uncontrolled.
Things took a sudden turn, and as I started my compulsory face-making show again, I knew it had to be important since this was now a recurring theme. Again, my jaw went the other way, lips aimed for the sky, cheeks stretched from side to side, and for a moment, I felt like Ace Ventura or The Mask, albeit a sadder version.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I told the Mother. The Medicine started working on my neck, pulling it in extreme stretches and suddenly releasing the tension, letting the air inside by barrels. The oxygen flow expanded my rip cage to full stretch, cracking my spine and joints for one more centimeter. This challenged me to a wrestling match with myself, and indeed, I would have lost it if the time for the second serving hadn’t been called at that exact moment. I was saved by the bell.
As I sat up, I saw Adi, one of the guides, walking by, and I raised my arm for notion. Give me more of that good stuff; I’m just warming up here. But as soon as I opened my mouth, my jaw locked again. Fully open. I tried to speak, but no words came out, only some muted quacking like I was Daffy Duck wearing a gag. Something was indeed happening, but despite being undoubtedly under the influence of the Mother, I hadn’t lost my sense of time and felt utterly sober, albeit extremely emotional and desperate.
Adi crouched at me, massaging my jaw back to normal. It took only five seconds, but looking back now, it might have been the defining moment of my retreat, my year — maybe my whole life. His sudden act of kindness, helping me out of my pain, made me so emotionally, so moved that I almost showed how weak I am inside – I shed a tear and then a second. I needed help, and someone provided it without my asking for it.
This is it! This was the missing piece I’ve so dearly missed: attention, care, help, and love. I didn’t realize it then, but in hindsight, I can see how Ayahuasca was carefully repairing the connection of my neurons to awaken my emotional activity. The next thing I knew, I gave Adi my hand to hold on as a gesture of trust. I had a burning desire to confess my big secret.
“I… I… I…” I stuttered.
These are the moments in life where you can either say what’s on your heart or shift your focus to mundane things, like sardonic comments and embarrassing dad jokes. If I had been sober, I definitely would have steered away, holding this moment in for eternities to come, but there was no turning back now. Aya was taking care of things for me.
“I have to tell you that I am nothing… I am nothing but a pretender.”
There. I said it, blurted out the truth I had withheld from the world. If it hadn’t been for Adi, I wouldn’t have had the courage to say it out loud. I needed someone I knew would understand and not judge me for who I am. So I went on confessing, and there it was. I am a pretender. Big, fat pretender and nothing more. Yes! That was the hard truth growing inside me, dragging me down.
To let out the truth I had been hiding from myself as well as from others felt so relieving, shoving me again deeper into my personal guilt trip. “I pretend everything,” I sobbed. “I have no feelings inside; my emotions are completely dead. I act out all the feelings accordingly. I fake all my feelings; I show them without truly feeling anything. Am I hopeless?”
There was much baggage I had been building up for the last 30 years or so, making me the fucked-up over-achiever I was. At this point, I selfishly made Adi my confessor and guide, firmly holding his hand, and every time he tried to leave me on my own, I told him not to.
I only needed him to sit there for me, to listen to me, and pay attention to my pain. Drops of tears were crawling on my squirming, spastic cheeks and jaw. I was held prisoner by my own feelings. I wasn’t crying; it was merely a minute leakage. I was used to letting out the bare minimum to ease the pain a little, but not nearly enough to lose the composure I had been building for 30 years.
I am not as self-sufficient as I pretend, so this was new. I asked for help, and I got it. That lesson was worthy of this ceremony, but I was in for much more.
I continued: “No one is listening to me. No one has ever listened to what I have to say.” I spat out the truth with all sincerity. My gut feeling at the moment threw me back to my childhood, where I was constantly not heard and not cared about, to the times when I learned not to speak out loud but to smother my voice.
During the ceremony, it wasn’t me who spoke; it was the helpless child asking for compassion and care.
“It’s okay,” Adi said, “just let it go. Don’t think about it; don’t think about anyone else. Not your parents, not your father or mother; focus on yourself and breathing.”
