Vytas Baskauskas
“Twenty minutes,” he tells me in a thick Oaxacan accent. I hang up the phone, grab my things, and hop in the car, hoping that this time his estimate is accurate but knowing deep down that it’s going to be at least an hour before I feel relief.
Being dopesick is the worst feeling I’ve ever had to endure, and today is no different. My nose is running, my stomach is churning, my legs are flinching, and the urge to vomit is very close to being overpowering. It is this awful sickness that propels me into the ghetto of Los Angeles to meet my dealer. At this point, I’ve been strung out on heroin for the last two years and my addiction has progressed to a point where I don’t do much else. Pretty much everything in my life is geared toward drugs: the getting, the using, the ways and means to get more.
As I wait anxiously for him to arrive, I feel the eyes on me. With each minute of waiting, the sickness gets worse. I can barely hold my bowels. My shirt is soaked with sweat. It’s been forty minutes and I’m starting to worry that something happened. If he doesn’t show, I’m fucked. Finally, after more than an hour, he picks me up and we go for a ride. I rarely have the exact amount of money, but today he takes pity and doesn’t give me a hard time when I drop $17 on him for a $20 balloon. He spits the dope into my hand and drops me back off. I’m really struggling now. I gag a few times trying not to vomit. I can’t run because I’ll shit myself.
Hobbling to my car, I realize that I’d better fix here because I’m not going to make it home. A good junkie never goes anywhere without his supplies. I take out the spoon, cotton, and syringe. After a little cook, the needle is full of sweet brown liquid and I’m ready to feel relief. When I first started shooting dope, the veins in my arm were bulbous and easy to find. Today they are sunken back and afraid of more punishment. It takes a few minutes of poking around, but finally I hit a vein. I know this because when I pull back to test, a rush of blood floods into the syringe and mixes with my fix. Knowing I’m there is almost a better high than actually pushing off. Once my thumb presses the plunger and the needle delivers, all my problems immediately disappear. In that moment, it doesn’t matter how lonely I feel, how ashamed I am, how much money I owe, how many loved ones I’ve screwed over. I feel at peace.
Outside Looking In
Heroin addiction was never my problem. It was only a symptom. Drugs gave me the tranquility and serenity that I could never find on my own. I’ve always wanted to be comfortable in my own skin but didn’t know how to get there. My deep-seated fears and insecurities seemed to always win out. Was I born insecure and afraid? Doubtful. I often try to examine, though, where my path went afoul.
When I was 14 years old, I had the best group of friends. We were rebels and misfits and it was the most fun of times. We graffitied, smoked weed, and went everywhere together. I don’t remember being overly self-aware or uncomfortable back then. I felt part of something. Our crew had a name: DMT, an abbreviation for Demented. I would tag that name on every wall I could find and doodle it on every piece of paper I owned. I was a DMTer for life! At least, so I thought.
One day I got a call from the crew, not just one member but all of them, on speakerphone no less. They had apparently called a meeting that I was not a part of. The meeting was about me, and they unanimously decided to kick me out of Demented. These were all of my best friends and they were telling me what?! That I could no longer hang out with any of them? That the group I felt so close to and bonded with was giving me an unceremonious exit? I didn’t see it coming. When I asked them why they did it, I couldn’t get a logical answer. One by one, they just kept saying, “You need to make new friends.” But I didn’t want to. I thought I already had the best group of friends. They obviously didn’t reciprocate that feeling. In ninth grade, it wasn’t too easy to make new friends at a big high school. My only friend was my 12-year-old neighbor. When people in my class heard that I had but one friend and that he was a seventh grader, they laughed at me. This was the beginning of a lot of internal pain. I felt rejected and left out. At a time when the building blocks of social interaction were being formed for us freshmen, I was on the outside looking in. In my young mind, this event formed a strong pain memory that would last a very long time.
Pushing Through
The trauma of being shunned by my peers left me feeling hesitant and anxious in social situations. Eventually I made new friends and found a group that I could be a part of. Deep down, though, I was afraid that I wasn’t really ever going to be a part of anything. I started doing more drugs and exploring new ways to act out. The more I could change the way I felt inside, the easier life was for me.
My journey through drug addiction spanned many years with plenty of high points but mostly low ones. It culminated when I was 19 years old with a year in LA County jail and no more bridges to burn. Unlike many of the people I used drugs with along the way, I was fortunate enough to get clean. To this, I credit the twelve steps and the many fellow addicts who have helped me over the years. Getting clean, however, was not the solution because the problem was never drugs. The problem was me. I only used heroin so I could escape my fears and uneasiness. As soon as the needle was taken away, I was faced with the reality of my situation. I was a young man with absolutely no idea of how to deal with life on life’s terms.
From One Addiction to Another
Since childhood, one thing that has always given me comfort and solace is food. A great meal can conjure up the feelings of love and warmth that my mother gave me with her home-cooking. A full belly can make the emptiness and loneliness inside disappear for an instant. When I got clean and drugs were no longer an option for dealing with my problems, food became an easy solution. I loved the nod from a good shot in the arm. Just as much, I love the buzz from eating a savory meal. There is something so sensual about how food makes me feel. It transports me to a place of joy and satisfaction.
