Ayahuasca and the Life Changing Magic of Throwing Up

Secreto de las Rocas, Cabo San Lucas

My arms were shaking. I’d been kneeling on the concrete outside a Montessori school in Cabo San Lucas trying to purge for the past two hours. My stomach heaved, my abdominal muscles contracted, all of the typical physiological responses would occur, and… nothing. This happened repeatedly. I’d heave to the point of exhaustion and end up staring dejectedly into the empty lavender plastic bucket before me, feeling completely defeated.

I’d taken three doses of ayahuasca during the ceremony, which was more than anyone else in the circle that night. It had taken me longer than everyone else to come up, so much so that I peaked just as everyone else was coming down.

This was my fault. I had called in the spirit of ayahuasca as I took the first dose and she had responded immediately. At that time, I was the very first person in the circle to feel the effects and I was not okay with it. I have done a lot of work on myself the past couple years to get myself comfortable with being vulnerable, but I still don’t love it. Also, I don’t love groups. So being vulnerable in a group full of strangers? No thank you. Please excuse me while I don a mask and lie through my teeth about how utterly impervious I am.

I blocked the ayahuasca and her spirit because I could feel all my pain, my sadness, and my grief start rising. I felt the corners of my mouth draw downward. I could feel my body preparing itself for a particularly impressive deluge of tears. I had never been in this kind of setting before and I did not want to be the first person to break down.

In retrospect, I wish I had been braver, that I had led by example in terms of what we were all there to do, but I couldn’t. Being vulnerable in a circle of people where we could all see and hear each other was just too much.

Eventually, the others started to feel the effects. They began crying and vomiting. I sat and waited. After an hour or so the shaman motioned me over to ask if I wanted to take another dose. I did. Swallowing the medicine made most people gag, but for whatever reason, it didn’t bother me. I sat back down. I waited. Nothing. Another two hours passed. The sun had set and it was dark outside. I returned to the shaman for another dose.

This time when I sat down I communicated with the spirit of ayahuasca to apologize. ‘Please,’ I implored her, ‘forgive me for acting small and foolish. I’ve waited so long to meet you. Please come back. Please don’t let me fail at this too. I need you.’

Ayahuasca returned. Within moments I was huddled under my blanket, crying quietly. I began chastising myself for every interaction I’d had that day. Why couldn’t I be friendlier? Why couldn’t I just relax around people? Why did I always have to be so awkward? I know how to be charming, why couldn’t I just turn that part of my brain on more often? Why did I always have to alienate people? My brain then starting picking apart specific interactions I’d had (all fairly insignificant), shaming me for them, and pointing out how I could have done better. I grew more and more anxious. I wanted to leave. Disappear. Never see any humans again. I observed all of this and thought, ‘Why am I being so cruel? How is this helpful? This doesn’t feel healing. I didn’t sign up for this.’ This was exactly the point Ayahuasca was trying to illuminate for me.

I am hypercritical of my interactions with other people. It comes from a good place—I want to be good to people. I worry that I will harm or burden them. I worry that I will say or do the wrong thing and hurt someone’s feelings or make them uncomfortable. Also, being in large groups of people has a tendency to put me into a state of hypervigilance.

These behaviors have abated a good amount in the past year because of the work I’m doing on myself, but they’re still there. My internal criticism does not help matters, so Ayahuasca was pointing out that I need to continue cultivating compassion for myself around social situations.

When I was finally done crying about that, I started crying about an ex-boyfriend from several years ago. He was the last guy I actually referred to as my boyfriend. I had felt incredibly safe with him… Until he cheated on me. It happened at a party and he did it with the explicit intention of having me see. It was his way of reasserting power in the relationship. I had recently gotten out of a relationship with a different man who had also cheated on me and I wasn’t ready to commit as deeply as my new guy wanted. I had been falling in love with him just before he cheated. I think of this man very rarely so having him come up was a surprise. Ayahuasca wanted me to shed the tears I’d denied myself when the betrayal occurred, so that’s what I did.

