My First Ayahuasca Trip

Two weeks ago I took ayahuasca for the very first time. This was part of a spiritual ceremony sanctioned by the Canadian government as a religious practice. 

My father and I attended it together. We both took a pretty large dose, almost 3 ounces of fifth-grade medecine, commonly referred to as “honey” due to its thick consistency.

The experience started with this profound sense of euphoria and bliss. I remember feeling an uncontrollable urge to laugh and smile, as it was the only way of getting this abundance of joy to move through my body without getting trapped. It’s like the muscles in my face were being pulled into this wide, hilarious grin.

This was the most powerful sensation I had at the beginning, but it didn’t last the whole time. At one point I slumped over and bumped my head on the ground. It wasn’t very hard, but that faint sensation was made exponential by the power of the psychedelics. I thought that I’d cracked open my skull and my mind was leaking out onto the floor

This was the point where I started to think I was dying. I felt like everything I knew about myself became insignificant and started to fade away. I was scared to lose hold of my ego, but the leader of the ceremony told me not to resist and to let the medicine do what it needed to.

So I died. What came afterwards was something I could never have conceived of. No physical earthly experience could come close to what I went through. I remember being stripped of everything I knew. What remained was this isolated soul that was longing for companionship in a void where it knew none existed. It was such a paradoxically sorrowful feeling, like part of me was incomplete even though I was completely alone. All that came in response was an apology from the universe itself, telling me how sorry it was that I had to go through this. Then the feeling passed and I came back into my body, alive once again. 

This whole experience was eerily reminiscent of the two harrowing hours that I spent watching The End of Evangelion. The crippling sense of loneliness that is symptomatic of being an individual consciousness trying desperately to preserve itself at all costs. The pain of never feeling entirely complete as a solitary organism. And as a result, the subconscious desire for the simplicity and community of death.

But much like my decision to watch The End of Evangelion, I’m glad I chose to go through this. Both the sadness and joy was intense and far deeper than I ever thought possible. It was worth every moment.