A Psychedelic Journey, Interrupted
A Psychedelic Journey, Interrupted
It sounded easy enough. Pick a psychedelic substance known for its healing properties. Find a healer. Do the integration work.
When I started my psychedelic healing journey a few years ago, I dreamt of the day when I could tell people that I healed my trauma and cured my depression and PTSD–maladies that had persisted despite years of therapy, medication, and genuine effort. My trauma didn’t live neatly in the past; it resurfaced as intrusive memories, frequent panic attacks, and the constant feeling of being in fight or flight mode. Psychedelics promised something I hadn’t found elsewhere: not numbing, but resolution. I had read others’ accounts of how they’d successfully healed their deep wounds with entheogens and psychedelic-savvy therapists, and I was optimistic that I could do the same.
Well, folks, it may have worked out well for others, but it’s been a bumpy ride for me. I’m certainly not here to discourage anyone from trying. Heck, I haven’t given up yet myself. I just feel it’s important to share my story so that others may learn from my mistakes.
Ketamine
In 2022, I chronicled my unsuccessful ketamine treatments at the now defunct Ketamine Wellness Center in this publication. A big part of why that didn’t work was because I was taking benzodiazepines at the time. Since benzos block the neuroplasticity necessary to develop new ways of coping, I didn’t have a chance.
I weaned myself off those addictive little pills, though, and again tried ketamine–this time through an at-home provider. A 600-milligram journey in the comfort of my own home was nice. They sent me troches—dissolvable lozenges– that I placed in my cheeks—no need for needles or relying on someone to pick me up after the journey.
I had a dozen or more of these trips and enjoyed them immensely. They were so weird and wonderful in their own ways. Each time I took one of these powerful journeys, there were moments when I didn’t know who I was–or what was happening. Having my ego dissolve was liberating. On various trips, I felt like I existed on the molecular level, like I was sailing through space, or like I was a nameless, autonomic being in an extradimensional culture. These ketamine journeys were dark, not frightening, just colorless—unlike the vibrant, kaleidoscopic effect of the classic psychedelics.
As much as I enjoyed the dissociated unearthliness of these K-hole experiences, I didn’t feel any relief from depression–and the integration services offered by the company were totally insufficient. Ketamine, for me, was a bust.
Ayahuasca
I’d read a lot about ayahuasca and have a friend who cured his trauma with it, so I felt confident that it would give me what I needed—insight that leads to healing. I recounted my unsuccessful first two-night experience in a Psychedelic Scene article a couple of years ago.
In 2024, I tried it again at the same place in the desert Southwest of Tucson. Again, I prepared by following the dieta, refraining from sex, alcohol, and many common foods for the week prior. I’ve since learned that the dieta is almost largely symbolic—something I now know is completely uneccessary. I fell for it, but never again. Obviously, you don’t want to have a burger and fries right before the night of a ceremony, but you don’t have to put yourself through misery either.
On the first night of the ceremonial weekend, I drank two cups of the ayahuasca brew but felt nothing. These ayahuasca retreats aren’t cheap, so to experience no effects was extremely disappointing, particularly after a week of self-abnegation. The stuff is putrid and makes users vomit. I was no exception. I choked down two cups of the rancid liquid and puked it into a bucket while listening to scattered upchucking in the dark yurt.
Inside the Yurt in Daylight--Jason LeValley
The second night was far, far worse. I was determined to drink enough to feel something. What happened was a nightmare.
I downed six cups, waiting in line each time, and throwing up each time. Something did happen to me, but it wasn’t psychedelic or insightful. My depression intensified to where I was moaning uncontrollably. I remember repeating, “No, no, no” and being in intense psychic pain.
At one point after my fifth cup, I dragged myself in agony to the altar where the lead facilitator sat on his large cushion surrounded by ceremonial implements and ornaments. I thought maybe one more cup would help me see the healing psychedelic visions I was after, and I needed to let the head honcho know I was in dire need.
There were others waiting, so I sat there in a state of raw anguish as he administered the brew to other seekers.
When my time came, I took a seat on the throw pillow before the altar and quietly expressed my state of torment. He put his head close to my ear and asked what was going on. I told him of my crippling pain. He then lit a pipe and blew smoke all over me, front and back and head to toe. He sat back down on his king-sized cushion. “Alright, brother,” he said. I knew that was my cue to vacate, but I was in such misery that I just sat there and shook my head. He then put his head down on my knee for about a minute.
When he sat back up, he said, “OK, brother”. There were people behind me waiting their turn, but I continued to sit there with a miserable look on my face. He reached for something behind him and handed it to me. It was a polished stone. “Take this,” he said, “you can transfer your bad feelings into this.” I took it reluctantly and somewhat incredulously. “Should I take another drink?” I asked. “If you’d like,” he said. He poured me another cup, and I quickly knocked it back. “Alright, brother,” he said again. This time the annoyance in his voice was unmistakable. “Thank you,” I said as I crawled back to my sleeping bag.
