Ayahuasca 06: The Finale—The Puma Came to Clean Your Soul
Art credit: Paulo Jales
It has been more than two years since my fourth ayahuasca journey.
I have written and trashed this memoir eight times over the past two years. Seemingly each time, after intense sessions of writing and re-writing and editing, I would ultimately arrive at some reason to not share it, and then delete it.
The reasons differed each time. But the truth is, this is a story I simply wasn’t ready to share. Even among my closest friends and family, I have told less than five souls the full story of what happened in this ceremony.
The origins of Ayahuasca are mysterious, and the deep insights I received in this ceremony were special, messages just for me from Mystery (or Source, Spirit, God). As such, I have decided to withhold many parts of my experience.
There was, and still is, a fear underlying my reluctance to publish this recounting—a fear that I am not skilled enough as a writer to transmit the psychological and emotional gravity of my experience—the sheer terror, grief, joy, and ecstasis I felt. Psychedelic experiences are ineffable by their very nature, so I won’t mince words:
My fourth ayahuasca ceremony was the single-most healing moment of my life, and the catalyst for a psychospiritual rebirth that is now underway.
This is the reason I ultimately feel called to share this experience with you. When used with care and intention, Ayahuasca is probably the most potent therapy we have for healing emotional trauma. And, as I believe my experience herein will show, Ayahuasca has the potential to be a psychologically destabilizing decoction, capable of traumatizing or re-traumatizing individuals, or worse.
Of all the therapies and modalities I have called in to heal from trauma and depression—psychotherapy, EMDR, Somatic Experiencing and other body-based trauma work, holotropic breathwork, family constellation therapy, hypnotherapy, Bufotenin, psychedelic therapy following the Johns Hopkins/Stan Grof protocol—Ayahuasca was the one that provided the “breakthrough.”
But to breakthrough, we first must breakdown. Sure enough, Ayahuasca surfaced, and forced me to confront, the darkest depths of my psyche: the root of my suicidal ideations and depression.
Warning: The following account may be intense. It is written, in part, from my own journal entries and voice memo recordings directly following my ceremony.
Set & Setting
I awoke the morning of my final ayahuasca ceremony at Etnikas feeling dour. My third ceremony was similar to the first two: a very light psychedelic experience, with no meaningful insights related to my intention. I felt like it was a wasted opportunity, and frankly, like I had wasted $1400 coming here.
I scheduled a call with my Ayahuasca integration therapist for guidance, and relayed my experience thus far. He was surprised to learn that the retreat did not allow participants to “dose up” after the initial serving of ayahuasca, as is standard practice at many ceremonies and retreats.
He encouraged me to ask for more medicine. As it would happen, I would not need more Ayahuasca this evening.
• • •
By the time I arrive in the maloka for my fourth and final ceremony at Etnikas, I notice I am feeling relaxed. I certainly am not looking forward to choking down the foul-tasting brew, listening to other people vomit, and purging from both ends—but I feel the pressure is off now. I have been here before, and I have a contingency plan: just before the ceremony I went online and booked an inexpensive, one-off Ayahuasca ceremony in town the very next night after the retreat.
7:00 p.m.
I am being handed my largest dose of Ayahuasca yet, ten lines this evening—50% more than my previous dosage. I grip the cold, smooth glass and feel surprised by how heavy it is.
Maestro Pablo gives the signal, SALUD!
I gulp down the sludge as quickly as possible. The nausea comes on instantly.
7:20 p.m.
I am feeling overwhelmingly sleepy—so tired that I try to lie down. But I feel like I’m going to vomit so I sit back up. The visuals begin—stronger and more immersive than in any of my previous ceremonies—and I am struck with the realization that my journey this evening will be strong, and unlike anything I have ever experienced.
I rest, sitting upright, taking in the immersive vision-scape of my mind’s eye: large multi-colored, neon-glowing “rooms” of turning contraptions and machines. My gut lurches and I shoot onto all-fours, bracing myself over my bucket to vomit.
Waiting for the vomit to come, I feel a nurse by my side. But the sensation migrates lower in my body—suddenly I need to go to the bathroom. As I walk to the bathroom, I feel I might purge from both ends at the same time.
Washing my hands after leaving the stall, I see them moving in the sink with tracers, like a movie portrayal of a first-person drug experience. I am feeling so weak and tired all I want to do is lay down and go to sleep.
Arriving back
in my spot in the maloka, the visuals intensify. I am being shown individuals from my childhood—not just seeing them in images, or replaying memories of them—but feeling and experiencing them as if I was embedded in their lives; witnessing interpersonal family dynamics and situations of which I had no direct knowledge.
Suddenly I feel a dark spirit, a dense energy emerging into my consciousness, rising from the depths.
