Ayahuasca, Yoga, Therapy and Some Other Bullshit

 If Jesus Christ were among us again in these times...

Would he still be that pure and sinless man we hear about in church?

Or would he be a sex-addicted drunkard, to show us by example that redemption is possible?

If I were God, I’d prefer the latter. No one pays attention to good people anymore.

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How many masks have we worn in our lives just to earn respect, love, or recognition?

I've gone through different phases in my life, so distinct from one another that I feel like I've lived as more than 10 different characters.

• There were years when I read a lot and was part of intellectual circles. Now, it embarrasses me to think about how pretentious and refined I was at that time.
• I also had a phase where I tried to be a politician, thinking I could change my country, which has been in a mess for decades. During that time, I became a monster feeding my ego just to be the center of attention in the press or news (and my country will remain a mess because all the politicians fight for screen time while mothers have nothing to feed their children with).
• At other times, I was the life of the party. A different woman every night. However, this was the time when my soul perhaps felt the most empty.

I've lived so many lives, but I have never lived my own life.

The truth is, very few people have ever truly been themselves, because they don’t know who they are.

One day, each of them took a mask and never took it off again, as they found comfort in wearing it to gain friendships (most fake), jobs (mostly miserable), and loves (mostly fleeting).

Those who live with their masks on perceive an inexplicable void in their hearts.

Because they don't know what they're missing.

And the answer is simple to say but almost impossible to achieve: We lack the ability to be.

Instead of being the sum of our experiences, we choose to be a character that brings the greatest satisfaction to our desires and needs: Sex, money, and good food.

And so, the body survives, but the soul slowly withers.

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I remember the day I decided to embark on my journey to discover who I really was.

It was a Saturday morning. I woke up with a girl I didn't know in my arms. Cigarettes scattered on the floor. Spinetta’s music playing on the speakers in our room. A cold, half-eaten pizza on the table, surrounded by the condom wrappers we used that night.

Anyone would say it was a perfect night.

However, I had already been in this situation for 18 weekends in the past year. And with each moment, my soul felt increasingly empty.

That was the day I decided to begin my path to find myself and discover who I was and what I could become.

Without explanation, I grabbed my bag, a few clothes, and my guitar, and I set off.

Sometimes I wonder what the girl thought when she saw the empty room. I must admit, sometimes when I didn’t want to think about myself, I imagined possible scenarios in which this girl ended up.

All good thoughts, because I always wished for others what I couldn’t achieve for myself.

That day, I started a journey without direction.

And I began my adventure fulfilling a fantasy I always had: Taking a bus at the terminal to a destination I had never heard of before.

I decided to truly venture into the unknown. A place where I would stand out as a stranger, and where my death might go unnoticed for days, months, or years if it happened in my room.

I wanted to be a modern Siddhartha, or so the pretentious and "intellectual" part of my mind still thought. To be honest, I don’t know why I feel ashamed to say I liked literature back then. But I suppose we are often embarrassed to be ourselves, especially when my party-going self had contradictions with my past selves.

And that’s precisely what I was looking for: To dig beneath all those shames, fears, traumas, and insecurities to finally understand what my spirit needed to feel fulfilled.

But how do you search for the true "self" within?

I tried all the modern methods I had heard about.

• First, I tried ayahuasca, in a shaman’s house in the mountains. Though I didn’t discover who I was, I had vivid memories of all those traumas that had become chains for me. Chains that prevented me from exploring the deeper parts of my soul where there was a lone wolf who trusted no one and also an abandoned child seeking love and protection in others.
• Then, I flew to Bali and tried different kinds of yoga and tantra. During this time, I discovered that my soul had never been at peace, and anxiety always drove me to find some escape from reality: Friends, loves, drugs, and parties. Any excuse to silence my spirit, which was screaming louder each time, that it only wanted time to understand itself. It was here where I learned to appreciate silence, and that sometimes, the best solution for a troubled heart doesn’t lie in others: Breathing slowly was enough, even necessary, to take the time to answer the fundamental question of my existence: Who am I?
• I also hiked the highest mountains and the most beautiful places on our planet. While walking in the middle of nowhere, I realized how insignificant my existence was: From dust, I came, and to dust, I shall return. Far from depressing me, the idea of my insignificance thrilled me in an incredible way, for I understood that life was my canvas, and I could do whatever I wanted with it: Either way, in a few centuries, no one will remember a wanderer who did everything possible to find his own happiness.