Dirt road southwest of Tucson
I was awake all night, tormented by my demons—thoughts and visions of my most painful memories. All night long I laid there moaning even louder—wailing—so absorbed by my sorrow that I was barely aware of the others in the space. When dawn broke and sunlight filled the tent, the pain eventually lifted. I saw others laughing, smiling, and talking to each other. A strange mix of emotions passed through me—relief, embarrassment, and anger. A stone—how condescending. Shouldn’t these types of facilitators be trauma-informed? Never again.
5-MeO-DMT
The first time I tried 5-MeO-DMT, often called “five,” I had an incredible, blissful experience. All the anxiety and depression I’d been feeling disappeared in a flash of white light. I don’t know where I went, but I wasn’t in my room anymore.
I felt that universal love we’ve all heard about—that we’re all one, and a God-like presence—which, as a lifelong atheist/agnostic, I didn’t expect. Solutions to problems I didn’t know had solutions came to me. I thought about friends to whom I should make amends. And I felt the importance of gratitude at a very deep level—ecstasy! My experience was like the one described by Leni Pratte in an article she published here.
After that blast of bliss, I thought I was cured. Unfortunately, it didn’t last. I decided I needed a practitioner, so I contacted one I had heard about. She told me to meet her in Laveen, a working-class suburb of Phoenix, for the ceremony. I met her in an empty room where cats were walking in and out. I’m allergic to cat dander, so it wasn’t ideal. This woman had a great deal of experience administering 5-MEO, but it seemed a bit shady. She’d put a blanket down on the carpet and directed me to sit up. She lit the pipe and I took a deep hit and slowly leaned back. I felt that flash of white light and my mind left the room, but I didn’t feel bliss. Whatever it was I felt was insignificant. When I came out of the journey, I noticed that my guide, who charged me $400, was pecking away on her phone. When she noticed I was back she did put it down, but the experience left me underwhelmed. I felt like I could do better.
The View from the House at the Top of the Mountain Overlooking Tucson--Jason LeValley
My next step was to seek out a more professional professional. After posing a question to my psychedelic medicine group on Signal, I learned that there was a gay couple—both licensed therapists who shared a house in Tucson. I had an online meeting with them and felt confident that these guys were the professionals I was looking for.
I paid $2600 to spend a weekend in their beautiful house on the top of a mountain above the city with a spectacular, panoramic view. The elevation was such that you could see eagles and vultures flying by. The therapists were extremely accommodating and kind, and I enjoyed their company.
When it came time for the first ceremony, the three of us passed through the front door and entered the ceremony room, which had an arched window overlooking the desert to the west of Tucson. I sat on the blanket in the middle of the room while my hosts took their seats in the corners. One handed me a type of pressurized bong from which I took a deep hit. I felt nothing, and they were just as befuddled as I was. I took a couple more hits. Nothing. It was like the first night of my ayahuasca weekend all over again.
The next day, they decided to try something different—a suppository. I wasn’t keen on the idea at first, but I thought it made sense. I inserted it myself in the bedroom where I was staying. When I came out, they guided me through the front door once again and into the ceremony room. One of the therapists passed me a vape, and I inhaled several times.
Something happened this time, but it wasn’t what I expected. The substance allowed me to feel at a very deep level, and what I felt was a raw, intense pain. Like at the ayahuasca retreat, I wailed loudly. A high-pitched cry that seemed to go on forever poured out of me. Unlike my previous experiences with 5-MeO-DMT, I didn’t leave the room. I was conscious and present the whole time. My therapists and I could speak to each other, but they didn’t practice therapy on me. Instead, they sat in their places watching me and listening to my siren sound. I was emotionally wide open, and my torturing demons came back—overwhelming pain.
After an hour (the usual length of a ceremony), the lead therapist asked if I would mind if they ended the ceremony, stating that they’d be nearby should I need anything. I said it was fine but continued in that state of flailing and wailing for a couple more hours, hoping for some type of catharsis.
The Ceremony Room on Top of the Mountain overlooking the Desert West of Tucson--Jason LeValley
They did the integration piece later, as expected, but I’ll never understand why neither of these two highly regarded therapists applied therapeutic practices while I was in that open state of raw emotion. It seemed, and still seems, like a missed opportunity. I didn’t need babysitters—I needed psychedelic-assisted therapy, which is what I thought I’d gone there for. It was yet another extreme disappointment on my psychedelic healing journey.
Postscript
Despite my discouraging experiences, I don’t plan to give up. I’m determined to heal. Others have done it, and I will too. I’m not going to be a slave to Big Pharma for the rest of my life. At some point, I’ll again have the time and resources to pursue alternative medicine. I’ll find the right therapist, ask the right questions, and one day be free of the trauma that has hindered me for so long.
Gallery
Recent Articles
