The Electric Kool-Aid Liver Cleanse
The closest I’ve come to doing psychedelics with my parents was a two-day liver cleanse at their house in St. Francis Bay. This wasn’t an intentionally transcendental experience. We lunged into it quite innocently and things simply took on a spiritual quality nobody expected.
It was April 2012. Natalie and I were staying with my folks for six months while preparing to emigrate to the USA. With such a monumental deadline looming, we threw ourselves into familiar routines: we spent our days at the beach, took long walks together, visited relatives and friends, and punished our bodies around the braai (barbecue) every night with red wine, meat, and potato chips.
For context, St. Francis Bay is where my family spent the majority of our weekends and holidays; it’s a place we all associate with fun and downtime. For all of us, my parents included, this was the longest spell we’d spent in a place that we only knew as a getaway from reality.
Things eventually reached a point where we’d done as much boozing and relaxing as we could. It was time to get serious about the future. I’m not sure how we went from eating a few healthy salads and doing more sit-ups to literally power-cleansing our gastric systems, but that was the leap we made.
Going into it, we all knew that a liver cleanse, by virtue of what it accomplishes, would be somewhat rough and unpleasant and potentially embarrassing. But this wasn’t a barrier. We could be mature about it.
According to a semi-official looking pamphlet available at the town’s only pharmacy, the cleanse would be a “calming reboot for our systems,” and “ideal for lazy, slow winter weekends.” We’d experience instant results, it promised. This included tasting food more naturally. Absorbing nutrients more efficiently. Feeling more energetic. And then end up so clean and fresh inside, it would be like being reborn.
With these lofty, unrealistic goals, we cleared the weekend and purchased four kits. The ingredients were simple: apple juice, a large bag of Epsom salts, olive oil, and two fresh grapefruits. Personally, I felt like the mix was lacking in medical gravitas. I wanted a syringe and a glass bottle of glowing purple fluids. I wanted celebrity testimonials and before/after photos. It just seemed too easy, too straightforward, too safe, too natural.
Our itinerary was similarly unthreatening. We’d eat a light dinner on Friday night and go to bed early. Come Saturday morning, we’d drink the first round of Epsom salts, apple juice, and olive oil. Then rest. This was key. There was a warning to avoid exercise and operating large machinery, which could have been emphasized with more conviction. I had half a mind to go for a slow bicycle ride on Saturday; this would have been a total disaster if I’d gone through with it.
This process would be repeated during lunch and dinner that night, and breakfast on Sunday, at which time we would be ready for a light meal.
The literature said that our bodies would potentially ache as they expelled the toxins inside of them. It would be boring and slow—and that would be if everything went according to plan—but we would be in a higher state, surrounded by loved ones and nature. This was the healthy, invigorating, sobering experience everyone wanted, just the four of us.
End of story, in theory.
*
We spent the first part of Day One sitting around in the living room watching reality television. Confined to a quiet house and, more specifically, the couch, I needed a distraction. In times of great stress or anticipation, there is something comforting about watching a very staged and exaggerated simulacrum of the world and its trivial problems. Whether it’s Housewives or dating shows, the tension is so enjoyable because you know that everything will not be resolved, but keep going, nonetheless.
There was a playful energy in the room. We chatted mindlessly through back-to-back episodes of the Kardashians, like we’d all licked a similar-sized square of blotter acid that came from the same goateed pharmacist, and nobody could tell which way this turkey was going to fly.
I remember three things very clearly. The first was trying to get my share of Epsom salts down, an experience that felt like swallowing motor oil and vinegar mixed with toothpaste, all curdling in reverse through my nose. Also, not unlike homemade peyote.
The second was a moment of reflection. By mid-morning, we were huddled under blankets, surrounded by familiar photos on the walls, telling stories and laughing as the anticipation built. Looking around me, at my parents and my future wife, I felt an overwhelming sense of comfort and gratitude, because we were doing something as a family unit. I realized how fortunate I am to have the type of relationship with my parents that allows us to do something as vulnerable and gross as this together. Also, my immense privilege; in a world where people are dying of malnutrition, we were purposely emptying our bodies on purpose, only to begin filling them.
There’s a passage in Kurt Vonnegut’s memoir-esque collection, A Man Without a Country, that has always stuck with me. He urges readers to take notice when they are happy and to acknowledge it. To come right out and say, if this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is. I can’t remember if I said anything to my parents and Natalie, but I know that I was very happy (at least momentarily) in their company at that moment.
The third thing I remember, unmistakably, was a type of powerlessness I felt as the Epsom salts were activated in my stomach. The world spun a little faster, the air quality got thinner, and the floor, both literal and metaphoric, dropped.
*
Here are two basic ground rules for a typical psychedelic experience:
Put yourself in a safe, pleasant environment.
Head into it with a positive, calm, and open mind.
These two things alone will help protect your sanity. Any anxiety, anger or fear you derive from your physical or inward environment can manifest in astounding ways: from seriously bad feelings to vision of immeasurable terror.
I think the same general principles apply to an over-the-counter liver cleanse. For the most part, our environment was good and safe. But there was a lot going on mentally that we’d been pushing down.
My stay in St. Francis Bay had come at a difficult time. My folks were at a sensitive crossroads. Two deaths had shaken us at the start of the year; Grandpa Truscott and my Uncle Mike had died within days of one another. My father wore a brave face at both funerals, but he was clearly and understandably shattered. My mother was also wrestling with her own vision of the future, preparing to enter retirement in St. Francis with my dad. Both of my parents worked and built careers that kept them on separate islands as my brothers and I grew up. Now they were getting ready to hop onto a new island, together, and start building again. But retirement, loss, change, and the future all seemed intertwined, following them along the path forward.