Adi told me to relax so often that it almost formed a mantra. I slowly started to believe him.
“Breathe it out,” his sedating voice told me time and time again. “You’re perfect the way you are.”
“I know, I know. I do know.”
And at the moment, I did. But even then, I wasn’t letting loose.
“I don’t want to be in the driver’s seat anymore,” I begged. “I want to let go. I want to let go. I want to.” Another mantra.
I managed to pause the ever-repeating commentary track to ask for the second shot, which I had missed 30 minutes earlier due to my locked jaw. “I don’t want to drive anymore. I can’t hold onto the wheel. Let me go.”
Typically, Ayahuasca makes you purge one way or another. The lucky ones purge from the front by yawning, laughing, or, most commonly, vomiting. The not-so-lucky ones will purge from the rear. Whatever way you purge, it’s a sacramental action of the ceremony representing the mental and physical clean-up, letting old grudges and sorrow out of the system so that you have room for new sensations. It’s the release, the letting go, the not holding it in anymore. If you never let that happen, there is little chance the Mother can get to work.
I hadn’t purged yet. I was fighting against it. I was holding on to my sorrow and grudges. There was something I wasn’t ready to let surface. I was too accustomed to my state of unhappiness.
I told Adi that in my 500 or so meetings with my therapist, I had never fully cried because I am a good boy. It was so good that I even cared for my therapist’s feelings and paid 70 euros for 45 minutes. I was an expert in bottling up true feelings, not disturbing the peace of others, and hiding my feelings behind layers and layers of emotional makeup.
I had wallowed in this thought for countless years, even decades, without realizing it, let alone admitting it.
I gulped the second shot, and so came the moment I had hoped for. I knew that I would step into new territory if I just let myself vomit to purge. And I wanted to purge. I wanted it a lot. I washed the brew down with at least half a liter of water and psyched myself into believing I was dizzy, on a boat, and very, very drunk.
That did the trick.
I sat up, reached for the bucket, and puked out the sour broth, feeling an enormous relief that was more mental than corporal.
“That felt good,” I told Adi, wiping my genuinely smiling face on a Kleenex-tissue.
“I know,” he said, laughing.
I looked to my side. Everybody seemed so peaceful, lying in the golden glow of log fire, listening to the soundtrack of their journey. This evening was a beautiful get-together of like-minded people who kept to their own and meditated in peace.
How wrong can one be?
I’m not Jesus
…and I dove into the bottomless pit of the bucket, face first, only to notice it was precisely the size of my head, not letting me enter deeper, but I didn’t care; I couldn’t get inside since now I had to go, and no metal could stop me from pouring all the bottled-up feelings mercilessly into the bucket from the bottom of my stomach. The bucket was like a giant canyon, sucking out my bowels with full power. I complied, and a big bow of slime poured from the tip of my toenails to my tonsils and out from my mouth as I shouted and murmured into the metallic echo chamber, making the whole ceremony room vibrate from the holy union of infinite anger and sorrow of more than 30 years in the making.
I was entering the void of burning rage against nothing specific, yet I was destined to set things straight once and for all because I hated it, I hated myself, I hated my life, I hated this fucking mask and the stone that edges were ripping gaffes to my heart.
The calm music gave way to my roaring. I was a wolf, a bear, a monster, making my body’s resonance ring in my ears and the universal consciousness even if I was in my bulletproof bubble, battling against an unidentified force that was pushing my head into the bucket, deeper to my slime formed into hexagonal cubes sticking to the sides of the bucket. This was me paying back everything it had done to me, using all my strength to contract my body head to toe, only to fall flat on my stomach like a sloth. Squirming to get up, I noticed I was not controlling my movements, arms, or neck. I couldn’t move, raise my neck, speak, or cry for help. I was going deep into my soul, and it was paralyzing me.
“Don’t fight,” Adi said, “just let it go, let it take over. You are not in control anymore.”
All Adi said to me was something I had discovered just minutes ago, making me crack up. I couldn’t ask for help, but I did have enough energy to crack a good comeback.
“HAH, Yeah, Einstein. No shit?”