In my hazy dream-state, I realize I must have blacked out for a time, for I have somehow made it out of the maloka, and to the bathroom in my shared room at the retreat center. I feel my body lying on the cold tile floor. Warm blood pours from my freshly-sliced wrists, a razor blade slips from my fingers.
Oh God what have I done!?
My eyes jolt open wide. I am back in the maloka. I never left. It was just a hallucination.
But terror rises in me. I can feel this dark spirit overwhelming me. It is compelling me to do it. I am filled with horrific certainty, the dire and deep-felt knowing, that this is my destiny:
I will commit suicide tonight.
I experience an emotion I haven’t felt since high school. It is doom—the helpless inevitability of my own destruction—infiltrating every part of my body and mind.
A voice whispers in my psyche:
Connect to nature. Connect with the Earth if you want to heal and survive the night.
Suddenly everything depends on this.
Get up. You must ground. Go outside.
Frantic, I fumble in the dark for my jacket. I feel it, but cannot for the life of me figure out how to put it on. My coordination and motor function is heavily impacted by the Ayahuasca. Terror grips my heart as the grimness of my situation comes into full view:
I don’t have control of my body. I have no agency. I could easily be controlled, compelled to suicide by this dark spirit inside me.
My panic intensifies.
GET UP. GET OUTSIDE. GO! NOW!
The voice screams from my depths. Dropping the jacket I stagger for the door. A coordinator rushes to my side to stabilize me, and guides me outside. I fling myself to the ground outside the maloka. My fingers clutch damp blades of grass, as if their roots can prevent me from being dragged away by the evil, suicidal spirit. Closing my eyes from exhaustion, I surrender to the visions.
There I am again, a dead body on a cold bathroom floor.
Glug. Glug. Glug.
Recalling the time I dropped an entire, full gallon of milk as a child, vital fluid audibly spills from my wrists onto the floor. Dark red overtakes white tile. Grief overtakes my psyche.
I am catapulted into a future where I have finally done it.
I have committed suicide while on Ayahuasca in Perú.
I see a stream of images—my obituary, local news articles, social media posts, and psychedelic blogs discussing this tragic mishap.
I feel the impact of my suicide—the grief of my family and friends, the gathering in my hometown of Davidson, NC. Like Patrick’s impact…
Downward I plummet
into a deep well of unfelt grief over the passing of a dear family friend who was killed while traveling in Mexico.
I feel this loss as if I’m experiencing the deep emotional pain of each of his family members, one-by-one, the crushing weight of Patrick’s absence is conveyed upon my spirit, even as it floats above its former vessel. But it doesn’t stop: now I feel the weight of his death as experienced by our entire small-town community, seeing the grieving faces of community members.
I plunge deeper, into the other significant loss in my life. Seeing and feeling the memory and memorial service of my younger cousin Laura, who herself took her own life in 2016, at the age of 25. I experience the unfathomable grief, of her mother and sister, my aunt and cousin.
Like ton upon ton of bricks, I feel the crushing weight of these losses through the bodies of loved ones like compounding traumas—a heaviness that would crush my chest and collapse my lungs if I were still in my body.
I don’t want to transfer this to them, to my family, my friends
Two green glints appear, fixed in space, behind the slowly rotating image of my corpse. Gradually growing brighter, materializing. I now see they are eyes.
Puma comes roaring
into view, with a ferocious, teeth-bearing scowl that shatters the vision of my suicide into a trillion fractals. I jump, shocked by this visceral image, every hair on my body stands on end.
My body… I am here. I am still alive
Lurching forward in the grass, projectile vomit erupts in torrents from deep in my belly. With each heaving convulsion, I am expelling the sinister spirit from my body, expunging the suicidal impulse from my mind.
I open my eyes. Puma is there, watching over me, nodding in silent approval.
The realization:
I can have a greater impact by continuing to stay here on Earth, in this body
I lie back and am overwhelmed by the glittering expanse overhead. The clouds have cleared, the stars blaze, brighter than I have ever seen in my life. Inhaling deeply the Andean air, a sweet salve for my tattered nervous system.
Insights and visions start streaming into my psyche.
My life’s purpose is being revealed to me.
Visions of my future, downloading into my consciousness.
Difficult memories from my past surface, and connect to this envisioned future like threads of brilliant, colored yarn, all coming together to weave a beautiful montage of lived experience and connection with others.
All of it—all of the pain, all of the heartbreak, all of the trauma I’ve experienced—each thread was excruciating and devastating and perfect, precisely because it was essential to the life lesson I came here to learn, to show me the unique gift I’ve carried hidden my whole life, and am destined share with the world.
Disbelief, as the terror of my harrowing experience lingers:
Am I really through it? Is the dark spirit really gone?