And then there was the business of time flying by too quickly - leading to my departure from South Africa. Emigrating is hard on families; the ones leaving, and the ones being left. We were all stressed and anxious and struggling to find a reasonable outlet for this giant nebulous change that was marking our calendars with tears.
When Natalie and I arrived in December, it felt like we had a small lifetime to enjoy my parents’ company before getting serious about “the move” as we’d started to call it. The closer it got, the bigger it seemed.
Preparing to emigrate is a surreal process that feels like getting ready for a big trip, moving houses, and being erased all at the same time. There’s a lot of packing and unpacking that happens.
There’s also a flurry of uncomfortable conversations you have with family and friends, repeatedly:
How are you feeling about “the move?”
Are you ready for “the big move?”
Are you excited about “the move?”
When is “the move” happening?
With each answer, you start to imagine your place in your own country vanishing a bit more.
I responded to this pressure by spreading myself out across the house in St. Francis, claiming as much space as possible, physically grounding myself at home.
To do this, I used my old bedroom as a base to sort through my belongings and this quickly devolved into a construction zone. I had made several attempts at packing and would inevitably start to feel overwhelmed. The result was a giant, meandering trail of trinkets and clothing that jumped rooms and communal spaces; this did not take long to piss my mother off to high heavens.
Staying with your parents for an extended period can bring out your inner child. I found myself reverting to teenage habits and rituals; not washing dishes, leaving dirty laundry all over the house, failing to get dressed most days. This naturally caused some friction; not only with my folks but with my then-fiancé who bore witness to the power of muscle-memory transforming me back into a teenager.
So, overall, we were tiptoeing around one another. And trying damned hard to not make any of this a big deal, because our time was limited and precious. Which made it a big, big, big deal under the radar.
*
On Day Two, the fun stopped. We’d been camped in the living room for over twenty-four hours. Our stomachs were empty, our bodies were weak, and then my mother tripped on one of the bags I’d left lying around, stubbing her toe raw and bloody.
This flicked a switch. It made her yell in a sharp, aggravated way. And I knew that she’d had enough of my things lying around. Mom looked at me and asked when I thought it would be a good time to clean the messes I’d created.
“Not today,” I answered.
“What the hell does that mean? You’ve been saying that for weeks. Look at this place!”
I took the bait and yelled back. Sarcastically, releasing months of pent-up defensiveness.
This started a war.
The Epsom salts had turned on us, and we were now entering a dark corridor of our journey. Every family has sore spots, weaknesses, and secrets. My mother and I, fueled by emotion and our weary bodies, tore into each other. Mom threw things at me. Like we were in a cartoon. My shoes. My journals from high school. My strewn-about collections: magazines, photo albums, stickers. Historic items that created the trail of trinkets that served as proof of my very existence in this world, all of which led back to her and my father.
Dad got invested, too. “I told you this would happen! Why don’t you listen the first time we ask you to do anything?”
We screamed at one another, dredging up ancient peeves, piling them on top of this moment we couldn't face. I said that they were both selfish for making me feel guilty about leaving. I said that they were short-sighted for thinking that I would not be back often. And I said that they were making the most exciting time of my life all about them.
And I ran away, down the street. The Epsom salts had almost fully transformed me. I was almost at the beach when I realized that I’d left my fiancé at home with my folks. That was also the moment I knew that I could not take another step without having an embarrassing accident.
So, like most children do, I went back to clean myself up and have a discussion.
At home, I saw Natalie packing a bag and was terrified that she was leaving me. But she was helping my mom and dad sort through my things, and they were all laughing and crying together, planning to get all of this stuff brought to the US.
My parents and I and Natalie talked until there was nothing left to say. Until we were all out of ammo. When we were too tired to see each other’s point or argue, and when there was no more poison left to cleanse, we gathered on the couches again and cried together.
Then we went back to the couches to watch reality TV and talk about how good a glass of wine sounded. And it was mostly fine, but we were still scared of the future.
*
I have been thinking a lot about the ritual of cleansing, cleaning, and renewal, how this extends across everything in life. Our houses, bodies, innards, clothing, cars, offices, desks. All things human pray at the altar of soap and water. We scrub ourselves and our surfaces to feel new, let go of the past, and keep moving forward. This has felt especially close to home over the last year, as I’ve routinely washed my hands raw after every trip outside.
There have been a lot more changes since 2012. New cities, new jobs, pets, other deaths to mourn, births to celebrate. I guess that’s what has brought this all to the surface. My son is three and I am troubled by how fast the time passes. The thought of him growing up and leaving the house, or country, is too much. Every day, he leaves a trail of toys and artwork that is impossible to confine - especially not with all my own trinkets stuffed into our closet space - and I must keep reminding myself that he won’t mess under my watch forever.
The truth is that my parents understood how things change when you get married, and how much more they change when kids enter the picture. And I was about to head across the world to experience both.
I couldn’t fully appreciate their life experience until I’d had a taste of it. Over the last nine years, as I’ve built a life in another country and wrestled with the fallout of that choice, my folks have answered hundreds of calls on days when I needed to hear their voices.
I’m not sure when it will be time to do another liver cleanse. But I’m keeping myself open to it, based on how the last one impacted me. Maybe something milder. A juice cleanse or a walk in the forest. Or a glass of wine in St. Francis when the borders open.