Post-Aya Reflections, Narcolepsy, and the Road Home
The morning after my experience with Ayahuasca in Cabo I woke early. I had slept in my truck. It was still dark out. I drove to a beautiful beach, thrilled to find that I had it all to myself. I walked around barefoot for a while, enjoying the sand under my feet. I put my hands in the water and as I often do when I’m near Ocean, touched my wet hands to my third eye and to my heart so that I might be cleansed, opened, and blessed by her. I left just as a man arrived. I enjoyed the synchronicity of our timing, imagining that he would enjoy the empty beach the same way I did—as a rare gift of the early morning.
I was able to drive the two hours back to my trailer in La Paz without stopping. I spent the remainder of the day resting.
The next couple days brought many reflections. Ayahuasca stays in the body for four days after ingestion, and it’s considered fairly normal for the plant to continue bringing insights even a couple weeks after a journey.
I had a lot of thoughts about the women who took care of me toward the end of the ceremony when I was struggling. Apart from the shaman, they were all there doing their own journey work. Still, they checked on me, brought me water, a shawl… I was genuinely grateful for their help, but I really just wanted to be left alone. I did not want to be a burden, nor did I want anyone to watch me suffer. I am hardwired to project strength. I don’t expect people to take care of me. I don’t like accepting help, and more often than not if I do accept it, it’s a leap of trust on my part.
And here’s the other thing, remember what I said about groups? Historically, I do not trust groups. My knee jerk reaction is to assume that they are dangerous and potentially hostile. I spent much of my adolescence in communities that were hostile toward me. I never attended one school for more than two years. I always had the option to be popular, but rejected it due to a disdain for social politics and elitism. Rumors about me followed wherever I went. I was too opinionated, too outspoken, too self-possessed, and too skilled at emotional misdirection for people to know what to make of me. By the time I was twelve, I also had severe narcolepsy, which my teachers deeply resented (I often fell asleep during class) and punished me for. I was constantly in violation of the social contract that slim, pretty, athletic, intelligent, blonde girls are meant to follow -- get good grades, be friendly, smile a lot, avoid conflict, be non-threatening, straighten your hair, shop at Abercrombie & Fitch, don’t fight, don’t fuss, don’t make a stink, look pretty and keep your goddamn mouth shut. Apart from upholding the standards of my own personal vanity (read: beauty standards), I did none of these things. I had teachers who went out of their way to publicly humiliate me. My female peers (those that dared) broadcasted their disdain for me. In response, I developed a legion of defense mechanisms. I was cold, intimidating, and known to verbally backhand anyone that crossed me. I trained myself out of showing any emotion including laughter. I was relentlessly poised and disciplined. I managed to convince everyone but the people closest to me that I felt nothing but anger and boredom. I was deeply unhappy, angry, frustrated, and no one’s idea of a “good girl.” So even now, unless I’m leading the group I’m in (it puts me into cheerleader/nurturer/protector mode), I spend much of my time in groups just quietly mining my environment for potential threats.
Even though I believe that people want to be good to one another, the reality is that I don’t expect kindness—that’s why I’m always so moved when it shows up. I do not expect people to help or care about me. I rely on my self sufficiency and I expect very little from other people, particularly strangers.
As the only participant in the group that night who did not speak Spanish (not very well anyway), I felt a bit isolated. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. I was the youngest woman in the circle and the women of the circle rallied around me despite my attempts to hide myself away and insist that I didn’t need help. These women saw me struggle and did their best to nurture me.
It was a potent reminder about community. While I experienced community during college and living in Oakland, I have spent most of my life without it.
This experience reminded me that even when we’re outsiders, we can find welcome. People will bring us into the fold and take care of us if we allow them to. The universe has shown me numerous times since I’ve been on the road that many people want to help simply because they can. Over and over the universe is constantly reminding me: humans are kind. Let them be kind. Be kind in return. Love them. Be vulnerable. Open your heart as wide as you can. People are worth it.