The fact that I was seemingly possessed was as perfect a moment as any for taking the piss at my guardian angel. Yeah, I am such a… Joker? Is that it? Hmmm… That Joker thing from the night before started to make sense in a twisted manner. Adi burst into laughter and left me alone to sink deeper into the drainage of my soul.
Hell, what else is new?
Things started to click, but this was not the time for self-analysis since slurs of slime were pouring from my nose like a violently cascading waterfall; all the while, I did my best to talk it out, self-soothe, and make sense of it all… Good luck with that, big boy! My actions were taken over by Mother Aya, including everything that came out of my mouth. And nothing but hissing, blowing, slime-filled rattling, gurgling, minute-long burps were pouring out despite my trying to speak in complete sentences. I was a toddler, a baby in the body of a man.
This is the most annoying thing about being a baby. All the pampering and endless breast suckling can’t make up for the nuisance of having something important to say, yet nothing of importance is coming out. Maybe it’s got something to do with diapers: wear them, and no one takes you seriously. The same goes for the elderly. I felt sorry for them, too.
But here I was, becoming the baby. Only incomprehensible bellowing came out every time I tried to say something. One moment, I sounded like a kid imitating a race car, salivating through vibrating lips. The next moment, I sounded like a bear and a werewolf fighting for their lives on a giant whoopee-cushion; all the while, I was trying to make sense of the moment to no avail.
But I wasn’t going without a fight. I tried to push myself off the ground like the strong man but quickly realized again that all the struggle was redundant. There was nothing I could do. I lay on the mattress face down, my muscles drained, and I found myself immobile, stripped of the right to decide my next move or burst of bodily liquids, though I was perfectly aware of what was happening. Aya can kill my body, but my super-ego was still standing!
Eventually, I could form some words of my own again. ” It looks like I am not driving anymore,” I said, bursting into shameless laughter at discovering my power to finally give up, something I had been hoping for so long.
Most of all, I was worried that my tantrum would disturb my friends, but as soon as I realized how stupid a thought that was, I quickly laughed it off. It wasn’t for me to decide if I make noises or not, not anymore. Take that, all of you. You listen to me!
I was not in charge and felt sorry about that.
Oh, was the control freak still there? Show him the door, please.
Regaining some strength again, I was four-wheeling and again head deep in the bucket, which had now taken the shape of a hexagon. Every time I mega-burped, my guide Adi enhanced it by gently pushing along my spine and stomach for more anger covered deep in my system. I didn’t know a human being carried so much slime in him. This lasted for at least an hour, maybe two, before I could finally make sense of the music again.
The energy in the room was tangible; all eyes were on me; I felt that everyone was paying more or less their full attention to my primitive howling and ever-shifting moods. It didn’t make any difference whether I tried to moderate myself. I was possessed. And it felt amazing! Like a colossal boulder lifted off my chest. I knew now that the violent spasms, the pulling of teeth, and the squirming the night before were all a preparation for this exact moment, warming me up for the fight I was destined to lose.
I thought I was slowly coming to it when the song Blessed We Are started playing in the background, yanking me back to the black hole of personal miseries. The guides gathered around me, singing songs and playing drums, stroking my hair and soothing me, making me even more moved by the undeserved attention I was getting just for being me, the baby.
The guides at Om-mij are real virtuosos. It was as if they were always one move ahead of me, observing my emotions before they even showed up, doing just the right thing. As I was in a baby-like helplessness state, they changed guard whenever necessary, switching the energy around me with a button. Each of them has a character they represent to me: Adi, my angel, is a real gentleman. He is the “best man” who is there for you no matter what and is not afraid to tell you the truth no matter how ugly. When he left, Suze came to hold my hand and look after me, soothing me instantly, for she is like Mother Nature, not a single fraudulent hair in her. Klaudia is the all-reliable, no-nonsense manager-type. She takes care of everything firmly and is as friendly as she is. Floris, the “little brother,” is the prankster who brings nothing but joy around him. And Gerben, whose name I never learned to pronounce, so I called him the Gentle Giant, for that’s who he is. He is the “big brother” who can lift you off the ground and a 200 kg barbell anytime with one hand. If I didn’t know he was the most easy-going, loveable man on the planet, I would have placed him and his tattoo-laden frame in front of a back-alley strip club or as a hitman for the mob. But here he was, handing out blankets for those cold, hugging those in need, securing our way to the toilet, and caring for our overall well-being.
