An altered state-

My first experience with ketamine.

It is hard to explain an experience that was so far outside of words.

I had never done any sort of hallucinogenic drugs before. I once was on the phone with a friend who was experiencing a bad acid trip, and it scared me from ever wanting to try. I assumed all drugs of that nature were the same, and I didn’t want to mess with something that my mind could not get out of if I wanted to.

But as I started exploring the possibility of psilocybin helping with depression and mood disorders, and my primary care physician asked if I had ever considered alternative modalities, I opened up further to the possibility. I knew ketamine from my years working in the hospital pharmacy restocking O.R. drugs every night, but not outside of that context. When she broached the topic, I had just come out of a depressive cycle¹, and had made the decision to explore something new. I didn’t want to take any more time away from my children, my husband, or myself.

I am not sure if it was my desire and belief, or my curiosity that drove me to want to try ketamine, but a few months later I was preparing for my appointment.  When I arrived, the nurse greeted me as a friend. She walked me to the controlled setting of the infusion room, chatting along about her morning. A large, mountainous desert mural unfolded across the wall. I was asked to sit in the black recliner, my husband in the cream colored chair in the corner. She took my vitals and my weight, then wiped alcohol over my arm for the IV port. The doctor and the nurse discussed with me all possible outcomes, all possible concerns. They shared the results of their own experiences with the treatment, a comfort I appreciated going under. I prayed with us all, asking God to be in the room, to guide my experience.

When the infusion started, I laid back in the recliner, pulling a large knit blanket over my shoulders. I lifted my hair above my head to fall over the back of the chair, then placed the eye mask over my eyes and headphones over my ears. It felt like what I imagined a sensory deprivation tank must feel like, blocking out all external light and sound. Everything was the same wherever I turned.

The music enveloped me, and I felt like I was becoming a part of it. The soft sounds of the notes moved me in the suspension I now rested in. I felt too outstretched, my feet too far from the rest of my body. I bent my knees and folded my legs, linking my fingers together so they wouldn’t float away. A novocaine-like numbness creeped over my face and lips just after I rolled my tongue over the inside of my mouth. I wondered if it was happening, waiting patiently for something drastic, something dramatic. The drama didn’t happen, but I knew I had reached somewhere new.

Words can’t describe everything that happened. I never left the black-scape of the mask that covered my eyes, but I felt the energetic forms of mountains and a large tower, and sensed the wholeness of everything. I tried to imagine what I must look like from the outside, but outside of the space I was in didn’t exist. I tried to bring my thoughts to the space outside of myself, but nothing outside of me existed. My job, our home, the city we live in, nothing existed outside of me. I never saw anything other than blackness, but I felt it all as if my mind were the only perception I needed. It was as if closing my eyes led me to an entirely different plane I couldn’t see otherwise. I was somehow able to see everything from within, participating as an atomic piece, and simultaneously experiencing it as an observer, watching as I became a part of it.

I had taken the world, just like Tony Stark takes a 2D concept from his screen, and expanded it. I walked within and amongst the parts. I could reach out and touch everything, if only I wasn’t already a part of it. I never fell, only floated in suspension, wrapped up and secured by the presence of everything all at once.

I never felt the chair. I never felt the blanket or the mask or the headphones. I would tap my teeth and know they were there. They were something else, somewhere else, but at the same time, there with me.

When the nurse touched my legs to check in, I felt them press through the form, like a veil they reached through without taking shape. I stuck up my thumbs, and lifted them within the blanket. I can only imagine this is what it must be like within a mother’s womb.

When it was time, I felt myself pull away, retracting consciously from the space I was in, the infinite landscape of all that ever was and is and will be. I felt as if I lived the theory of all of time happening at once. The edges of my perception crumpled in like a paper bag, following me as my awareness took shape within the infusion room.

Standing up, caring arms on either side of my own, I felt the sturdiness of my structure, my bones and consciousness taller, strong like a tree. Yet something waved around it, the same as a cup with a rod through the bottom knocking about in the wind. My heels made contact with the earth and the earth held me up.

Nausea came over me, but I was never sick. I tried and failed to use words to describe what I had seen to my support team. They listened patiently as I used gestures and sounds and puffs of air to express my thoughts. Fogginess covered my brain, although things became clearer and clearer rather quickly.

The next day, I felt open, exposed, and soft. I preferred silence and minimal stimuli. No murder shows that day. Humor felt sharp and a little too much. I feel a slight lift, like I have been elevated, but it is subtle, and makes me not want to engage long with others. I want to remain untouched in this bubble, but also connect to everything within and outside of it.

Even days later, the tenderness lingered, though lessening by the day. I cried a lot. Crying felt less like catharsis and more like bleeding my emotions the way one would a radiator. Each day I felt the shift when I tapped out my emotional readiness, and would need to sit back to decompress. I was gentle and open with the people I spent time with. 

It was hard to make sense of what happened, although within I understand it all. I crave being back in that place, going under and understanding because I am a part of it.  I want to carry this knowing with me into today, tomorrow, and the next. I want to hold onto everything, and wonder if all I need is to simply close my eyes and go back to the plane that lives in the expansion of our minds.

Below is the playlist that accompanied my session for those who are interested.

**Edited. The previous playlist shown was incorrect: this was the correct one I listed to during my session (Thank you, Dr. Martin, for sending me the correct link).

1. I Have Depression, a personal essay