Why is There More?
what my liver and my lineage are teaching me about rage
Last August I laid upon the cool floor of a ceremony space on Bowen island, clothes in disarray, jewelry ripped off, hair wild. I was coming to after yet another ego death with the most powerful psychedelic in the world, 5me0 DMT. I had rolled a few times off the floor mat and I found myself in a fetal position, clasping the area where my liver is and crying out, “why is there more?”
A sadness ripped through me. It was the most unbearable feeling I have ever felt in my entire life. It was so visceral, so real and yet, I knew intimately it was not all mine.
At the time, it was hard to put into words what that moment was about. I had a sense that I was crying for (pleading really) for the matriarchal lineage that did not have the time, tools or permission to feel their own pain. That this pain was passed down in its own protective time capsule, ready to detonate on the most willing member of the family tree. That I, the childless 30 something year old, rigorously devoted to her own healing would be an available vessel to alchemize generations worth of unmetabolized grief.
This ripping, searing pain felt infinite. The devastation was so enormous I felt like it was going to kill me. I could sense and almost see the mothers and grandmothers handing off this pain to me. Like kindling into fire, passed hand to hand. More, they say, she can handle it.
That level of sadness is something I would like to never touch again. It was white hot and unrelenting. And even now, as I close my eyes, I can still hear myself crying out, why is there more?
This ceremony was a month after a scary anaphylaxis episode in which I had eaten avocado (as I have my whole life) and my throat closed over sending me to the hospital for a shot in my ass.
From then on, I was only able to eat a few things (rice, a few veggies and fresh meat) or else I would end up in a scary flare up. At this time my PMDD was rampant. A week before my period I would become completely undone. Rage, shame, suicidal ideation and complete collapse.
Around Christmas time last year, my rage was so immense that I felt like I was burning alive. The rage invoked shame and the cycle was continuous. Exhausted from seeing doctors of all kinds, and burnt out from constantly researching the root of my histamine issues, I began to feel the simple and hard truth I was running from.
The smallest things were setting me off. I was so embarrassed by how quick I was to anger that I would do my best to suppress the feeling and get it “under control.” Until one day I decided to I need to feel this rage and sadness all the way through. The more research I did, the more I found the connection between my liver, my rage and the oppression in my lineage and the pieces began to fall into place.