“Remember why you came here,” sang the voice in the speaker, making me immediately deny what I thought she meant by that.
“I am not a fucking Jesus,” I replied, but not a word came out. I could only dribble more gibberish and slime out of my mouth.
But I could figure out where this notion came from.
I’ve been persuaded to think my purpose is to sacrifice my life to redeem my loved ones. I would be a carrier and a healer of the wounded, the troubled souls. The reward? Narcissistic rage, painful death by torture, and shiny halo. In ceremonies, feelings are silently shared when someone goes through tough times, and energy gathers to the one who needs it the most.
I knew this pattern had to stop because if I continued like this, I would soon start to spread more misery than help. I was already becoming toxic waste, fake Jesus at best, from whom no one wanted to look for help. This is why I am no Jesus. Indeed, I’m not even his foster father, Joseph, that gullible cuckold.
As I spat my self-pity in the plastic bucket, I could sense all the eyes in the room had turned in on me and my aimless anger and suffering, which was coming to an end. I raised my head from the bucket and buried it in the pillow, but in the corner of my eye, I could see reflections around me; people were staring at me, curious about this eerie scene I had put up for them. The battle had exhausted me so badly I could only slowly raise my right hand, clam it into a fist, and raise my thumb. All okay here, mates! Timid laughter echoed in the walls that by now felt radiating only peace and calmness after the raging storm.
Little by little, I felt the layers of grudge were wiped away and dumped into the bucket before me, waiting to be disposed of. If veins and nerves didn’t tightly join together my organs, I would have had to pick them up from the floor. What a nasty image.
And then Gerben the Giant sat next to me, and I couldn’t hold it in. I giggled at the ridiculous scene we had just witnessed together, spreading relief around the room as my tantrum slowly turned into a sweet slumber. Genuine laughter is so contagious. The relieving sensation made me laugh more and more, transmitting the feeling of happiness to others, whose laughter made it ever more impossible to cut it off.
Finally, as the ceremony ended, I heard people applauding, even cheering spontaneously. Was this for me? For the fake baby Jesus Joker?
Whatever the real reason for everyone’s applause, it is unimportant. At the moment, it felt like we were all applauding me for my audible efforts with the bucket, my seemingly never-ending battle with invisible forces of anger and regret that eventually fell off my chest. One participant shouted, “You went deep, my friend,” causing another burst of collective laughter.
My dear friend Jan came to hug me, complimenting me on my hard work, and all I could do was burst into tears of joy, for his warm care was something only a true friend like him could offer. I was so grateful to have him there.
I was still in the process, slightly ashamed of my one-man show, and flat on my back, giggling myself to sleep for another hour or two.
All this had made my ceremony worthwhile, of course, but here is the biggest lesson to take home: this ceremony was the first and only time I really felt, deep down in my heart and soul with no fakery and pretending, that people were paying attention to me genuinely, caring for me, even worrying about me, and cheering for something I had done nothing for. Except, of course, being just me and letting completely go, letting over, moving from the driver’s seat, not forcing or pretending anything, not putting my brain or muscles to work. All the while, I feared that I was disturbing everyone, drawing undeserved attention to my problems, and thus making a fool of myself.
Indeed, nothing of this magnitude would ever have happened had I been in the driver’s seat and fully controlling the outcome, making sure to stick to being in the middle of the road. I will carry this lesson in my heart for all future days.
My hopes for the last ceremony were exalted.
It didn’t let me down this time, either.
The triangle completes
The Ceremonies are where the magic happens, but the real work is done in the sharing sessions. These sessions are better described as group therapy, where individuals gather to talk openly about the insights they had while taken by Mother Aya.
