One of the most impactful memories I have of my brother was at the early age of four. I remember, my brother stormed into the house and began yelling at my father. Being so young, there was no way that I could have a full understanding of what was going on. My father went to the bedroom and my brother chased after him, while his dirty footprints marked the tiles of the living room floor and hallway. In the background I could hear something crashing against the wall, the sound of a lamp being thrown and shattered. One of the neighbors had heard the altercation and called the police. When they arrived they arrested my brother and the police officer began to speak with my mother about everything. I faintly remember looking up at the both of them, holding up a baby bottle of warm chocolate milk and nursing myself for comfort. My mother, talking to the police officer, burst into tears, the officer assured her with his embrace that everything would be alright. Upon witnessing my mother’s tears I felt this deep sense of empathy and a sadness within my being, I began to cry with her, for her, wanting nothing more than for her to not feel this way. It  was my earliest memory of empathy, of experiencing someone else’s pain.

The memories that I have of my brother come of a wide variety of emotionally charged experiences. Memories of him walking me to my first days of kindergarten are juxtaposed with memories of visiting him in juvenile detention facilities. Although his relationship with my mother and father were turbulent, he would always make it known to me and my sister how much he loved and cared for us.

My brother had been diagnosed bi-polar disorder, and would frequently have violent outbursts and often-times contemplate suicide. His upbringing was also entirely different than mine because his father was not an active participant in his life and my mother had him at a much younger age. My own father ended up being an important figure for him, and my brother would often express his gratitude towards my father for being there for him through his rough and troubled youth.

On October 6th,  my father sent me a message asking me whether I had spoken with my mother. This wasn’t a common ask, so it immediately left me with the feeling that something had gone wrong.

“It’s about Shem.” he shortly explained. “What about him?” I asked in confusion. “The worst that could possibly happen.” he rebutted. “He died…?”

“Yes.”

You see, my father is not one to deal with emotions well, and this was his way of protecting me from the inevitable, telling me that my brother had passed without actually telling me. This moment was paralyzing for me, one in which I felt nothing yet at the same time that vast nothingness was accompanied with the deepest sorrow that I have felt in my heart. A sorrow that I feel at all times and one that I know will take me years to heal.

At first, in the wake of his death, it was difficult for me to  comprehend what it was that I was feeling because of the complexity of our relationship.

In the last years of his life, my brother became addicted to heroin. In a way, I felt like this dehumanized him, at least I dehumanized him. My brother became a caricature in my mind, he became, “the brother with a heroin addiction”, and I used this label  as defense mechanism to detach from the reality of what he was going through. Apathy was far easier for me to deal with than the actual weight of knowing that someone you love and care for is destroying their life.

I had not spoken to my brother in months, not so much as a hello. The last time that I was in New York and we saw each other on Christmas day, I didn’t really take the time to engage with him, to ask him how he was doing, I didn’t even tell him that I loved him. It really struck me, because I now wonder, if telling him how I felt could’ve even made a difference.

I always had this dream that my brother would find Iboga, a rainforest shrub with medicinal properties that has been proven to be effective within treatments of addictions, particularly that of heroin. When I was in the Amazon I would often think of my brother and wonder what would happen if I could just get him down to Peru to take part in some ceremonies with me. I would think, maybe if I helped him find an Iboga clinic that could bring him healing, he would finally find peace. It was my dream to see him be relinquished from this suffering, and I feel that the most painful part of accepting his death, was the realization that this wasn’t going to happen, that this vision of him finding Iboga was nothing but a fantasy.

The day I found out about his passing, I was supposed to go to a guided meditation hosted by a Peruvian man living here in Buenos Aires.

All I wanted was to stay in my room and curl up into a ball, to not see anyone or talk to anyone and sit with what I was feeling. My initial reaction was for me not to go anywhere, nor be with a group of people that I didn’t know. When I spoke to my mother, she immediately reminded me that Shem wouldn’t want me to be alone. With my mother’s words,

I decided to attend the meditation despite my feelings. Perhaps this would be what I needed. When I went with my roommate, Elizabeth Jean Engle, (Who has been staying and living with me in BA for a few months working on her Spanish and has acted as an incredible guide during a difficult time), we ended up being the only people that came to partake in the meditation. We did some breathing exercises, allowed ourselves to release whatever was not serving us through the form of hums and vibrations. We were guided to take refuge in the darkness that is within each and every one of us. Something incredibly powerful began to happen, even though for years, I could not see my brother, nor did I know who he really was, he came to me during my meditation and led me to come into a state of full understanding, peace, and acceptance.

In that moment, it felt like I met with his soul. I remembered every beautiful moment that I have experienced with him, his creativity, his kindness, his wit. I could feel his soul telling me that it was all okay; that in his death he was liberated by his suffering and not to feel guilt over how things ended. Now he could do profound work because his experience was everything that he chose to go through in this life. Although he was not able to find peace through Iboga and the Sacred Plants, I feel that he was able to find peace through transcendence. It was his karma, not the type of karma that we get what we deserve, but in the way that our lives are intricate lessons that touches and impacts every single life and being that crosses our path. I felt so much love and in that moment I broke down in hysterical tears and a stream flooded through me. It felt like I was in the presence of the Universe and that everything was all unfolding in this way that would inspire all of us to make something of this tragedy. I felt deeply sorry, for everything, for not telling him that I loved him, for getting so wrapped up in my life, in my own drama, in forgetting a human being who was deeply hurting, someone who chose the same point of entry here on Earth, someone that although I did everything that I could to block out painful experiences, was always a part of my story. He was someone that would act as one of my most powerful guides.

My promise to my brother, is to take whatever I can from this, and construct something beautiful out of it. To continue my work with the Sacred Plants and to find alternative forms of healing. I know that it’s within my path to work with those who are suffering from addiction. I will find Iboga one day, work with it and understand its healing potential, in honor of my brother and in hopes of being able to help others dealing with the same pain.

Thank you all for reading,

Warm regards,