Eclipsing this fear, is an overwhelming bliss. My body—every cell, and every strand of DNA contained within—begins to vibrate in ecstasis as this realization comes into full conscious awareness:
I am, for the first time in my life, truly grateful to be alive
Tears of joy and sorrow
stream down my face now. I am crying for my own salvation, and grieving my loved ones—Patrick and Laura, my grandparents, my uncle, my dogs. Swirling elation and agony alchemize in my body. My sternum is cracking open, freeing myself of the weight I didn’t even know I had been carrying my whole life. The Milky Way dazzles and winks at me through the clear, thin atmosphere.
My heart blooms open—a swirling, blossoming mandala, radiating gratitude out from the core of my being, and love—love I never had a chance to express to these friends and family before they passed, pours forth. My chest convulses in big, heaving sobs. With each sob, I am releasing the heaviness, and creating space for a rising gratitude and devotion to life.
• • •
Returning to my room that evening well after midnight, I am physically exhausted, yet buzzing with vitality. I ride this wave of energy to journal, capturing all of the events, all of the insights, everything I could consciously call forth about my journey that evening, before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The following morning
we gather for our sharing circle. I tremble and choke up, as I tearfully recount the haunting visions and dark spirit that arose in me. I express my deep gratitude and reverence for the medicine, and for the Shaman and the retreat staff.
Upon having my story translated into Spanish, Maestro Pablo fixed his gaze upon me, and spoke seriously.
“You are free from this negative energy. Ayahuasca brought you the Puma to give you strength, this is a sacred animal of the Andes Mountains. You must remember the Puma, and draw on this strength when you face challenges in life.” Diego, the on-staff psychologist, translated in imperfect English.
Later, as we gathered for our final lunch together, a Spanish-speaking retreat participant approached me and asked if I wanted to know what the Maestro really said about my vision?
Of course I did.
“The Puma came to clean your soul, and pull you out of obscurity”
• • •
In memory of and dedication to
two beautiful souls, who showed me and so many others how to live a life on this Earth beautifully and bravely and deeply.
To Patrick Braxton-Andrew, thank you my friend, for your bright and adventurous spirit. For being the big brother I never had. Forever you inspire me, to live with child-like wonder and curiosity, to keep smiling, keep my heart open to everyone I meet, and to wander deep into this wide and wondrous world.
To my little cousin, Laura Conroy, your playful spirit, bright smile, selfless service and devotion to community, and courageous defense of our Mother Earth propel me to be the best version of myself every day. Your presence on this planet was a medicine for bringing our species into right relation with the environment—a prayer I now strive to live into the world, following the shining example you set.
Patrick and Laura, I now know you two never really left, because I feel your presence. You saved my life on this night. You live on, through the indelible imprint you left on me, and so many others whose lives you touched. I am so incredibly fortunate to have known you, and I love you so much.
Epilogue
A quick google search of Ayahuasca ceremony stories, or “trip reports” will reveal that experiencing one’s own death is not an uncommon theme. Even the etymology of this compound word in Quechua hints at this tendency:
Aya: “Spirit, soul” or “corpse, dead body”
Waska: “Rope, woody vine, liana”
Resulting in one of the most widely used translations: “The rope of death”
In spite of my long history working with high doses of classical and novel psychedelics, and even with the help of an integration therapist, it took many months to integrate my fourth Ayahuasca ceremony. This is to say, when it comes to psychedelic therapies, Ayahuasca is a whole other ballgame, not to be taken lightly.
My primary intention in sharing this story, is to impart the gravity of this medicine. Frankly, I have heard too many stories of Ayahuasca ceremonies, both in the U.S. and Perú, where the container is not being held with integrity and care, putting participants at risk for psychological or physical harm.
It is for this reason that I now offer plant medicine consultations—to inform and guide individuals to the best possible medicines, practitioners, and therapists. If you are feeling called to Aya, please approach with caution, and respect for the wisdom tradition behind this medicine.
Further Resources and Reading on Suicide:
Suicide had reached epidemic levels even before the Covid pandemic. In 2019, suicide was the second leading cause of death in the U.S. among people ages 10 to 34. In 2020, an estimated 12.2 million American adults seriously thought about suicide, 3.2 million planned a suicide attempt, and 1.2 million attempted suicide (CDC)
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones. 1-800-273-8255.
Our Job as Survivors, medicine for family and friends of suicide victims, beautifully written by my cousin Mary Conroy Almada.
Deaths of Despair and the Future of Capitalism, bestseller by Anne Case and Angus Deaton.
CDC: One Quarter of Young Adults Contemplated Suicide During Pandemic. MadinAmerica, a publication dedicated to rethinking psychiatric care in the United States and abroad.
The Marrow Thieves, medicine for young adults struggling with suicidal ideations, one of TIME magazine’s Best YA Books of All Time, a novel written in response to the suicide epidemic within Indigenous communities.