People change between ceremonies. Sharing sessions had become full-blown confessions for tormented minds. Martin, the German man with marriage problems, had to face the ugly truth that he had done something awful to his wife, leading to a burning guilt and shame. It was a touching moment to see a big man cry and pour out something so personal for us to think about.
Ayahuasca makes one face the concrete hard truth, whether it hurts or not.
Ferry, the Dutchman, had clear visions of himself as a teenager, desperately looking for attention by smoking, fighting, skipping school, and doing anything that would give him the attention he was left out of as a kid. I felt a strong connection to that man.
Emma told us she had always hated her body, making her closed off to the world. Laura opened up about her abusive ex-boyfriend.
We all were connecting on a deeper level day by day.
My troubles seemed minuscule, yet we all had our demons to struggle with. No one was without their past filled with regrets and wrong turns. And no one was there taking hallucinogenic drugs just out of curiosity or to get high on psychedelics. Together the group formed a miniature universe concentrated in a small room: everyone is more or less fucked up, running from troubles until hitting a dead end, making a U-turn the only possible move. Or, as Elizabeth Gilbert has said:
“I’ve never seen any life transformation that didn’t begin with the person in question finally getting tired of their own bullshit.”
So here we were, a group of mentally broken people, deadbeats tired of their self-created bullshit and hurt, coming together for healing. We were all done with avoiding the truth.
The third ceremony is said to tie all the knots left open by the two previous ceremonies. I knew my work here was done; I was exhausted and finally relieved to accept anything Aya had to offer.
I spent the day preparing for the ceremony and exercising at the poolside: push-ups, ab crunches, dips, and stretching. All this is good for my metabolism, which allows me to take in Ayahuasca. See, I was controlling the outcome again.
I witnessed a beautiful scene as I was doing my push-ups, leaning on the concrete on the poolside. A dragonfly made an emergency landing in the water, hurting her wings. I saw her struggling to swim to the edge of the pool. She was hopeless, yet so colorful. I felt my responsibility as a fellow creature to save her from drowning. I reached her with a small stick I found in the garden and let her climb on it. Then I slowly walked to the side of the garden and inserted the stick into a crack in the stone wall, hoping for the sun to do its magic and dry her wings. Once in a while, I changed her place, finding cover from the wind and securing a sunnier sport. After an hour, I saw the dragonfly back in action, spreading her wings and flying to the horizon. I was moved to tears.
The ceremony took place earlier, around 4 p.m. My intention for the last setting was, “Show me who’s behind the mask,” unknowingly referring to the Joker image I had a few days ago.
This time, I was also prepared: I exercised a little to drain any excess energy from my muscles, drank more water to prepare for the purge, and felt calmer overall so that I could sit still and meditate on a blank canvas of consciousness. I left nothing to chance by taking yet another double-shot, but I also knew that Ayahuasca sinks in better every time you take it.
It did.
Not more than 15 minutes went by, and I could feel drowsiness pushing my eyelids deep down. A sudden urge to hum along with the music and to swing my way into the subconscious made me vomit, and I was feeling blissful. Then I started to hesitate, to panic even.
I laid down on my back, eyes closed, and saw those images I had often been informed of. Dragons, geometric patterns, microscopic squares like snake skin, all colors and lights blinking to my side like I was on the final scenes from 2001: A Space Odyssey.
I opened my eyes and saw a hanging, colorful decoration transforming into a dragon’s head. My stubborn mind started to back off, regretting taking Medicine, promising this would be the last time I would ever do something like this. The music turned into distorted sounds of waves hovering above me. And next came the snakes, oh yes: the snakes. And they were up to no good. Aargh, why oh why did I come here in the first place? No, do not pick on me! The slimy bastards were everywhere. Every time I opened my eyes, I made them go away, but as soon as I let go, they emerged from the blue, calling me to hop along the boat they were boarding.
I did not like this at all.
This was getting creepy. But as soon as I decided to join them or let them go, I remembered my superpower: controlling. Controlling my emotions, actions, and words… letting the Super-Ego take control.
I was also comforted to know Ayahuasca would give you only what you need and nothing more than you can handle; for me, at least, that held water. I closed my eyes, leaving the boat to embark without me, knowing that I was always welcome to join the dragons later.
