Chapter 33 : Illusion vs. Reality – Choosing What’s True

“We do not heal the past by dwelling there; we heal the past by living fully in the present.”  — Marianne Williamson

The first two cups and the sacred medicine began their work. The sounds of the jungle transformed into archaic whispers. The wooden floor of the maloca radiated a cool chill, pressing against the fabric of his mat, while the smoke of Mapacho tobacco gracefully curled through silver rays of moonlight. Each of Don Lučo’s Icaros sent vibrations through the wooden beams, turning the hanging vines into dancing serpents, each melody a key unlocking a chain of forgotten memories. The bitter taste of the medicine lingered on his tongue, primal and earthy. As the first waves of nausea rolled through his stomach, within minutes, his meticulously constructed identity crumbled. Success, failure, achievements, and control—all dissolved under the medicine’s touch. The Icaros wove through his consciousness, as if each note were reshaping reality. His mind, once a fortress of control, was now fluid and open. A woman's voice emerged from the darkness, as ancient as the Earth herself, intimate and calming as a mother's lullaby. Her presence filled the space with an otherworldly warmth, like sunlight filtering through a jungle dome. "You've been running for so long." Though Alex couldn't tell if the voice came from within or without, it resonated through every cell of his being. She appeared in his mind's eye—a shape-shifting presence, at once an elderly indigenous woman with eyes deep as cenotes, then a young maiden crowned with purple green serpents and blue gigantic butterflies, then a mother whose smile held the wisdom of a thousand generations.  Her words seemed to dance with Don Lucho's Icaros, weaving between the notes like vines through forest branches. "Look at what you carry, hijo. Each burden a lesson you refused to learn, each scar a door you feared to open.

I have waited lifetimes for you to find your way to this moment," she continued, her voice gently echoing the words of every woman who had ever known Alex.

"Let me show you what you've been too afraid to see." Her touch on the forehead was like a cold raindrop, both blessing and waking up, as she began to guide him through the labyrinth of his own forgotten truths.

Suddenly, he was watching his life play out like a film—scenes projected through time with brutal illumination. There he was at seven, fidgeting in his classroom chair while his teacher's voice turned to static, his mind racing everywhere, except the blackboard in the classroom. The other children's snickers echoed as he struggled to read aloud, with the letters dancing and shifting before his eyes. His ADHD wasn't a diagnosis then, just a series of notes sent home about his "disruptive angry behavior" and "failure to focus." School became a blur of detentions and disappointments; each failed test was another brick in the wall between him and any hope of acceptance. Movie scenes spun fast forward to nights spent hiding under his bed cover, hands pressed against his ears to muffle his stepfather's drunken rages. The sharp crack of opening bottles, his mother's muffled sobs, and the suffocating smell of cheap vodka, cognac, and cigarettes that seemed to seep through the closed door like smoke.

The vision shifted to an autumn evening, where fifteen-year-old Alex stood at the precipice of the apartment building, nine stories above the indifferent city streets. Wind whipped through his thin jacket, gathering clouds that carried the faint scent of approaching rain. One foot already hung in empty space, toes curled over the edge, while his fingers nervously gripped the rough red brick corner—the last tether to a world that had never really wanted him.  But something kept his fingers locked around that brick wall, his bloodied nails scraping against the rough surface until they bled. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was hope, or maybe it was just the stubborn refusal to let someone else write his life ending.

The scenes shifted to long nights in the delivery van, the monotonous hum of the engine, his only companion. Each package delivered was a reminder of homes he'd never know, of families sharing dinners while he ate cold sandwiches with Red Bull in parking lots.

Then came marriage—a desperate grasp at normalcy that slowly suffocated under the load of his unresolved emotional avoidance and neglect trauma. He watched himself withdraw, night after night, unable to share the darkness that lived within him. The growing coldness, the mechanical motions of a life he was supposed to want but couldn't feel. His wife's eyes grew distant, then resigned, then empty. Most painful of all was watching his son's face, how the light in those innocent eyes gradually dimmed each time he flinched away from a hug, every time he got angry beyond his grasp, and each time he chose isolation over connection.

