BRINGING MYSELF HOME: INTEGRATING AYAHUASCA #2
**if you prefer I read to you, listen, here.
As long as I’ve known home, or understood the idea of it, I’ve run from it, Rebelled or resented it - childhood home, family home, body home, in favor of my mind as home where I could justify everything, talk myself into or out of anything — living in the pain that nowhere felt safe, because I only knew self hate. Home isn’t where you are but who you are. Well, I hated me. Sounds extreme but I’ve never been good at sugarcoating. Trauma took my trust in me and as I got older, trauma kept happening, frozen, my voice taken from me, I couldn’t save myself from situations, so the self hate kept compounding. Even if the memories were buried deep in my subconscious, the self loathing materialized, I became my pain, victim to both what happened to me and and my self inflicted suffering. Void of memory, I had no one to blame but me. I became my worst enemy. But instead of facing said pain, I started running. But I couldn’t outrun the self hatred — she followed me.
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Returning to my childhood home has always felt challenging. Not for lack of love, my parents love me like crazy, every crevice of my home is filled with love, spewing, so much love — for every being, the dogs, the garden — it's ever present. It’s inviting. And safe. My parents created the most nurturing love they are capable of, but it took me years to acknowledge it, because it was easier to reject the people who did their best to keep me safe. Life had other plans for me, which resulted in me fighting them and fighting me because of my suffering. But healing means facing me. I booked the trip with plans to bring my boyfriend home with me. It’d been a year since I’d visited and before going, I considered cancelling — both him and the homecoming because its always felt more natural to reject anything that loves me — including me. Returning home always felt like returning to the spiteful, angry, hurting girl I used to be. Healing happens in layers. I’m healing as I’m going. In my recent Ayahuasca ceremony, I realized that until I face this part of me, I’ll always be running from the girl who felt broken, from middle school to high school to college …
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Those years are a bit of a blur to me. I was admitted early to Boston University, but just before high school graduation, I was raped at a party by a friend’s parent, left for dead in a shower, only to block it out of my memory until September 2020. Seventeen, disconnected, detached, but with no conscious memory, I ran to Boston, “chasing love,” but it was just comfort. You can’t feel love if you hate yourself. Trauma followed me. My junior year of college, I couldn’t protect me, another violent trauma, crippling, I ran from Boston to University of Miami, needing safety but repelling everything. Unsettled and depressed, with no direction, I graduated and moved home before moving to New York City. Running, this time to follow new dreams, and found success, outwardly, to some degree. I was starting to learn me, how to tolerate me, less chasing more creating for eleven years no less, but inside I was hurting.
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Last January, five months into my plant medicine therapy, I chose me, moved to Texas, no longer running to lose me but to find me. For the first time in my life, I began to heal and build boundaries. I created space and a place to heal my shadows, the dark parts of me that were hiding. Today, the only thing scarier then looking at my shadows, is pretending "I’m fine.” Healing is learning to love ourselves regardless of what we’re carrying. Over the past 20 months each therapy unearthed more memories. And I’m integrating while learning self compassion: less what’s wrong with me and more of what happened? And with help, I’ve slowed down and found hope after three decades of hopeless— and an opportunity to start living. But just last week my homecoming meant facing the childhood and adolescent versions of me — she who froze after being victimized repeatedly, shut down from feeling because she felt so deeply. Going home meant facing young Olivia. She was angry.
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My whole life I’ve been angry. But my second Ayahuasca journey two weeks ago stirred up a cloud of anger I buried, now surfacing, and projecting outwards instead of owning the self hate I was still holding. My intention for this journey was to let go of the past and step into my purpose without realizing that meant unearthing more ugly. For much of the 7+ hours I riled in agony, screaming out all the words I never said because trauma froze me,“Get the Fuck Off of me!” “I hate you!” “Leave me alone!” For hours my body shook the terror out of me, revisiting those tragedies, fighting back the pressure of hands choking me, covering my face, holding me down from every angle grabbing me. And with the feelings, I saw imagery, names and faces I’d forgotten, but I blacked out until last week. My mind protected me but the body remembers everything. And the more I remember, the closer I get to setting myself free. Healing is a forever thing. I’m no longer defined by the trauma, not a victim but a survivor. I’m l clearing space so I can create a beautiful place in and around me, home, no longer clouded by anger or “doing" to prove myself worthy. I’ve always felt alone in my pain without even remembering.
