The Voices in My Head - Part V
I’m not schizophrenic, but sometimes I hear voices. They’re not loud, but they’re assertive and are really part of a tide of knowingness that I’ve experienced at different times in my life. So when I woke to a voice that told me I was to spend my next birthday in Santa Fe taking Ayahuasca, I wasn’t surprised.
THIS IS PART 5 of an EIGHT-PART STORY
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
Image: Franyo (left) and Nicole in the 1970s
My mother was a vain and difficult woman, a narcissist who could only talk about the things that interested her. When I was a child I adored her. I remember her cuddling me and speaking a made-up baby language filled with interesting words (ler ler for pee, plum plum for poo – she liked onomatopoeia). She was different from other mothers I knew – a tall, stylish woman who spoke with an accent and had no qualms about dressing down a person for dirty fingernails, messy hair, an ugly outfit. She was also one of the most creative people I’ve ever known – a talented painter, chef, guitar-player, seamstress, pastry-maker, dress designer – it seemed she could do anything with her hands. Throughout my life, however, hers was the crowing voice of disdain and mockery when it came to my own small talents.
Clearly, my mother couldn’t deal with other people’s gifts. I’m not sure she realized how much of a barrier that put between us, but it was enough for me to keep a distance; I lived in Austin, Texas, and she lived in Manhattan, and when I traveled to New York I would visit her, but stay at my sister’s apartment across the park on West 66th Street. By then my mother had suffered a few small vascular strokes and was dealing with dementia. She knew who and where she was and she had no trouble recognizing me when I appeared, but her wits were gone and conversation with her was childlike. When I arrived that day at the end of August, she was slumped over in a chair by her bedside. She had been tidied up for the visit, hair combed, a clean dressing gown on her emaciated body. As I entered the room, she remained with her head bowed over her chest, not looking up, not seeing me. To a casual observer, it would have appeared that nothing was going on, but that wasn’t true. Perhaps because of my Ayahuasca experience, I had become more sensitive to energy and could feel it – currents of raw energy – zinging back and forth between me and my mother.
It was as if we were speaking to one another energetically, although we both remained utterly silent.
A caregiver was present. As I stood there, mutely telling my mother how much I loved her, the caregiver raised her voice and said, “Talk to your mother!”
Talk? That’s exactly what we were doing.
I asked the caregiver to please leave the room.
Cover Image: Rey Proenza