He saw himself, with friends, laughing at jokes he didn't find funny, playing the part of someone who had it all figured out while inside, that same scared child still huddled under the bed cover, waiting for the storm to pass.  Now here he was, watching as his marriage crumbled, his son grew distant, and his carefully constructed ego began to crack. Each memory hit with its own magnitude of pain, not just his own but the pain he had caused others in his relentless pursuit of what he had thought was success, that turned out—or perhaps just an escape from the pain that created more pain.  Only now he saw these moments with devastating clarity, free from the narcotic of his rationalizations. The jungle breathed around him, its rhythm synchronizing with his heart. As the medicine deepened its work, the boundaries between self and other began to blur. The pain that had driven him here—the abuse, the suicide, the divorce, the depression, the spiritual and physical bankruptcy—transformed into a constellation of light points, each one a lesson in disguise. In this sacred space, beneath the canopy of stars filtering through the maloca's roof, Alex felt something he had forgotten: the raw, unfiltered presence of his own being.

"This is not death," the sudden voice assured him as his ego thrashed against its dissolution.  "This is remembering who you really are. Allow yourself to come back" Through waves of growing nausea and transcendent clarity, Alex began to understand. The love he had been seeking through external validation had always existed within, waiting to be recognized and accepted. His journey through darkness—rejection of family, the bankruptcy, addiction homelessness and despair—had been necessary steps on a path he could only now begin to comprehend. The night unfolded in spirals of insight, each revelation cutting deeper than the last.

As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the jungle, Alex emerged from the maloca transformed. This first ceremony, though profound, was merely the beginning. Over the next week, he would return to the medicine space three more times, each journey deeper than the last, each revelation building upon previous insights.

Unlike the sterile confines of his trial therapy sessions back in UK, where trauma was dissected intellectually, here healing emerged through direct experience. Don Lucho's methods weren't about analyzing pain but transforming it through ancient wisdom that pre-dated modern psychology. The medicine showed him how his individual suffering was connected to a larger web of family pain, passed down through generations like an invisible inheritance.

The second and third ceremonies stripped away layers of childhood trauma, while the fourth showed him the generational pain he'd inherited. During his final ceremony, Mother Ayahuasca revealed the divine feminine wisdom he'd been running from his entire life. Between ceremonies, integration sessions with Don Lucho and the other participants helped anchor these insights into his daily consciousness. They spent hours processing their visions, sharing tears, laughter, wisdom and learning to carry their medicine experiences into ordinary reality.

Don Lucho's integration techniques wove together practical wisdom with spiritual insight. He showed them how to ground self and new visionary experiences through traditional practices—specific breathing techniques, plant baths, and dietary restrictions that had been refined over centuries. This wasn't just about processing insights but embodying them through ancient protocols that honored both body and spirit.

In traditional ceremonies, participants typically receive one or two cups of the sacred brew. Four is a strong dose, pushing the limits of most. Eight—what Don Lucho prepared for Alex—was something else entirely. A journey few dared to take, reserved only for those who had proven both spiritual readiness and physical resilience. A dose meant not just to reveal, but to dismantle. That night, as the brew coursed through his system, the last remnants of Alex’s old self fractured  like a dry clay and fell away. He dissolved—into the void, into the infinite, into something beyond identity. When he asked for “dos mas!”  the shaman refused. It no longer mattered. Time, space, and self—had already collapsed into a single, blinding point of awareness.

As dawn broke after the final ceremony, Alex's body felt simultaneously lighter and heavier—his muscles ached from the night's purging, yet a profound lightness filled his chest. The jungle air hung thick with morning mist, carrying the sweet-sharp scent of wet earth and blooming flowers. His bare feet found new sensitivity to every root and stone on the path back to his quarters, while the morning chorus of birds seemed to echo the Icaros still resonating in his mind.  What had transpired during these nights defied ordinary language. The medicine had shown him not just his wounds, but their purpose; and not just his fears, but their wisdom. His failed marriage, the corporate burnout, the years of running—all of it had been leading him here, to this moment of profound surrender and rebirth.

