Ketamine Therapy, Session 2

Trapped in the liminal space

“The truth is, we made it all up. And if you don’t like what you made up, change it.”

That’s what today’s integration coach said to me in a whisper as she closed the door to my treatment room after my session.

I’m sitting at home listening to the last song I heard during treatment #2. It’s one I recognized from a yoga class — called The Power is Here Now by Alexia Chellun. Every time I’ve heard it I’ve been moved to tears, and today, when I rather abruptly snapped out of the ”journey” and peeled my eye mask off, I scrambled to locate the iPod on the side table to make note of what it was called. It’s more of a lyrical mantra than a song, and one that falls into the category I call precious music, which are songs that I’m careful not to listen to too often, lest they lose their emotional power.

When I arrived at the clinic today, I felt at ease because I knew what I was showing up for. The effects of Monday’s session were still pulsing through my psyche and the most immediate feelings have been that of a newfound calmness and lack of urgency, which worked to my detriment yesterday because —for once— I didn’t really care that I was running late. Maybe it was the little things I kept noticing that kept me behind. The glow of the autumn sun on a patch of rogue sulfur cosmos on a median. Small sheets of pink and blue papers raining down on me in a subway stairwell. Boys laughing and eating chopped cheeses on the M train. I soaked it all in. The slowness is keeping me from getting much done, but part of the protocol for this treatment is keeping things light in between sessions, so I’m trying to do just that.

The room I was assigned for this second “journey” was also the same deliberate shade of pink, but this one was windowless and had an astral light feature moving around the ceiling and a diffuser pumping out lavender mist. In came nurse after nurse to get me set up and ask all of the necessary questions. When asked about my last session, I told them about the ways in which I was still conscious and was told my dose would be increased so that wouldn’t happen again.

A different integrator came in this time, and seemed to immediately respond to my energy. When I told her that for the past two nights since my last treatment I’ve needed a lot of sleep and she offered me something valuable: it’s not that the drugs are making me more tired, it’s just that the drugs are allowing me to let go of the fatigue I’ve been carrying with me. She’s right. I’ve been waking up feeling revived and not like it’s never enough. Just as the nurse shot the ketamine into the bag, the integrator had me put on my eye mask and asked me to imagine myself on a couch facing a stage. One by one, all of the versions of myself in my youth walk onto the stage. She asked me to choose the one that sticks out. It’s always the same. Always 3rd grade me, in a pair of khaki shorts, a yellow Gap t-shirt with a glittery gold star on it, embroidery floss macrame around her wrists and ankles. Her hair is messy and her legs are lanky. She’s probably on a sparkly purple bike that came from K-mart. The me when I first started feeling like a person, when I began the journey of trying to understand the world. The year I spent most of my recess time in the library or with the school principal Mr. Bloss, who used to sing the theme song of the show Caroline in the City as I approached his playground bench. As the integration coach continued through the exercise and asked me to interact with this version of myself in various ways, I let out tears that felt like they’d been welling inside me for the 24 years since. They soaked into the neoprene padding as I heard the door shut and the music start.

This time the music started in a less hokey way. I’d been told that there’d be a new playlist, and this one featured less prominently in my experience than the last one. Within seconds, the drugs took hold — penetrating deeply and quickly. I lost track of the syncing of the music and dove deep into a space that was dark and dimensional. It’s hard to explain, but everything looked clay-like as it morphed from one scene to another, my body moving along with it. I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or closed. My consciousness was barely present, and only manifested itself at the beginning as I kept remembering snippets from my reality. Ariel and Louis are arriving today. How will they get in to my apartment? Did I text my aunt back? When am I going to remember to pay that late lab bill? As soon as these things appeared, the part of my mind that was high on drugs swatted them away. I tried to remember what it’s like to be on street level, on the ground, on my way to somewhere, and the strange thing was that I really couldn’t fathom it. I kept thinking to myself: What do you mean that we’re supposed to be on time and get everything done and also stay healthy, and maintain relationships and keep it all balanced. That balance felt imaginary, far-removed and impossible. Like a house of cards, where one small slip-up in conscious life makes it all comes tumbling down. I kept thinking about video games, and the video game that my mind on ketamine understood life on earth to be. It’s all about currency and leveling up. What if I choose not to play the game? Then what happens?

Somewhere along the way the conscious thoughts totally disappeared and I lost track of time. All I remember is that I kept wondering where I was. I was confused because I couldn’t possibly comprehend the liminal space I was in. I kept repeating that phrase to myself. Liminal space. What is liminal space? Liminal space — the transition space from from place to another. I was trapped in a liminal space. At one point, I even wondered if I was still alive. I didn’t really mind if I wasn’t — I wasn’t concerned about what I hadn’t done, or what others would remember me for or if I’d left my house clean. Now I understand why psychedelic treatment is used for terminally ill patients to help them cope with the reality of death. It takes the fear away and makes it feel like part of the progression. I had people pass through my mind who had died. My dad, a former customer I recently learned had passed, a person I knew from high school. I scrunched my fingers and dug my nails into my palms to feel my live body.

The confusion continued as I rode the wave. It was immersive, deep and physical. Before I knew it, it was over. I didn’t even ease out of it, it was like someone snapped their fingers and The Power is Here Now started playing to my conscious body, with all of my limbs in tact and in their correct proportions. I listened to the music until I felt someone come in the room and nudge me.

On the other side, I sat up and inhaled the lavender mist that was still pumping. When the integrator came back, and I tried to articulate the intensity, the darkness, the confusion, she smiled and told me that we’re getting somewhere. I felt frustrated because there’d been no profound revelation and certainly no way of making sense of anything I’d experienced. What’s more is that it felt all too brief. If I’d had more time, would I have figured it out? It’s almost like my brain had presented me with a puzzle to solve, but the time was up before I was even had the pieces in my hands. If the first session opened the door, than this second session threw me into the deep end without the skills to find my way out. She asked me what’s changed since I was that 3rd grader with the messy hair, and I cried so hard I couldn’t answer. I wiped my tears away and told her that I’ve been so tightly wound for so long that I don’t know how to let go and find my way back to myself. I guess this is where the unraveling starts.