So last weeks visit to my childhood home avec boyfriend was less than timely. A week after my Ayahuasca journey, I was angry at me, but bypassing, projecting my anger outward upon my boyfriend, mostly, and still he shows me love, holding me. And so does my family —The first two days home, I was detached and icy, reacting. Not in my heart, shut down, not sleeping. I finally softened, Day three, the anger cleared, but was replaced with sadness. Sad for decades of self sabotaging, Sad for needing to be seen, realizing that the only one that needs to see me, is me. That morning I excused myself for a few hours, a seven mile run to clear my head and return realizing the home I’ve dreamt of isn’t a place but a feeling, an end to silence, suffering, and unworthy: a feeling, freedom, that can only be created by forgiving me. I had to forgive me.
But forgiveness meant claiming responsibility for my self induced suffering, a result of what happened, but prolonged by me. For nearly my entirety I’ve hated me. Berated me, internally. Saw only lack instead of worthy: too fat, too thin, too ugly. Yet costumed in confidence, claiming my worth as my physicality. Unworthy. I was never smart enough or successful enough or pretty enough or skinny enough. I was never enough just being. I always had to do, more — to be seen, to see me.
Enough! I realize. I’ve had enough of nothing, of running from everything and being angry. I’m tired of not seeing me. Seeing how strong I am for facing all the pain stuck in my psyche. I want love. I’ve worked hard at healing. But the forgiveness thing is on me. I’ve faced my shadows in my new life — but my childhood bedroom is where the ghosts are hiding, the younger versions of me nasty and biting. Restless and spiting, were still in there hiding. But it isn’t home I’ve been running from, it’s Young Olivia, the younger version of me.
When all this knowing washed over me Day Three, I woke up determined to integrate the missing parts of me, to rescue the angry little girl in me, and put back together the pieces of me that were taken and replaced with my self shame. I was committed to forgiving me. My intuition leading, and words from a mentor repeating, “Burn what doesn’t serve you. Remember who you are.”
I wrote two lists:
A list of all the perpetrators who violated me. Who took my voice, who took my courage, who took my body.
A list of all the words I’ve used to define me: angry, afraid, insecure, small, ashamed unworthy, …
Searching for matches I found my third grade class photo, bright brown eyes, happy, beautiful and free … I sat on the closet floor of my bedroom and brought her with me. To the place I used to hide after slamming doors behind me, yelling at my family because I was angry, at me. I took both lists, all that no longer serves me — I lit them on fire. And watched them burn, entirely. Up in flames. Burning any sense of operating from that place, empty. No longer at the mercy of them or my own inner wounding. I set myself free. And made space, out of the ashes, for my rising. As I washed them down the sink, I saw my reflection staring back at me, sweaty post run, mascara running down my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I love you Olivia on repeat.”
“Go to the beach,” my intuition told me. I left my phone and followed my knowing. I rarely swim, more land animal than fish, but this was non negotiable. I jumped into the waves head first and felt the self hate and shame rinse off of me, layer by layer, releasing, the names I’ve called me and the names of those who put their pain on me, simultaneously. I washed them away. Clean. To return home to me. Home to the people who love me unconditionally. Home to the little girl who’s been living in purgatory. Realizing I’d forgotten the most important thing. When I left my bedroom before the beach, I forgot to bring her with me. Returning home, a yellow butterfly, symbolizing I was in the right place, flew by me. I walked into the house and brought my third grade photo with me, and sat with her again in my bedroom, and invited her to join me out of the shadow, assuring her it was safe to leave, and safe to be seen. “You don’t have to be afraid or ashamed or lonely. You can stop running.” As I sat with her, I sat with me and finally realized that only I can set myself free. If I have me, I am home. I forgive you, I said. I forgive me. It’s time to come out and play, Young Olivia. We’re safe. No one can hurt you any longer. Not even me.
**more on this work, IFS (parts therapy x Dick Schwartz), here. And here.
When I finally surrendered, the weekend was lovely, everyone (as usual) unconditionally loving, But I rarely saw them because I never saw me. I blamed them because it was easier than blaming me. My mom’s love glows, her hugs engulf, her skin feels like velvet, everything she creates is consumed with caring. And my Dad is steady, two feet grounded, the hardest working self made entrepreneur around. He’s quiet, but when he speaks, it is so worth listening. And ohh my brothers are so lovable and funny.
We are all worthy of love and born to be free. But that starts and ends with you and with me.
Forgiveness is the freedom we gift ourselves. Whatever we carry will feel heavy until we find the grace to face ourselves and set us free. “Burn what doesn’t serve you. Remember who you are.” I choose me. Living is the sweet spot between healing And knowing. We’ll always be healing. And we’ve always known. Trust yourself. Keep going.
Love always, Olivia