Alex realized Miami was his next stop, but the path ahead was still uncertain; and yet, uncertainty no longer felt like an enemy to be conquered.  Don Lucho had told them during their last supper, "Ayahuasca doesn't give you what you want, she gives you what you need." Sitting in a boat on the way back to Iquitos, Alex understood completely. The medicine had stripped him bare only to show him his own inherent wholeness. The vulnerability he'd spent a lifetime avoiding had become his strength, and the darkness he'd feared had revealed itself as the birthplace of his light.  Back in the city everything was different now, and everything was exactly the same. And somehow, after only seven days that felt like a month of ceremony, integration, and profound inner work, that paradox made perfect sense. The eight cups of his final journey hadn't just opened doors—they had dissolved the very concept of doors altogether, leaving him standing in a reality of himself, naked and far vaster and more beautiful than he'd ever imagined he would be. Alex realized his next step and upcoming lessons in Miami.

***

The plane descended into Miami's shimmer, and Alex felt two worlds pressing against his consciousness. The teachings of the jungle granted him new eyes to see old wounds, particularly the intricate web of his relationship with his father. The very first attempt out from the jungle at reconciliation brought a familiar refrain: “Don’t be a wandering soul… make something of yourself.” Only now did those words land differently—still sharp, yet also revealing his father’s own captive spirit, trapped within the structures of generational emotional distance. In the constellation of family, where threads of love and pain intertwine, each bond—however frayed—holds the mirror through which we learn to mend our fractured selves.

His grandmother's wisdom about reconnection now seemed prophetic. The failed conversation with his father had actually strengthened him, showing how family relationships could become both wound and medicine. With this new understanding arriving to his aunt's Miami address, where childhood memories of their brother/sister-like bond collided with the harsh reality of her government-subsidized apartment.

Her once-pristine writing desk was buried under unopened bill envelopes. In childhood, he had praised her creativity, and she still had a few of her old drawings on the walls. But they were yellowed by a film of cigarette smoke, making them less captivating. Watching his aunt nervously check her phone every few minutes, he thought of the vibrant woman who taught him to draw, defended him in family and school when he was bullied, and dreamed of writing children’s books. That creative spark was still there, though her movements were jerky, and her laughter was neurotic and unnatural. Her undeniable addiction was increasingly cloaking her.

It only took a few days from his arrival and he had already witnessed three angry confrontations between his aunt and a policeman at the beach, the gas stop cashier, and the clients she was dealing with—each incident escalating from minor provocations. The sequence leading to such toxic behavior was recognizable and always the same—a small emotional trigger, an outburst of rage, followed by hours of self-medicating with marijuana, cocaine, or… to numb and calm down. Each episode seemed to drain more of her natural warmth, replacing it with paranoid defensiveness. He remained silent and submissive, though a storm of words brewed within him. The parallel was undeniable: both were chasing escape, but through opposite doors. The lack of family love and attention manifested in the same reactions—withdrawal, rebellion, distrust, and a constant wandering in a desperate search for freedom.

Shortly after Alex’s arrival, he obtained temporary employment with a Russian moving company. His time with the company had tested his resilience.  Despite the profound wisdom gained in the ceremony, Alex struggled to bridge spiritual insight with real-world application. The medicine had revealed truth, but not how to share it. As he watched his aunt suffer, he felt torn—caught between fierce love and his new awareness of destructive emotions and enabling behaviors. The ceremonies had stripped away his fear of confrontation, but perhaps too thoroughly, leaving him raw, unfiltered. He had yet to learn that truth, without compassion, could damage rather than heal.