At some point during the ceremony I started crying over an ex from seven years ago, which was a reminder about emotional purging. I have a deep well of sadness inside of me and everything in it needs to be excavated and released. It all needs to be cried out. I can’t carry it anymore, and frankly I just don’t want to. The more I cry, the more I cleanse my heart of old pain, and the lighter I feel. When we keep our emotions inside they harden us, weigh us down, and make us sick. I cry a lot these days, and counter-intuitive though it might seem, it feels really good—I feel happier and calmer. My tears are like a polish that helps me shine more brightly.
Two days after I sat with ayahuasca, I began the trek north and that’s when the other major impact of the ayahuasca showed up. While I was in Baja I stopped taking adderall. Stimulants are the lifeblood of people with narcolepsy. It’s how we continue to function and fake normalcy despite having bodies that are exhausted and want more than anything to sleep.
At first I ceased my adderall consumption out of necessity; I had planned poorly and hadn’t brought enough to Baja, but then it became intentional. I have wanted to discontinue my relationship with amphetamines for some time. Amphetamines are terrible. Long-term use of them has changed the way my body looks, feels, and functions, but I’ve had to take them in order to work full time and drive long distances. After choosing to no longer work full-time and start freelancing, my strongest remaining motivation for taking adderall was its ability to keep me alert while driving.
Adderall allowed me to do things like drive for 10 hours with only short breaks and the occasional nap here and there. Once I started detoxing (detoxing from many years of use takes about 3 months), I could not drive more than an hour and half without pulling over to nap. On days when I would drive to La Paz from the little kitesurfing town I stayed in during my first couple months in Baja, I could get to the city and run my errands, but I never managed to get all the way back without stopping for a quick nap. By the time the ayahuasca ceremony rolled around I was dreading the drive back to the States. It takes 18 hours to drive from La Paz, BCS to Calexico without towing (you drive much slower while towing), so even though I’d made the drive to Baja Sur in less than three days, I was expecting the drive back to take anywhere from one to two weeks.
It took three days. I was awed, impressed, and excited. It didn’t seem possible. I marveled. It was like I’d suddenly developed superpowers.
During my return pilgrimage to the US, I drove 7-8 hours a day without taking any naps. I can’t stress the enormity of this enough: I have never managed to drive longer than two hours in one sitting without the help of amphetamines--not in the entire time I’ve been alive. I don’t just have narcolepsy, I have Type 1 Narcolepsy. I was diagnosed by one of the world’s foremost experts and am considered one of the most severe cases on record based on the amount of cataplexy (temporary paralysis) I experience and that analysis of my cerebrospinal fluid shows almost no discernible evidence of hypocretin (a sleep-regulating chemical made in the hypothalamus) production. All this just to say, the fact that I managed to drive 7-8 hour days on the way back from Baja aided merely by drinking a single can of Monster per day is nothing shy of miraculous. I should not have been capable of that. My neurologist would be floored.
Yet, here we are, months later, and I’m still not taking any of pharma’s stimulants. Ayahuasca gave me a huge gift by healing this part of my disease, and she also reaffirmed that my narcolepsy does not have to be permanent. I’ve known since I was 21 years old that our neuroplastic potential is infinite. I was in college when I started biohacking this disease, and now? Let’s just say I plan to finish the work I started nearly a decade and a half ago.
Western medicine and pharmaceutical companies have done a great job of convincing us that we are stuck, we are sick, and we cannot be healed. I’m convinced it’s not true. We may be sick, but we can heal. We are so much more powerful than we have been led to believe. Healing is hard, painstaking work, but it can be done if we are willing to do what is needed. We can heal ourselves. We can be the architects of our healing.
I have spent the past year-plus healing like it’s my full-time job. I started with my heart and now I’m healing my body (referring to my focus since these things are inextricably intertwined). My claims might sound fanciful or far-fetched, but I promise they’re not. By the time I turn 40 (hopefully, MUCH sooner actually--I have plans), I intend to have the data to prove it.
Watch and see, loves 💛
Editing note: don’t be surprised if I re-write this in the coming weeks. There are more details I want to share, but for now I’m favoring expediency.