It’s been a while since I last drank ayahuasca. The stinky stuff changed my life but I’m scared shitless of taking it again. And now, when I feel that I could really benefit once more, I just cannot bring myself to drink the wicked healing brew.
Maybe I’m being a bit of a pussy. But even the potentially game-changing properties of that murky, mercurial, magic potion cannot convince me to face the demons that will inevitably plague my visions, thoughts and body for what will seem like forever.
The daimistas call it ‘work’ but that’s not the half of it. Work is doing something you don’t like for a while. Drinking ayahuasca is the most terrifying experience of your life.
At least it is for me, and I’m pretty sure I can’t be alone. Can I?
It baffles me how some people come out of a ceremony having spent hours being caressed by angels inside a velvet-lined light-filled heart-shaped box of luxury chocolates as they pulse glowing beams of golden light out of their asses while listening to little lambs bleating in a solfeggio frequency.
I mean who has parents that good?
You’d hope that after thirty-odd torturous sessions I might have expunged the legacy of generations of dismal genetic luck, socioeconomic misfortune, terrible parenting, supernatural disturbances, crappy DNA, wonky brain chemistry, bad spirits, planetary misalignment and divine retribution that have made my family tree so darkly colourful.
But apparently not.
As Bill said, it is only a ride. It’s good advice for both life and tripping balls. And I’ve tripped as much as the next dude but it doesn’t seem to help once I’ve gulped and gagged down 150ml of the Amazon jungle’s finest.
I’m toast. Served up crispy and burnt for the preternaturally-nasty spine-chilling beings of my mind, or the underworld, or the afterlife, or the devil’s intestines—or wherever the hell it is that they come from—to play with me as they please.
And play with me they do. Pulling out organs, nailing me to crosses, cursing me with psychosis, and whatever other sneaky tricks they can scheme between their conniving little bastard selves. The more traumatic, the better, it seems.
But still, one day, I know I’ll drink again. I’ll suffer for countless eternal hours wondering what on earth I was thinking. And then perhaps I’ll feel fantastic afterwards and evangelically espouse the glories of the great mystical tea, until such time as those heady days wear off, and the great fear slowly creeps again.