 There was beautiful music during the ceremony. More often than not the shaman’s husband would play his acoustic guitar and the two of them would sing together. At some point after I took my third dose the shaman rose from her cushion and began to dance. She invited the others to dance and sing too. I was too nauseated to rise from my blankets, but their joy relieved me of some of my melancholy. The shaman called for us to draw in close and begin a sharing circle. I joined reluctantly. I only sat for a couple minutes before I realized that this was untenable. My insides were willing to share, but not words, so much as bile.

Not wanting to pull focus from the group, I took the plastic bucket allotted to me and went outside. I walked far enough outside that I hoped to be inaudible. I knelt on the ground and prepared to expel the contents of my stomach into the bucket…Nothing. Over and over again I heaved, my abdomen convulsed… Still nothing. I curled up on the ground next to my bucket and hoped for the nausea to pass. A woman came outside and covered me in a shawl. I thanked her. The shaman came outside to check on me. I apologized for worrying her and told her I was fine.

The cycle continued. My body would attempt to vomit. Fail. Periodically women from the group and sometimes the shaman come to check on me. They were trying to help and while I was touched by their kindness and concern and thanked them profusely… I hated it. I don’t like being fussed over. I don’t like being a burden. I knew I’d be fine. My body doesn’t believe in dying; it’s merely a glutton for self-torture. My body just wanted me to feel as though I might perish; truth be told you’d have an easier time eradicating the world of all its cockroaches than you would separating my soul from my body. I’m basically the creature in the horror movie that you stab several times, empty a magazine into, but rather than dying, it just gets really angry and continues to charge after you. That’s me. Impossible to kill.

Finally, the shaman decided she’d given me, myself, and I enough time to try to work things out. She parked herself in front of me. She talked to me and blew smoke in my direction. She covered her hands in essential oils and held them in front of my face to administer aromatherapy. She had someone bring me lime juice that had been watered down. Over and over again I heaved, and every time… Nothing. I hung my head over the bucket. I felt exhausted and defeated. I apologized to the shaman repeatedly. She was lovely and I didn’t mean to take up so much of her attention. “It’s okay, Kristina,” she says. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t worry.”

I nod. She pulls out a pipe. “This is rapéh,” she says and asks if I want to try it. I say yes. She inserts one end into my right nostril and blows. My eyes shut involuntarily as my head explodes. I’m gasping and my hands grab for the grass off to the side of me. I feel like I’ve just been maced. My body calms for a few seconds before my insides rebel. I lean over the bucket, begin heaving, and… Still nothing. The shaman is surprised. She talks to me for a while before coaxing me into letting her blow rapéh into my other nostril. I’m reluctant but I allow it. The process repeats. I still can’t vomit.

For a moment the shaman looks perplexed and amused. She looks at me knowingly, “You know, Kristina, for some people it’s very hard to let go.” I’d laugh but I don’t have the energy. I look back at her and say, “Oh yeah, I’m terrible at letting go.” There’s a long pause. I begin retching—successfully this time. When I finish, she convinces me to come back inside and lay down. Shortly thereafter, the ceremony starts to close. It’s a Sunday night and people want to leave early. I’m the only one left who is still high. The shaman knows I can’t drive and asks me where I’m staying. My trailer is parked at Playa Tecolote in La Paz. I had just driven in for the ceremony. I tell her I’m staying in my truck. She doesn’t like this and offers to have me stay with her. She doesn’t want me to be alone. I manage to convince her that I’ll be alright.

After everyone else leaves, she and her husband walk me to my truck. At some point she says to me, “Did you notice that after we talked about letting go, you were finally able to purge? There was only about 20 seconds between the two.” When she says this, it’s like a magic trick. I start throwing up again. I finish. I thank the shaman and her husband and we say our goodbyes.

I crawl into my truck and go to sleep.