Ayahuasca: Chemotherapy for the Soul
Ayahuasca comes from the jungle, known for its psychedelic nature and much-hyped healing abilities. The medicine is strictly ceremonial and definitely not recreational for reasons that will become clear.
My analogy for mental health goes like this: You get on the train at Grand Central, it’s packed elbow to elbow rush hour, and every stop people get off. The walk in the sunshine stop, talk therapy stop, pharmaceuticals, weed, shrooms, LSD. And after a while there’s only you and a few other people, ketamine comes and goes, and now the next stop is Ayahuasca. You look around and see everyone has demons; you can tell, like other addicts, it’s a sixth sense you earn.
After an undisclosed length train ride from the city to an undisclosed location, I’m crunching through the fresh snow in front of a very, very impressive temple.
The trepidation is real. I’m here. There’s no backing out. I lowkey didn’t research anything due to this being last minute. All I know is that this is one of the most intense experiences humans can have and people puke and shit themselves. Lovely.
I’m immediately met by an angel, not in the Joseph Smith sense, but by one of the acolytes who helps during the ceremony (while dosed!). We talk and my nerves calm; everyone is so positive. Then it’s changing from street clothes into temple whites, of which I only brought one good outfit (this will be significant soon).
Now there’s a group of around thirty adults all gathered with intention and I get an ever so slight whiff of cult. (It’s the outfits; unless it’s a Polyphonic Spree music video, I reserve the right for sus.)
Now we’re in the temple, bizarrely late at night. One by one we approach the altar, nothing fancy, just an intentional little table among a throne of pillows. The priestess listens to your intention and fills a cup based on what you seek. Everything is done with tiny red flashlights in a sea of darkness.
I’ve been warned that the actual medicine tastes bad; it’s worse than that. A bitter mix of molasses and tannins. Yuck, down the hatch.
The music starts. Icaros, for the initiated. Holy shit the music is as harsh on the ears as the liquid is on the tongue. Droning, dissonant, LOUD, annoying bees in your ears.
“Knowing” my ingestibles, I keep checking my watch for that magic 45-minute mark where drugs start to kick in. One hour, one and a half, two hours. Nothing. Uh guys, I paid good money for these drugs. WTF.
There’s an option for a second cup. I acknowledge the first cup had no effect and the shaman/priestess pours the next cup with a twinkle in her eye.
Something is definitely different. I’m physically ill (and still not loving the music). This is where our paths diverge from the classic psilocybin/LSD experience. With those, you are experiencing the drug. It’s doing a thing to you. Ayahuasca here is more of a co-writer. I’m having some visuals, but it’s only when I close my eyes that the real fireworks present. I’m not out of control, though I’m working with the medicine to form the visuals. We’re creating together. Something isn’t happening to me; we’re writing a poem hand in hand. The look is delicate, lilting.
Just as I’m coming up, my guts tell me to go to the bathroom. I oblige as I’m really trying to not shit myself in a room full of strangers. The mirrors are covered and we’ve been warned not to peek (yes, of course I did).
All I have to do is navigate back to my mat in the dark. But about ten feet away my tummy goes “uh oh” and before I can make it, I full-on Exorcist projectile-vomit all over myself and the temple floor. I faceplant trying to use the receptacle and my first thought is, “Maybe it’s not that bad.” It is that bad.
The angels come and clean up the floor. You don’t get what you want, you get what you need. As I strip off my puke-soaked clothes in front of thirsty strangers, I experience a humbling that I didn’t know I needed.
A note on purging — which is what the cool kids call it. Purging comes in many forms: puking, shitting, crying, sweating. When this brew wants outside you, don’t get in the way.
Which brings us to the real soundtrack. Surround-sound retching. Dry heaving, wet heaving, all the heavings will be happening the whole time you’re tripping. It’s jarring…the lights are low so it’s just shadows praying to God in little buckets. Interestingly enough, it becomes a badge of honor. The deeper you go, the better you get to know your neighbors, the more pumped you are when you hear them Godzilla their guts out two feet away.
And oh, will you get to know your neighbors. By comparison I’m “a wittle depressed.” These other warriors have experienced rape, child abuse, depression that would make Edgar Allan Poe seem sunny, existential crises and thoughts of suicide. The next morning everyone sits down and shares what they’re processing from the night before and some about themselves and what they’re processing. I’m not crying, you’re crying.
The day is free for reflection or sauna time. Everything is spread out among a series of buildings clearly built for a wealthy land baron, now retrofitted into a holy space.
I’m dreading the night.
We dose again and I’m immediately sick, in the prayer position rocking to keep the pain away. That’s when I discover the best description of this that I can share. Ayahuasca is chemotherapy for the soul. If you don’t think you need chemo for your soul, don’t do it. Full stop.
I felt like my body was being x-rayed by aliens. I thought, “There’s nothing left to see, you’ve seen everything.”
(This is also when I discovered my working theory: Ayahuasca is an alien. Not metaphorically. I think and feel that Ayahuasca is not from this planet and that it’s an IRL alien that you put in your body, then puke out and ride the wave of wisdom that comes with that.)
I experience some hallucinations, but mild, fragile.
The third night I wanted so badly to not experience the medicine again that I almost called a cab and went home. But there I was, another shot down the hatch. I’m straight to the prayer position. I’m sick. A Peruvian self-inflicted whole body bug. There’s a balance though to the pain/sickness and the beauty of the visuals. I’m riding the wave, not soiling myself. This isn’t that bad. So up I go for the last dose of the vine and leaf sludge.
I figured I knew what this was; I had gotten my sea legs; I had Ayahuasca figured out. Record scratch, no the fuck I did not.
I’m immediately filled with more pain than I’ve ever physically endured. Like scorpion venom had been injected into every muscle of my body. I’m writhing in pain. Acid and shrooms are the checkers to Aya’s chess. She’s a cruel mistress. I wanted to run and scream “fuck” outside into a snow bank. I’m literally holding onto the wall by my nails that I checked the paint for chips on the next day. Then I broke and started laughing. Wild, pained insane laughter. I had to cover my face with a pillow while going through a whole damn Joker origin story. I am so embarrassed and cackling into my hands, and it’s making the pain better. My only relief is laughter. For two hours of unceasing pain.
Lesson: Laughter is holy. There’s only one thing that cuts through the pain we all experience. In that hallowed temple, I learned a whole new side of just laughter.
I eventually pass out and wake up soaked in sweat like I’d been dipped in a bathtub.
The veterans there told me that the real benefits come weeks or months down the road. And they were right. I’ve felt genuinely happy for the first time in decades. Ayahuasca actually works as well as everyone says it does (I’ve done many other things in parallel of course).
I thought my train ride had concluded when I got off at the ketamine station. I had continued on to Ayahuasca almost as a tourist, curious like I was when I ate the world’s hottest pepper. I knew it couldn’t kill me and I knew some people deep in the game spoke very highly.
I’m glad I did the Ayahuasca (sat with the medicine in cool kid parlance). When everyone asked if I’d do it again, I initially said no. Now…the pain has faded and the glow intensified. I can see myself getting on the train again for another cup…maybe.
Ayahuasca: Chemotherapy for the Soul was originally published in Honeysuckle's 420 print edition found here!
