You’re sitting quietly in your yurt, minding your own business, when suddely a hideous four-headed spirit monster blasts it’s way through the door flap, grabs you by the neck, yanks you up through the smoke-hole into some dreary realm, where it proceeds to slap you around, rip you apart, dip you in a foul-smelling gook, staple you back together again, and drop you back through the smoke hole. Then it says, ‘There! Now you’re a Shaman!’
The trick to managing special mental states (schizophrenia, shamanism, etc.) is to know when to keep your mouth shut. Shamans do not babble.