My soul remained empty. Yet each of these experiences helped me understand each of the bindings that prevented me from embracing the being that was hidden inside me, desperate to be found and to shine in this damned world while my lungs still breathe.

Therapy was where I found the way to discover my inner self.

And it wasn’t thanks to it.

My idea was that in therapy, I would find the answer to the question "Who should I be?"

I thought the psychologist had read so many books during his time in college that he could give me a list of options for me to choose the character that would make me happiest.

In the first and only session we had, I told him everything about my life.

Or what I thought had been my life until that moment.

And how each of my previous masks made me feel at the time.

It was when I left that first session that I decided to say, "Screw it all."

Because I wouldn’t allow any book written by some pretentious scientist who believed they understood how life should be lived to dictate how I should live, be, and exist.

After therapy, I went to one of those 24-hour cafés, grabbed a pencil and paper, and wrote down every thought that came to my mind. I was there so long that a guy finished his shift, and a day later, when he returned and saw me in the same clothes, in the same chair, still writing, he asked if I was a writer or if I was preparing my suicide note.

In the text, I first talked about the lies I had told myself over the years. And I discovered that I had lied to myself in so many ways that I felt an overwhelming need to apologize to myself for every time I chose the most comfortable and convenient path, instead of the riskiest one, simply out of fear of what others would say or of ending up in an unknown destination, abandoned and adrift.

Then I talked about all the risks I had avoided. Those moments when I regret not being braver to take action and experience life in its purest form.

And while my psychologist surely had the best intentions, I wouldn’t let his definition of "sensible personality" or "normality" serve as the measuring stick for my future destiny.

Neither science nor society.

Never again.

And yes, today I am that crazy guy who walks in a strange way.

The one who sings terribly but with passion.

Who makes silly jokes that only make me laugh.

The one who enjoys eating alone in an isolated restaurant by the side of the road while dancing and murmuring my favorite songs in my head.

I am that idiot who loves to compose songs and stories. Maybe others think they’re bad, but to me, they represent the most authentic part of my being, for better or worse: My words are my naked soul trying to be understood.

That strange guy whose face clearly expresses what his heart feels in the moment, and who will never again feel ashamed of how his inner self decides to appear through his gaze.

That being who some days wants to sleep in the forest in complete solitude but who at other times wants to rest his head against a woman’s chest and feel loved.

And it is in this insignificant life we live, understanding that our actions and emotions have no bearing on human history or the order of the universe, that it is precisely this triviality of our existence that gives me the opportunity to make all my desires and ambitions a reality, to explore my contradictions and turn them into the most beautiful mess.

Life is the canvas, and I am the artist.

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Jesus Christ might be among us today, and he’s that guy some call "eccentric" and others call "weird."

God might be in each one of us. The salvation he hopes for us might not be in heaven, because an infinite life sounds a bit boring.

God is nothing more than our inner part waiting to shine. Waiting for us to finally understand that each of us is the creator, architect, and beneficiary of our destiny. Amid the futility of our lives, all we have left is to try to live exactly how we want.

Jesus Christ is most likely the failed musician who has been playing in the same bars for years. Even without achieving the success that everyone would desire, he’s the happiest guy on Earth when he plays his guitar and gets one or two people to sing along to his songs.

God is in each of those "crazy" people we don't understand, the ones who smile even though, from the outside, their life seems like a mess.

Because despite their circumstances, they took the risk to live life their own way.

And perhaps, for God, heaven is nothing more than the life we are living right now.

Because it’s the only one we have.

And it's the only opportunity to live each moment as we wish.

Humans often make long-term plans as if they were going to live forever.

And when they are near death, they regret not having lived in the present without anxiety about the future.

To live and to be: There lies the true nirvana, in the day-to-day and the mundane.