PHEW!
I sighed with relief and started visualizing my life journey to this point. I saw thousands of flashbacks, explicit scenes of my life from my early childhood, my school years, my youth, and my recent past. A clear voice inside my head told me what to do and why, what habits not to continue, and how to live from now on so that I would never again slip into the spiral I had been so desperately trying to climb out of.
Her message was an important reminder to stop wasting time browsing the Net and focus on myself and the feelings I had run away from by consuming mindless entertainment, numbing myself from feelings. It’s pretty sad when you think about it, but also the typical pastime universally, especially for the youth. Sadder still, come to think of it.
”No more wasting time on audio and video.”
“Aha, good, okay”.
No more porn.
“Right, wouldn’t argue with that.”
”No more browsing the news all the time.”
“Gotcha. Who needs the news anyway?”
”Suspend from instant gratification, and meditate more.”
”Why?”
”Because it’s just good for you, stop doing the things that occupy your mind sufficiently enough to prevent any concrete self-reflection and deep emotions from getting hold of.”
“I will”.
“Sing and let your body vibrate with your voice from the inside.”
“Okay, whatever you say”.
“Give credit where credit is due, invest in a good sound system, and enjoy the music, not just consume it. Apologise and thank people, understand that they are as broken as you are, and they hide it, too, just like you.”
”Love, feel, don’t store it inside, use your potential to create and not consume, ask how people feel, and pay attention; they are pretty awesome anyway!”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes.”
This went on forever. To be clear, I don’t believe in supernatural entities. For me, the Mother represents the inner wisdom, true self, and authentic I, which already has all the answers about who we are under the smudge we’ve covered ourselves to hide from the world. My conversation with the Mother was a prime example of an auto-intervention, hard one-on-one with myself.
I also vividly saw an image of me and my ex-girlfriend, whom I had hated from the bottom of my heart for the last three years or so. We hugged, and I told her I could not bear the hatred anymore. I told her I wanted to let go of my anger toward her, realized she was not the only one to blame and wanted to rewrite the break-up to be left with more positive memories.
And, of course, I cried about how I treated my girlfriend, who has been so lovely and understanding despite my coldness, stubbornness, and way of lecturing about all the mundane things in life.
From then on, my ceremony was disturbed by the urge to call her immediately. The rest of the time, I was so eager to reach her that any answer Mother Aya had for me was bulldozed away. I was only waiting for the ceremony to end.
Even if my ceremony ended long before the official closing, I was blissful, for I had just discovered my true self. Something most people search for all of their lives. I saw many happy faces bursting with joy. Even Steve, the Indian Chief, was cracking jokes, hugging and toying around, finally unlocking his treasure chest.
Maybe even more than myself, I was happy for him. And all the others, for in a way, because each represented different sides of me, both the dark and the light shades of my persona. The shy man who couldn’t let his light shine the brightest, the insecure beauty who couldn’t face the mirror without cringing, the lost grown-up who kept busy running away from his problems. We all are the over-achiever, the underachiever, the obsessively analyzing, the lost cause, the depressed… That moment, I felt oneness with all humanity, with all their love and screwed-up minds without judgment, for deep inside us lives the same fragile kid who wanders around with a broken torch and outdated map, looking for their dreams and hopes once shattered by the ruthless world and it’s constantly yet illogically changing rules.
Kill the bastard
Before the first ceremony, I was a little concerned about whether I would die or not. It sounds reasonable to be afraid of that, I must say. Yet after five days of heavy tripping, lots of self-discovery, and many, many Heureka moments, I am pretty sure I did not survive Ayahuasca alive. One part of me died, and a very big one at that. If I went to the morgue today, I would see it. Maybe a little blue, perhaps a bit frozen, a tag hanging on its toe, tucked in one of those body-sized drawers the coronaries are so fond of in television crime shows.
I am talking about my ego, of course. That tiny, smelly gnome who lives inside, all talking bullshit for shallow reasons.
