The day between ceremony 17 and 18, in retrospect, felt like the ending / beginning of Gaspar Noe’s emotional onslaught film “Irreversible”. Full of sweet innocence, naps in a sunshine drenched park, organic eats with radiant beings. We all quietly frolicked in our aftermaths, some of us touting a few battle scars, but with excited grins, rather than winces and complaints. A beautiful, perfect, serene handful of hours – save a couple of dark side waves.
After only a couple hours of sleep, Orion and I still had a quiet energy, a strong resolve, to float through our happy post-hours. His experience was fun, but not as deep as he had hoped — mine was devastatingly deep, and I just felt relieved to be back in the default zone. Tasting my illusion of control, but content with its falsities. I needed a time out, a little softness. He provided as much with his sweet kisses and coos and love-laden words. I didn’t want to leave the safety of his arms, but I felt the attachment to this state and instead chose to face the day.
It seemed like just minutes had passed, and suddenly, we were moments away from the next ceremony. I felt within a blend of tidal waves – surge after surge of emotion I had never, ever felt prior to an Ayahuasca ceremony before – apprehension. Dare I say fear. Resistance to whatever she had to teach me. The night before had kicked my ass, and the higher parts of myself knew it hadn’t been enough. I hadn’t popped, hadn’t been cracked open, and I felt a little terror considering how hard she’d have to come at me in order for the lesson to be heard.
And yet, I wanted to drink more than anything. I trusted her with every quivering thread of my being.
We drank in the same fashion as the night before – faster this time, as two people had bowed out. I missed Sage – he had been near me in night one, but had to jet to a family function that day. The last five ceremonies had featured his strong, driven presence, and there was a noticeable void. In my state, those are the energies I noticed most.
It took only thirty or so minutes before the medicine had me in her clutches. My mind lurched into turbo mode, hell bent on taking the wheel. Normally, I would have laughed at my ego’s attempts, but this night – this night, I was her. I wanted what she wanted. To have an easy night, to not go too deep, to stay in the room and help and stay far, far away from my demons. Hadn’t I suffered enough the night before? Couldn’t I just take it easy, just this one night?
The more I fought and pleaded, the more she wrestled and assaulted me. I felt my worst nightmare starting to brew – intensity like I have never, ever known – wretched images of fractal demons and grotesque creatures – god-awful energies coursing through my pores, making me twitch and wretch and breathe sporadically – and most notably, the sounds: screeching sirens, pulsing groans, and the most evil, blood-boiling cacophony. Like Satan’s favorite video game, a soundtrack to a snuff film – these were the noises that I couldn’t escape. I’d slam my hands over my ears and the ebb would swell with a snickering eruption. I had been sucked into the underworld.
Parts of my Knowingness kept speaking from the abyss. It’s ok, she told me – this is all self-created, there is nothing to fear. You can surrender into this terror and find your bliss. Just relax, sweet girl, just breathe. You are safe. You are love.
But she was a liar. I could barely breathe anymore, the darkness had me consumed. Every one of my senses felt annihilated by death and fear and an imminent destruction. I asked myself – what is it that you’re so afraid of?
It wasn’t dying. It wasn’t any sort of physical harm. At that moment, I was afraid of losing myself. Ironic, as that’s precisely what I had asked for.
Sixty minutes in, and I was near the breaking point. Eighteen ceremonies, I thought to myself, and yet here I was – a fucking novice about to lose complete control. Anger spilled out of me as I twitched and jerked my body around, trying to fling off this nightmarish energy, trying to make this fucking go away already. I hated this experience more than I had ever hated anything. Anyone. It HAD to stop. This was too much, even for me. Even for the big-mouthed shaman-wanna-be who talked her gigantic game. I had reached my limit.
I slammed my head back against the wall behind me and contemplated my options. The most probable felt like complete insanity – I thought this might just be the point at which I experienced my psychotic break. Images of bolting up in a raging explosion, screaming at them all to make this stop, telling the whole damn world how horrible this made me feel appeared in rapid succession. I didn’t want to expose myself though, to frighten my beloved travelers, but I couldn’t cage this. I couldn’t contain this terror any longer.
Another option – I could ask for help. Something I had never attempted in all my shamanic journeys. This was not my way. I shouldered things for others, and handled my own shit without incident. I am not the girl who needs a hand. Am not. Ever.
Well, maybe now I am. What would that look like? I tried pondering this as another wave of desperate darkness simmered up inside me. This was the last one I could take. Self-destruction felt like such a real possibility, I clung to the tiny spec of intelligent light that glowed within, and prepared to do the unthinkable.
To be continued . . .
