A STEP CLOSER
“Real shadow work does not leave us in tact; it is not some neat and tidy process, but rather an inherently messy one, as vital and unpredictably alive as birth.”
— ROBERT AUGUSTUS MASTERS, SPIRITUAL BYPASSING: WHEN SPIRITUALITY DISCONNECTS FROM WHAT REALLY MATTERS
“Everybody's scandalous flaw is mine.”
— RUMI
C HOR BEGAN to seriously flirt with the possibility of iboga. He took the time to fill out the intricate intake form for Iboga Sanctuary. There were many questions about medical history and the particulars of his addiction.
“So do you want me to go with you?” I asked Chor. “Or do you want to go alone?”
“Yes. I do. I want you to go with me,” he said clearly.
I wasn’t yet sure if I would partake of the medicine, but I definitely wanted to go with him. Yes, this was his healing journey—but letting him go all alone would have been like letting him walk in and out of heart surgery alone. If he could get himself there, then I wanted to be there by his side. I wanted to walk him to the gates and be the first to welcome him to the other side of this transformation.
The more I learned about iboga, the more the medicine called to me for my own healing. I definitely rode a constant wild ride of dark moods and negative thoughts and frazzled nerves. Yoga and a healthy diet had kept me alive with a reasonable amount of grace, but I knew I had plenty more evolving to do.
I had become completely addicted to caffeine and chocolate. It might sound trite compared to Chor’s affliction, but I was enslaved. My adrenals were drained, and I was trapped in a daily cycle of dependence. I wondered what life might be like if I wasn’t addicted.
I had survived abuse as a child, and now I carried the heavy, automated armor of post-traumatic stress disorder. I struggled with an aggravated sense of guardedness, stifling fears, and anxiety at times. Other plant medicines and therapy had benefited me, but nothing had entirely relieved me of this daily embodied burden.
I went ahead and filled out the intake form, and I had to confess my own blossoming addiction. I had started drinking more just in the previous couple months, indulging in an evening glass of wine a few times a week when Chor was out of town. Though it was quite light, it was the motivation behind it that was dangerous. I was not drinking to celebrate. I was drinking to numb my thirsty heart. I was missing Chor more and more, even when he was there.
I’d once heard a wise woman say, “There’s no such thing as a ‘light’ addiction. You’re on either one train or another. You are headed either up or down. You might not realize it in the moment, but every action in our lives is part of a vast trajectory.”
I had to step off that train.
Apparently, Chor and I had both been building up to something. Our hearts and our wounds were inextricably intertwined. Now we both sat at a crossroads.
Julia, the director, emailed us back, acknowledging the receipt of our questionnaires. She’d call us soon. We counted the minutes, excited and terrified, wondering aloud and pacing in our living room. Finally, she spoke with us at length and answered all of our logistical and health questions.
And then she quoted us the price. For two journeys in an eight-day retreat, it would cost $6,000 for Chor and $5,000 for me. My heart sank. Chor loathed spending money.
“$6,000!” Chor complained, right on schedule. “I thought it might be $3,000 or $4,000; that’s a shitload of money!”
Chor was frugal, to put it politely. He never splurged on much, aside from fancy sneakers and his recent partying stints as a born-again drug addict. How could I convince him to spend the money for this treatment?
“Babe, the cost of rehab centers can be $25,000 to $100,000 per month. And they don’t even work most of the time! And, I gotta say it: a decent funeral costs at least as much as this retreat.” His face went slack in pensive reflection. The magnitude of the situation seemed to sink in.
“What is this chance worth to you? What is your LIFE worth to you?” I implored.
Chor asked to speak with Mopunga directly and resolved to go if he called him back personally.
A couple days later, Mopunga made time for an in-depth phone conversation with both of us. He spoke with passion, patience, and confidence. The tone of his voice communicated; he understood his medicine, and he understood the nature of addiction. His voice resonated down to my bones, and I felt that silent, mystical “yes.”
They had an opening for our visit, just three weeks away.
“OK. Let’s do it!” Chor agreed enthusiastically, though still terrified. I was relieved but simultaneously nervous.
“OK! Yes!” I said. I was elated, high on hope. Then suddenly, I plummeted into a wormhole within myself.
I turned away, supposedly to do something mundane like put away a dish. I bit my lip. We would need to buy plane tickets pronto. I had to offer my confession, soon. Would he still want me to go when he knew? It was crunch time. I mustered the nerve while we moved forward with logistics.
We had to pass all the tests first.
Iboga required medical clearance. We each had to get a full physical complete with an EKG, a liver test, and a kidney test. Iboga was not recommended for people with certain medical conditions. We felt like we were getting ready to climb Mt. Everest, within ourselves.
“What’s all this testing for?” Both of our doctors asked.
We had an answer prepped to avoid and awkwardness. “We are preparing to train for a triathlon.”
They were perky and supportive, as expected. We didn’t know how they’d react to our plan to take this exotic medicine that was illegal in the United States—and for a heroin detox. We didn’t want them to rain on our parade, much less bring up any legal challenges, so we kept our intentions under wraps.
We passed all the tests. Our physical vessels qualified us for this journey. We sent our test results to Iboga Sanctuary.
I should be able to relax a little now. Chor had committed to this treatment. He had gone through the toughest few days of withdrawals. I grilled him, and he claimed to be free of cravings. He professed his resolve to heal and stay clean.
But everyone knows that heroin addicts are wild cards, land mines, unpredictable beasts.
I prayed for him to make it through the next three weeks clean. From all my research on iboga, I learned that it was best to be as detoxed as possible before the iboga treatment, as it could be more effective. Heavy detoxes from fresh opiate use could still be grueling, even without the typical withdrawal symptoms. Even more important, taking drugs right after the treatment could be deadly if the impulse prevailed.
Though he claimed that his immediate desire for heroin had dissolved, we knew that he had to clear it from his body, brain, and spirit—once and for all. If he didn’t exorcise it completely, it would sneak up on him again and steal his life when he wasn’t looking. That’s the nature of the demon. I’d read too many headlines: Some famous person relapses after a lengthy recovery—and dies. Boom. Just like that.
I told my mother everything about the relapse, the iboga, my broken heart. “He should go alone,” she firmly advised. “This is his journey, not yours.”
I let that percolate. I deeply respect my mama. She is a wise being and a shaman in her own right. But she is still my very human mama, protective and biased, of course.
What is MY truth here?