The ego posts selfies online for a quick fix of dopamine and likes. It’s the ego that puts on a show at a party when nobody asks for it. Ego makes people cocky and selfish, and most of all, it messes up their motives. Ego will never be straightforward. Ego covers your true intentions by saying, “Boy, it sure is cold in here,” instead of boldly asking for shutting the window. The ego won’t let you say sorry because apologies make you seem weak. Hell, the petty ego will never let you even feel you’re sad.
Just look around social media, and you’ll see plenty of egos yearning for attention. It’s not authenticity but ego who posts pics to get comments, likes, gossip, and tweets to reach its 15 minutes of superficial fame. If someone is to blame for the downward spiral of humanity, I wouldn’t hesitate to point at the bastard.
Ego spends most of the time building walls, yet no matter how well it’s guarded, it is still very easily hurt. It just hates it when someone is questioning it. For instance, if your ego is on a crusade only for quick fame, and someone dares to point it out, it gets offended like no one has before. It’ll get furious. The ego is a hobo. Shelter him, and you will have a messy roommate for life.
He is also a big faker, full of lies and needs that do not serve the authentic calling you have inside. It’s just putting on a mask for you to suffocate in while keeping busy looking for ways to feed its shallow yearnings.
That’s the core reason people with big egos are, in reality, very lonely, vulnerable, and bitter, and they cannot let anyone be genuinely close to them because they always fear revealing their true nature. Here’s pointing at me, of course.
We all have our reason reasons, of course, to build an ego to protect us. Showing feelings is difficult for most, and troubled childhood experiences will make it either more complex or less complicated.
Mine was never that swollen. But I have my ego, too, and it is dominant, albeit in a very different way. Like all egos, mine kept the authenticity in me at bay. I mean the unplanned smile, the un-calculated tears, the true love, and all the warmth I have. Ego had replaced it all with fearful shyness, faked humbleness, and emotional coldness, distancing my true persona from the tangible one. I also had (and still sometimes have, years after the retreat, I regret to admit) that nagging voice inside me that occasionally separates “I” from “them” and never lets “us” happen.
My ego has always wanted to be the center of attention by writing semi-witty remarks about the people I barely even know or places I have never been to. The ego would go around boasting about how sharp my pencil is and how I managed to insult and point out the weaknesses of others. It craved appraisal but yielded genuine connection.
I started to hate that twat a long time ago, but only now finally got a chance to shake it off.
In that epic second ceremony, it was my ego fighting and not me so that I could emerge from underneath it. The ego was trying to hold on to my composure, hide the tears, and put on that famous cool look I had that helped me survive my youth. It is the ego that likes to brag, who rambles about its heroic stories and would probably have wanted to be able to tell everyone about how it was not affected by the strongest of hallucinogens, that it was stronger than Ayahuasca. This is five-penny heroism; in the same way, it’s heroic not to take painkillers when your ankle is broken or to admit to your child that even daddy doesn’t know how to live life, love or appreciate the health benefits of raw vegetables when you could eat frozen pizza instead.
In the ceremonies, I felt like my ego was dissolving and letting the light flow freely through me, both in and out. It felt like I could breathe again, be open with others, and quit all the games of manipulation for good. I will write its obituary yet since I know it’s not entirely dead. But it’s wounded all right and getting weaker by the day if you fight it off daily.
My trip with Ayahuasca has been the most important journey of my life yet, and I have done quite a few. It changed the inside of me in a way I didn’t even know I needed. After three ceremonies and my ego taking a beating, I became more genuine and open, closer to what I truly am behind the dead Joker mask.
I saw the same progress in my journey with my mates. Never have I hugged so many people in so little time than in the Om-mij Retreat in Alicante. Never have I seen such transformative results in people, seemingly in a hopeless loop of depression, finally breaking out of their shells. Of course, some of us had more work to do than others; some still faced tremendous issues back home, and some only got to scratch the surface, but the masks were removed.
Many of us swore not to let it end here, certainly not me. After all, Ayahuasca cures nothing itself; it just opens the window of opportunity for you to realize how to move on from here and do the hard work of shoveling the same shit, but now with added intention and sharpened tools.