For over a month, he had traveled across America, lost in reflections while crafting plans for a new beginning here in Miami, yet somehow he couldn’t truly envision that new future amidst his aunt’s struggles. Now, confronted with the reality of her addiction, he sensed that this moment demanded something deeper, realizing that his fate here could become perilous. The time in the jungle had taught him not only resilience but also the understanding that healing cannot be imposed; it must arise from within. Yet, seeing a loved one trapped in the labyrinth of addiction stirred something beyond his intellectual acceptance. When he returned to Miami the following month, he invited his aunt to dinner. As they sat down that evening, the conversation that followed would test everything he had learned about boundaries, compassion and the delicate art of holding space for another’s pain without betraying his own healing.  The restaurant's warm lighting and gentle murmur of conversations felt like a distinct contrast to the heaviness in Alex's heart. He watched his aunt fidget with her napkin while comforting her dog with a bowl of water, fingers trembling slightly—a detail he wouldn't have noticed before the ceremonies.

"Auntie, can we talk?" He began softly, noticing how she immediately tensed at his tone.  "I've been wanting to share something important with you."

"Why so serious?" She attempted a laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "You've been different since you came back. All this jungle wisdom and a trip across 12 states with the Russians is making you too good for us now?"

Alex took a slow, measured breath, remembering Mother Ayahuasca's teachings about patience. "Actually, the trip helped me see things more clearly…including how much I care about you."

The waiter arrived with their drinks, creating a natural pause. Alex noticed his aunt's hands shaking as she reached for her glass, her eyes darting around the restaurant—signs he recognized from his own days of addiction. While the overhead track lighting cast harsh shadows across her face, emphasizing the dark circles under her eyes. The leather booth squeaked whenever she shifted position, which became more frequent as tension built.

"I've been watching you struggle," he continued carefully. "The incident at the beach with the police, the way you've been treating your clients..."

"Don't." Her voice carried a warning edge. "You don't get to analyze me. You think you drank some sacred juice…and now you know everything?"

The ceremonies hadn't just given him visions; they'd taught him practical tools for navigating conflict. As his aunt's anger escalated, he drew upon the grounding practices Don Lucho had shared—feeling his feet firmly on the earth, maintaining steady breath, allowing her words to move through him without triggering old defensive patterns. This wasn't just another spiritual theory but embodied wisdom being tested here and now in the metamorphosis of real relationships.  As he continued, "The weed, the cocaine in the house—"

"Lower your voice!" she hissed, her jaw tightening like a vice while her shoulders coiled tight.  "You think because you went on some spiritual vacation, you can judge how I live?"

"I'm not judging you," he offered softly, maintaining steady eye contact.  ''I'm worried. I recognize the patterns because—"

"Because what? Because you're so enlightened now?" Her voice rose slightly, drawing glances from nearby tables.

"You don't know anything about my life." Alex felt the familiar feeling in his gut and tightening in his chest, the old impulse to match anger with anger. Instead, he let the sensation flow through him, staying grounded in his truth. "I know about pain," he said quietly. "I know about trying to escape it. And I know it only leads deeper into darkness." His aunt's face flushed, her eyes glistening. "You think you understand? Try living with chronic pain. Try dealing with bills you can't pay, or shitty people, a body that betrays you every day..."

"You're right. I don't know your exact pain. But I know what it's like to be trapped in a cycle of—"

"Trapped?" She slammed her hand on the table, making the silverware jump. "Is that what you think I am?" The restaurant grew quieter, other diners now openly staring. Alex could feel the situation escalating but knew he had to continue.

"I think you're stronger than you realize. I think you're capable of so much more than—"

"More then what? Than being a junkie? Is that what you see, Buddha?" Her voice cracked with emotion. "After everything I've done for you?"

"Do Vile, please—"

"No! You come into my home, eat my food, sleep in my bed, and then dare to lecture me about my life choices?" She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor.  "You're just like everyone else—thinking you can fix me!" The restaurant had fallen silent. Alex remained seated, maintaining his composure even as his heart raced. "I'm not trying to fix you. I'm trying to help because I love you."

"Love?" She laughed bitterly. "Love doesn't judge. Love doesn't condemn. You want to help?!  Get out. Get your stuff and get out of my house; get out of my life!" She stormed toward the exit, leaving Alex alone at the table with an audience of stunned diners.