As I continued on my journey of sobriety, my relationship with food morphed into an unhealthy one. My addictive behavior transferred to how I ate. Binge eating become more frequent, but it was embarrassing so I started to hide it. Ordering two entrées at dinner with friends would elicit strange reactions, so I’d eat normally with them and get fast food by myself on the way home. My mind started to become increasingly preoccupied with what I was going to eat for the next meal, and I began making deals with myself about food: justifying binges by promising a juice fast in the near future.
Food wasn’t the only vice I turned to when I got sober. Things like sex, love, validation, and shopping are all quick fixes. When I’m feeling empty or down, my mind can easily justify using a superficial remedy to feel better. But my relationship with the things that make me happy is always challenging. It’s a fine line to walk, because I always crave more. Unfortunately, chasing good feelings isn’t sustainable.
At the core lies the fear that I’m not enough, that I’m not loved, and that something is wrong with me. And none of these fears is addressed when I overeat, have a night of passionate sex with a new partner, or buy the latest smartphone. As soon as the food is eaten, my bed is empty, or my toys lose their cool, my mind tumbles down a whirlwind path of negative self-talk and I feel like the biggest piece of shit to ever walk this planet. Amidst this diseased thinking, I refute my own reality. I went to a gifted school as a child, but I believe I’m stupid. I have people who love me, but I believe I’m alone. I have money in the bank and a successful career, but I believe I’m a failure. And while it’s not true, I believe that I’m fat and ugly.
I can talk myself into a reality of my own making where I’m worthless, and this is the crux of my problem. Food, sex, and shopping are temporary and superficial fixes, and eventually I had to find something in my recovery that would give me true harmony and peace.
Enter: Yoga
I am easily put off by anything hokey, so I rejected even the notion of yoga. Although I’d heard and read of the spiritual benefits of the practice, it seemed a little too kumbaya for my taste. I didn’t think that it had anything to offer me—neither physically nor mentally/emotionally. Nevertheless, when I got out of jail at 20 years old, some old friends from high school were intent on dragging me to their favorite yoga studio. I resisted mightily, afraid of the tie-dyed and tofu-eating cult that I thought would be contorting their bodies next to mine. Yet my pals were relentless and eventually I gave in—if anything, simply to assuage their desire.
After my first-ever yoga class, my life was not changed. I didn’t see God or make any grand proclamations about the new direction I would be embarking on. To be honest, it just felt good, surprisingly good. Yoga wasn’t as new-agey as I thought it would be, and it seemed like a healthy tool to add to my life at the time. For a few years, I practiced once or twice a week and enjoyed the physical benefits the practice gave me.
But somewhere along the road, I decided to jump into yoga wholeheartedly and began to practice almost every day. I finally got what people were talking about when they mentioned that yoga was more than just physical. I started noticing that I was calmer in my life, that I was more present. Not only was I getting stronger and more open physically, but I was becoming clearer and less reactive mentally. My practice was no longer just about the poses but about how I was practicing them.
I was fortunate to have some great teachers teach me that yoga is a mind-body experience. Once I realized that, my time on the mat became much more powerful. It allowed me to be more conscious of my experience and be more aware of the truth. And, instead of being a prisoner of that truth, I now could wield my mind in a way to begin to change it. The benefits of the practice are simple and straightforward. Yoga did not magically and instantaneously remove my fears and insecurities. What it did do, though, is give me a little bit more strength to face them on a daily basis. Every morning I can make conscious choices of how to deal with my problems. It is completely up to me whether or not I choose to use the tools I’ve learned in my practice.
Transferred to the Body
When I wake up and get out of bed, I walk by my closet, which has a full-length mirror attached to it. Of course, because I’m incapable of not looking, I check out my naked body as I stroll past. Where does my mind go? It immediately goes to the parts of my body that I don’t like. My belly: it’s too big. My shoulders: not broad enough. My arms: not muscular enough. My face: ugly. My penis: small. Like a ritual, this happens every morning. I can’t remember the first time that I hated my body, but I know it’s been a while. Was it the media I was exposed to touting an unattainable standard of male beauty? Was it growing up among the über-narcissistic LA entertainment offspring? Was it those girls I heard gossiping in eighth grade about which guys were ugly and which were cute?
I may not know how my body image issues came to be, but I know why they still linger. It is a direct byproduct of the fear and insecurity I’ve been carrying around all these years, and no amount of external validation can fix that. No matter how many women (or men) tell me that I’m attractive, my default setting is that I’m ugly. No matter how many people mention how skinny I am, my default setting is that I’m fat. No matter how many partners rave about the caliber of my penis, it’s tiny.
