Ketamine Therapy, Session 6

Witnessing the symphony of my life

I’m witnessing the symphony of my life. It’s a dramatic statement, but that’s what came to mind as soon as the ketamine hit at the beginning my 6th and final “journey”. It started with a memory of my dad in the form of Surrender by Cheap Trick, which he once told me was his favorite song. I hadn’t thought about this song for years, and the word surrender hit me hard. Not for a moment did I think of it as a singular instruction, but I remember questioning — what am I surrendering to? In that moment, I surrendered to the abyss of my mind on ketamine and it took me to so many beautiful places in quick succession, but without the slipperiness of last time. I was bathed in colors I love — reds, oranges, pinks, greens. The visuals included hints of things I know from my actual life. At one point, I was on a ride at Kennywood, the theme park I visited as a child. On the precipice of the hill, I felt excitement, not fear. Precipice. That’s a word that keep coming up. I was on the precipice of something, but the places kept changing. Everything felt close in a way that wasn’t suffocating, but reminded me that everything I want is within reach. So much of it is blurry because I was so in it. Just along for the ride and enjoying every facet of the experience of the symphony. I even think I solved the mystery of the word I can’t grasp, but I don’t remember it. There’s so much I don’t remember, and I’m okay with that, because I got to be in a moment where I witnessed the beauty of my life in its whole form. I surrendered to myself, to my growth, to the possibilities of the life ahead.

When I woke up, I felt no urgency to understand everything I’d witnessed because I knew so much of it had already floated past me. Nothing was particularly revelatory, it was just really pleasant and fun. I wrote down a few words and waited for the integrator —the one who’s guided my through my past few journeys— to come back. Still in the haze, I said something to him that I can’t stop thinking about: “I feel like I got what I needed because I let myself have it.” By letting go, I opened myself up to things I haven’t known for a long time. Safety without control. Beauty without the need to preserve it. Openness without fear. The acceptance that everything is ephemeral. Hold on too tight, and you’ll miss everything else around you.

This treatment and the experience of receiving it has been nothing short life-changing. I feel as though I’ve achieved the thing I’ve joked about in therapy for years: I got a new brain. Even though that’s not actually true, I have tweaked the chemistry of mine in a way that’s simply not possible with traditional pharmaceutical drugs. There are two moving parts to psychedelic treatment: the experience of the actual trip, and the after-effects of what the drugs do to your brain to increase neuroplasticity and generate new synapses. On a practical level, this treatment isn’t always a one-and-done deal. There’s maintenance involved — whether it be continuing the good habits I’ve formed in the past three weeks, or returning to the clinic every few months for a tune-up session. As more psychedelic drugs become legal to use as medicine in the coming years and the stigma surrounding them continues to lift, I’m curious to see how they become a part of my health care long-term and how they’ll help those around me. The tangles, the fog, the pollution of my depression have been stripped away and what’s left is my core — the 3rd grader who visited me in the second session. She has so much potential because she’s just getting started. She has the clarity to change her mind. Science has proven the neurological benefits, but the part that I’d like to understand better is how the brain is able to dredge up so many memories, visuals and feelings to create experiences that are so widely varied and layered. Even though there are scientific theories, it still seems abstract and mystical. Doing the work to understand what my mind chose to show me has been the hardest part of this. It requires a surprising amount to creativity, and the experience of learning how to interpret the messages has been an unexpected and gratifying bonus.

Last night, I left the clinic for the last time and walked to a restaurant where I’d be meeting a friend later. They’d just opened for the night, and I sat at the bar and ordered a Shirley Temple. With my journal and pen out, I’d intended to write through some of my feelings, but instead I just sat there and listened to things happen around me. Bar men heckling waiters. A woman approaching a man she’d met on a plane once. Some Japanese tourists sharing a gift with their bartender. The recognition of a Broadway actress by a man drinking alone. The conversation it sparked with the strangers next to him. The bustling of people in white shirts, the energy of a large, busy restaurant at the start of the night. There was so much humanity and so much connection. They say these drugs are supposed to strip away your ego, and the most profound way I’ve seen that manifest in myself is the simplicity with which I see other people and interact with them. It’s automatic and free of self-consciousness. There’s no longer a barrier between me and everyone else.

One of the gifts this treatment has given me is slowness, and in that slowness I’ve found myself savoring experiences and interactions in a different way. I’ve always been a voracious consumer of novel experiences and now I’m left wondering why I’ve let so many of them wash over me instead of fully absorbing them. My entire life has been a story that I’ve been writing for myself as a means of controlling the narrative — and I’ve been moving at lightning speed to get to the end. I’ve come to terms with the fact that this way of thinking hasn’t served me at all, and most importantly: what a ridiculous idea, to live with the end in mind instead of fully inhabiting the life I am actually living, here on earth. One of the secrets I keep from people in my New York world is that in college my degree show work was a novel that I wrote about my life, and the story started right after college graduation when I moved back to New York. In that novel, I opened a pencil shop. I don’t remember how that story ends, just as I don’t know how my actual one ends. I don’t have to know. I feel further from the end than ever before.

And now here I am, still vulnerable, still occasionally fighting intrusive thoughts, but with more clarity and more tools to forge the path ahead. There’s still more work to do, and I know it’s a lifelong process, but this is a new beginning. I’ve released myself from the prison of my mind — the liminal space, if you will. On the other side is a room with three walls, open to the expansion this treatment has give me. It’s only the early afternoon, and I’ve got the rest of the day to look forward to.

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For anyone who’s curious about trying ketamine therapy, please feel free to get in touch with me if you have any questions I help you through. The clinic I went to is called Nushama, and I’d recommend it to anyone.

I made this Substack simply to have a way to share this experience with my friends and family, but an unexpected outcome has been that I really enjoy writing personal essays! I’m going to continue writing here, and I hope you’ll stick around <3