After she stormed off, Alex hastily paid the bill and left, catching up to his aunt for their awkward taxi ride back home. The poor cab driver didn’t even need to ask—he knew something was way off. Alex, restless and relentless, kept pushing, his words low but edged with challenge. She stared out the window, jaw tight, counting the streetlights like they might ground her. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?” she asked.

“I promised that I would do this. Because I believe I deserve a better life than the one I was walking away from. You deserve the same, auntie.  Imagine a life where you're truly happy, writing your children's books, not just numbing the pain. Let's break this cycle together,” Alex suggested.

Getting out of the car, observing the stunned look on the taxi driver's face watching them fight and blame each other all the way back to the house.

“You came into my home!” she screamed. “I gave you everything I had! I found you a job, a room to sleep in! Now I want you to get out of here!” As she demanded he leave her house, Alex felt an old, familiar panic—the fear of abandonment, the sense of being lost. Somewhere deep inside, he already knew this would be the most likely outcome: he’d be back on the streets again.

“Just take the first step. I’ll go pack my things.” Alex’s words to his aunt echoed as she slammed the room door in his face.

“Get out of the house; I don’t want to see you here anymore.”

Homeless again, he had been there more than once. But unlike before, he didn't rush to apologize or backtrack. The ceremonies had taught him that sometimes love meant standing firm, even when it hurt. His voice remained steady as he replied, "I understand this is difficult, Do Vile. But I care too much about you to pretend everything is okay.”

Unsolicited advice rarely finds a willing ear. He left her apartment that night, knowing his words had been difficult for her to hear—just as it was painful for him to witness the stagnation, ignorance, and emotional imbalance that surrounded her. He couldn’t remain in a space where negativity, toxicity and victimhood thrived.

That night, Alex found refuge on a weathered bench at the Hollywood train station, cradled between two tattered travel backpacks, their frayed straps a silent testament to his rootless journey. In the pre-dawn chill, he sought out the nearest McDonald’s, clinging to the Wi-Fi signal like a lifeline, securing a ticket back to Lithuania as the weight of all that had transpired pressed against his chest. The medicine had revealed a bitter truth: sometimes the kindest act is to walk away, though this realization did nothing to dull the ache of abandonment. His aunt’s words echoed in his mind, jagged with pain and rejection, yet beneath them whispered Mother Ayahuasca’s gentle reminder: “Every wound is a gateway to healing.”

He opened his companion Zen masters Deshimaru's book ‘The Ring of the way’ randomly, finding familiar comfort in its worn pages. The words seemed to speak directly to his situation: The way of the warrior is not about victory or defeat, but about-facing reality with an open heart.  His aunt's rejection, though painful, was part of his path. Perhaps his confrontational approach had been clumsy, born from the raw authenticity of recent awakening. Now he knew with certainty that returning to Lithuania wasn't an escape—it was the next step in his evolution.

As dawn began to unfurl over the McDonald’s at 3013 Hollywood Boulevard, its neon arches faintly pulsed against the heavy Florida sky—beacons fading as morning approached. Alex sat quietly at a corner table, the cracked, cold red vinyl pressing through his worn shorts and sweaty legs, as if it were all familiar. Like countless nights before, this place—impersonal, vibrating with fluorescent fatigue—offered just enough: a sliver of shelter for rest. Something had shifted; he no longer felt anxiety.

He no longer felt fear. Homelessness had lost its sharp teeth, its sting of shame, its trailing shadow. In its place, a quiet realization settled: home was never a building—it was a state of being, a rooting within oneself. His aunt’s apartment, like so many other temporary havens—doorsteps, borrowed beds—was merely a pause. Their purpose was not permanence. They were stepping stones—gentle stops in the longer unfolding of a journey.

Now the path led onward, across the ocean, toward a silent promise awaiting in Lithuania. He wasn’t fleeing in despair. He was departing, traveling deliberately. For the first time, the road ahead didn’t feel like an escape. It was a return—not to a place, but to himself.

NEXT WEEK! Chapter 34 : When Truth Doesn't Need Words

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