Excerpt from "The Doors of Ayahuasca: Three Experiences that Can Transform Pain"

Summary: The Doors of Ayahuasca is a transformative journey that explores how facing pain and fear can be an opening to self-discovery. Gerardo Prat shares deeply personal experiences that unveil how Ayahuasca, a powerful Amazonian plant, acts as a mirror, reflecting inner truths and unhealed traumas. Rather than offering an escape, it requires surrender, guiding the reader to confront core wounds and find healing. Prat’s narrative illustrates how pain, when met openly, becomes a doorway to growth and understanding.

Excerpt:

“Our fears stem from our traumas and then take root in our attachments; attachment to what we have or what we want to have. But fear can be a path for salvation. When we look squarely at what scares us, when we let it in, when we open our hearts to it and surrender to it, we realize that our fear was nothing more than a door. A flower that, when opened, transforms into a tunnel leading to the next screen of the 'video game of life.'

The scream that dad kept inside

If the unconscious, like the brain, had a left and a right side, I now withdraw from the former, exhausted. It's time to face my father.

When I spoke to him at the previous ceremony, he told me that his pain was "the pain of Man who screams in silence." And I came to this understanding: his absence may have something to do with the pain held back by all the men in my family tree. Now I'm at peace with that, but not with his cowardice and his inability to be present. My father, who I was able to count on in many ways, was not there when I needed him the most: that time when, tired of living with my mother, I went to ask him for a place to stay.

On that occasion, he did receive me, yes. But after a couple of months, he kicked me out of his house.

To make matters worse, he didn't do it directly. He was subtle, manipulative, and cowardly with his words.

Now, in this crawl space of my unconscious, I turn to the right and go looking for him. He's there, inert.

I begin to explain to him how much he hurt me when he asked me to return to my mother´s house. But it's not enough.

I decide to take him with me to that day, to that scene, which I now remember perfectly. The smell of leather from that armchair in the living room, where I slept happier than in my room at my mother's house, woke me up every morning. I no longer slept late like my mother. I got up with my father at seven, with the mate[1] that he sometimes brought me.

But the morning of this scene is different.

In the apartment, which has barely one bedroom and a living room, I have much less space and fewer material things. However, inside me, I'm more comfortable, I fit better. And he knows it.

—Look son —he says, preparing for a tender fatherly explanation—. You know I like having you here. We get along well. You behave well. It's a pleasure to have you here. But you also know that I live with Betty, that she's my girlfriend and she's a grown woman... For her to wake up in the mornings and see you, a sixteen-year-old boy, lying on the sofa, isn´t nice; neither for her, nor for you.

Something inside me expected these words, even though I don't want them.

—But I'm fine here, dad. I don't mind sleeping on the couch. I'm happy here.

Both my father and I are now watching the scene as if present on the set of a movie.

He continues:

—I know that living with your mom is difficult, but that's your home and one day you will have to go back. I think you've been here long enough, with us; and you can always come back when you need to. Think about it. You don't have to leave now. Take your time. No one is kicking you out...

The boy believes him. The father must be right. After all, the arguments are reasonable.

So, I enter the scene and tell my father, without a trace of bitterness:

—Scream! Shout out what you really want to say, what you feel. Stop spinning your words. Spit it out without cowardice. Let it out already!

I'm the one who has to give him the words.

And someone who I don't remember ever raised his voice or hand to me, now shouts:

—I don't want to take care of you! Don't you get it? I want you to leave my house! Go away! I can't take care of you, I don't want to! I'm sorry, I know you don't want to go back to that crazy batshit woman, but I want to live my life. I want to do whatever the fuck I want! And I don't want to take care of you!

In the next scene, the teenager is alone; maybe a few days later, perhaps moments.

He's leaving his father's house. He turns the doorknob, opens it slowly, looks back.

Everything happens now in slow motion, as if each frame were suspended, slowed down by sadness, a sadness without tears, that the boy does not understand.

For some reason, when I see his face, it's not me. The face is that of my nephew Santiago, who is now eighteen years old. Maybe it's too hard to see my own features; maybe my nephew also needs his teenage pain to be seen. "Santi, I see your pain," I tell myself, I say to him.

Now the boy is opening the elevator doors of the building where his mother lives; where he no longer inhabits.

This scene is also slow. And in each inert pause, we can notice the compulsive movements of a mind that doesn’t need to remember.

Like a robot, the teenager closes the elevator doors. He moves them with the same perfection with which he had opened them, seven floors below. With the same resignation, he inserts the key into the top lock, two turns. Then, in the one below, two and a half turns. He doesn't even have to use his gaze, still frozen in his father's scream. There are tears in his eyes.

He breathes through his mouth, with an agitation that doesn't correspond to the physical effort exerted.

As he enters the hallway, he turns his head towards the living room and sees. He sees the obese figure of his mother sleeping in her bed, in that living room where every day, he witnessed her lethargy, extended until late in the afternoon.

Once again, the teenager enters his room. He closes the door slowly, turns the key. Without being tired, he lies down to sleep.”

Gerardo Prat is an Argentine journalist, writer, and broadcaster. He holds a degree in Journalism from the Universidad Del Salvador in Buenos Aires (1997) and is a National Broadcaster accredited by the Instituto de Radiodifusión (ISER, 1994). Since 2001, he has been based in Los Angeles, working as a voice actor, a successful entrepreneur, and a recognized professional in the entertainment industry. One of his key aspirations in publishing this book The Doors of Ayahuasca: Three Experiences That Can Transform Pain (awarded at International Latino Book Awards and with The Bookfest Award in 2024), as he affirms, is to help alleviate the doubts and pains of his potential readers. He is currently a juror and board member of the Golden Globe Awards. Purchase Info: https://a.co/d/faF2a4a