My distorted body image is so fixed, it won’t let other people change my mind. I think they’re just being nice and when they go home at night, they don’t really believe the things they said. The solution has to come from within. How can I, using this same twisted mind that tells me the worst possible things about me, convince myself otherwise? How do I begin to walk through the fear and insecurity that have been plaguing me for so many years?
Small Shifts
It starts with my yoga practice. Since yoga introduced me to meditation, I consider meditation my yoga as well. One thing I’ve noticed is if I sit down first thing in the morning and take as few as five minutes to meditate before I begin my day, I’m better off. Sure, when I walk by the mirror, the negative self-talk is still there, but instead of rolling in that self-hatred, I can be present and conscious enough to pull myself out of it. It’s not that the insecurities vanished, but I can focus my attention and energy where I choose. If I want to be happy, I redirect my focus on something positive. When I don’t meditate in the morning, I don’t have as much control over it and thus my peace of mind is a crapshoot.
My yoga practice has evolved over the last thirteen years, and I have become a yoga teacher, sharing the practice with others for eight years. I’ve found through teaching that sharing my personal experience can help others. I have never related to people preaching from a high horse, but I can always relate to those who’ve gone through similar experiences. That’s why I’m sharing my story.
Because I am a yoga teacher, people perceive me as healthy, fit, and in a constant state of nirvana. Well, I’m a work in progress just like anyone else. Lots of students regularly ask me all kinds of life questions and requests for advice. Sometimes I’ll even get asked about the same issues that I continue to struggle with. I think it’s important for my students to know that I’m not any better than them. I have my demons too and I am far from perfect. The fears and insecurities that have plagued me since I was a teenager still come back into my consciousness regularly. My spiritual fitness is based on my consistent use of the tools I’ve learned.
No Finish Line
Since I began practicing yoga, it has grown from a small community into a worldwide one. For better or worse, yoga is part of mainstream culture and business is booming. The more people who practice yoga, the better off our planet will be, right? For the most part, I agree. However, there are pitfalls.
With mainstream business comes mainstream advertising. I can pull out the latest issue of a yoga magazine, see the beautiful, perfectly Photoshopped bodies in the ads, and go immediately into negative self-talk. As our yoga community grows and the yoga industry grows with it, there will be a steady increase of digitally altered and unattainable “perfection” depicted in yoga advertising, and I don’t like what it brings into the yoga world.
For me, and for many I know, yoga has nothing to do with reaching a certain ideal. There is no finish line. There isn’t one pose that will give me enlightenment, nor is there any sort of physical model that I am striving for. The physical practice is there for me to be strong, flexible, and healthy in a balanced and personal way. However, when I see those quintessential yoga pictures in ads, it is easy for me to feel I don’t measure up, and I know a lot of other men who feel the same way I do. It isn’t only women who have body image issues. Guys wrestle with the same worries that women do, except instead of our butts and legs, we worry more about our abs and arms.
While the changes to the culture of yoga that come with commodification aren’t necessarily helping us, they are, however, allowing us to have this conversation. We do not practice yoga in a bubble. Whether or not the commercialization of yoga is here to stay, the issues will still be at hand. I get bombarded with ads to show me notions of perfection no matter where I go. Capitalism only works on the premise that we are not enough and need some product or service to find wholeness. Whether or not yoga businesses choose to use this model, pretty much every other business does.
How will I compare myself to the men that I see idealized in commercials? It is a difficult task to not feed into the misinformation that is perpetuated thousands of times per day. My yoga practice allows me to make choices. I don’t have to be like those guys on the billboards to be happy. I can choose to be happy being me. It sounds cliché and easy, but for those of us who combat our negative self-image every day, we know that it is not. It takes vigilant practice, and yoga facilitates that.
Every moment of every day, I have a choice. Sometimes I choose to be positive and accepting of exactly who I am. Other times, I fall into the uneasy place of lacking and wanting. Being on the path for almost fifteen years now doesn’t make me any more enlightened today than someone who maybe hasn’t been practicing for that long. The reprieve that we are offered from yoga, meditation, and practicing principles is only a daily one. I can’t stay clean from yesterday’s shower, and in that same sense, I can’t be positive from the mental space I was in twenty-four hours ago. Day by day and moment to moment, my mind fluctuates. It can take me to a bad place or a good one.
What I have learned from my time on this journey is that I have a choice. I can choose to be happy today, if I want. Most days I do. Some days I don’t. It’s progress, not perfection, and with each conscious choice I make, I get better at it. What helps me is remembering simple truths. In the end, will people really remember me for my abs? Or will people remember me for my positive and giving spirit? Today I try my best to put more energy in working toward the latter, for that is what makes me feel the best.
Vytas Baskauskas discovered a profound connection to yoga after a battle with addiction landed him in jail. What began as a form of therapy evolved into a way of life and a highly developed practice that he now shares with others as one of LA’s premiere yoga instructors. He teaches at Yoga Works and Power Yoga East in Santa Monica, California, and is a professor of mathematics at Santa Monica College. www.VytasYoga.com. Author photo courtesy of the author.