Why I Write

By Isabela Fitzgerald 

In the first days of summer in 2022, I found myself in a sparsely settled corner of Vermont where the stars could be seen at night and law enforcement would not find us. I had recently graduated from a high school I was not sad to leave, attended a ceremony I did not cry at, and received a diploma that I shoved into some random drawer. At this point, I had been depressed for the latter third of my life and no matter which pills I swallowed each morning, there was always the underlying feeling that something was terribly wrong. I presume my mother spent nights up in bed, shrouded in the blue light of her phone searching for a cure, for something that could return me to my childhood disposition before coming across ayahuasca. Originating in the indigenous cultures of the Amazon, the potent psychoactive beverage is used for spiritual and healing purposes due to its induction of a hallucinogenic, introspective trip. It is illegal in the United States. When my mother suggested we go on a retreat to Vermont with a group of other Brazilian women to do ayahuasca, I refused several times, only relenting because I thought it might be an interesting story. Interesting stories make interesting people, and if I were one of them, then maybe I would feel better about myself. 

I resented the “detox” from meat and processed foods and drugs I was prescribed before the retreat, but I complied. It meant a week of no medication; a week of walking around without a protective layer of cotton around my fragile psyche. But I was fine. We pulled into the driveway of a cabin on a grassy hill, where we would stay the night with about 10 other women. We were told to dress in all white that night, to symbolize the spiritual purity the guides promised we would leave with. So I stepped into my soft white sweatpants that I almost never 1

wore and put on my boyfriend’s high school cross-country hoodie, and walked outside into the yard, where a circle of women cocooned in blankets was forming around a campfire. I wrapped myself up just like the others, but I was not eager to undergo my potential metamorphosis. I began to write in my sketchbook: 

I feel terrible. Everything makes me want to cry. The music they are playing sucks. I want to eat something tasty but I can’t. If I was born in a time with no good food and no meds I would have killed myself. 

One of the spiritual guides handed me a tiny paper cup with the viscous hallucinogenic liquid, made from the mixture of a specific root and particular bark from our shared motherland’s rainforest. I cradled it in my hands, waiting for everyone to receive it, and for a moment I considered having hope that the contents of this soggy cup could change my life for the better. I tried my best not to raise my expectations too high. I do not remember the taste of the ayahuasca on my tongue, but I remember the fire dribbling down my throat. I remember the warmth inside of me growing, slowly, steadily. 

Yesss. I like this feeling. I am so warm and tingly. Writing is so crazy that my thoughts become scribbles that are understandable understandable understandable… 

I had become so fascinated with the machinations of writing that I repeated the word “understandable” over and over again with my pen, loosening my grip on the letters with each rendition such that the word became illegible in its final evolution. It reminds me of when you say a word over and over until it is transmuted into foreign sounds and loses its meaning. I flipped to the next page and drew a humanoid figure with one enormous hand, whose splayed 

 

fingers took up a quarter of the page. I tried to secretly take a video of the strange ritual singing that was being performed in the circle, but I was caught, my phone temporarily taken away from me. It was annoying, but I was at least grateful that I was not throwing up, unlike some women huddled around the fire. Before I began to see constellations come alive and infinite spirals of colorful patterns, I continued to write my observations and musings: 

Wet paper 

I like this maraca lady 

I like creation because it is the closest humans can get to being God 

I don’t know why exactly I decided to write during my experience with ayahuasca, but I suspect it was primarily for documentation purposes. For research, at least consciously, but there has always been something inside of me that is desperate to create. Throughout my life I have made drawings, paintings, sculptures, miniatures, mosaics, prints, jewelry, photographs, poetry, short stories, embroidery, clothing, songs, and even dances. I do not claim to have ever created anything particularly impressive, but I have always harbored a desire to make things. I do not 

 

know if I actually believe that “I like creation because it is the closest humans can get to being God.” I don’t believe in any god, but I think that an urge to create is something that is uniquely strong in humans. It is a desire so strong that we created the idea of all-powerful beings, to whom we ascribed the great feat of creating the universe, everything, and us. 

I do not like to think of creation as an egotistical act, but the idea is inescapable. Ayahuasca trips are supposed to reveal inner truths about yourself, so if I was so bold to assert that in creating things that makes me comparable to a god in such a state, there is probably something inside of me that believes it. However, I think what I was trying to say was less about me being like a god but rather about how it makes me feel a sense of power when making things. When painting, I get to choose what color the sky will be. In writing a story, I am the one who decides who lives and dies. There is also self-importance in believing that what I create is worth making, but I genuinely think that the reason I write, the reason I do anything creative, is because it’s just what I do. I am unsure as to whether I was born particularly gifted in that area, but I live in a positive feedback loop of being told something I’ve made is great, so I make more things, improve my skills, and ultimately receive more praise. 

As for the question of why I write in particular, I’m not quite sure. Perhaps it is just another manifestation of my desire to create, or maybe I am in love with the ease with which the dissemination of complex ideas is achieved through writing. Taking ayahuasca was an eye-opening experience, but it did not cure my depression. Throughout the years it has not improved, but in the worst moments it is writing I turn to in order to soothe myself. I write about my pain, my experiences, my thoughts, and I begin to understand them.