ketamine experience

 I’ve been undergoing ketamine infusion therapy under the supervision of a nurse, and it’s been a profound journey. Each session involves an IV inserted into my arm while I rest in a chair, allowing the ketamine to gradually take effect. I’m fully aware of the potential for abuse, but I have no intention of misusing it. What it offers me is a temporary escape from the heavy weight of depression—especially during moments when the darkness of my thoughts feels overwhelming.

At the onset of each session, the first sensation I feel is a faint buzzing in my ears, almost like tinnitus. As the drug takes hold, this transitions into a sense of floating, as though my body no longer feels tethered to the chair beneath me. The experience is different each time, but there are recurring sensations. Sometimes, the very texture of the room I’m in shifts, like the walls themselves are changing, expanding, or contracting in ways that don't seem possible.

I often find myself in what seems like an entirely different space—sometimes a cavern or a room that feels unfamiliar, other times I am soaring through the sky, moving through worlds that don’t feel of this reality. One consistent theme, though, is the presence of Japan. This might be because I’ve visited Japan before, or simply because it’s a place I hold in my heart. The imagery that appears during these sessions—cities, streets, landscapes—sometimes mirrors what I’ve experienced there, and it’s as though I am reliving that wonderment. The feeling is like being transported to a different time and space, and in that moment, it feels incredibly real.

There’s a particular quality to these moments that I find both calming and awe-inspiring. Sometimes, it feels as though I’m moving through a landscape that looks like Japan, but other times, it’s less about a specific place and more about the sensation of being there, as though my mind is searching for meaning or reconnection with something that’s deeply personal to me. The music I listen to during these sessions, often Japanese in nature, seems to amplify these feelings, guiding my mind through memories and emotions tied to that culture.

I’ve also had experiences that remind me of something like a roller coaster—this intense sensation of speed and movement, as though I’m on a ride, hurtling through a space that’s constantly changing around me. I’ll sometimes feel like I’m looking out the window of a vehicle, watching the world pass by in a blur. It’s strange, because it feels both exciting and disorienting at the same time. There’s this strange fluidity, as if everything is moving at a pace that I can’t control, but in a way, I don’t have to. I just let go and allow the experience to unfold.

It’s almost as though my mind is drifting through a series of emotional landscapes—like traveling through different places in my psyche, where every thought, memory, and feeling has its own shape. I wonder if the places I find myself in are reflective of how my emotions and memories are transforming in that moment. When I feel calm and free from negative thoughts, the world seems brighter, more vivid, and expansive. But when sadness or guilt creeps in, the imagery darkens, sometimes bringing in elements of fear or discomfort. There have even been moments when I felt like I was floating through what felt like "hell," but even that sensation was tame, more like a fleeting, ephemeral experience. These darker moments often come from feelings of guilt or self-shame, but they pass quickly, leaving me with more clarity once the session is over.

The experience always brings up thoughts about my past—like my ex-husband Kyle, who passed away. In one session, I remember fleetingly wondering if I could see him, but it was just a hint, barely perceptible. Even though I didn’t see him fully, the thought of him lingered in the background, almost like a soft echo of his presence. Sometimes I think about whether I’m making sense of the universe in these moments—trying to understand my own life, decisions, and losses, as if looking for answers that I can’t quite grasp.

One thing that always stands out is the experience of losing my sense of ego. I no longer feel like "me"—the person who carries around all the burdens, doubts, and labels. Instead, I feel a calmness, like the boundaries of who I am have dissolved. It’s as if I’m floating through this vast, boundless space, free from the weight of self-awareness. This feeling of no ego is oddly comforting. I’m just existing, observing, being, without the usual worries or self-judgment. It’s liberating, yet it also fills me with a sense of wonder. I wonder what lies beyond the usual limits of my perception. What if there’s more to this experience, to me, to the universe, than I’ve ever realized?

When the session ends, I’m often left in a haze. If I try to stand, I feel dizzy and unsteady, as if my body is still adjusting to reality. I need help from my sister, partner, or parent to get home and rest. The feeling of disorientation fades as I relax, but it always leaves me with a lingering sense of peace, even if I don’t always have full clarity about what I experienced.

Ketamine therapy is not a cure-all, but it offers me something I can’t get anywhere else—a temporary break from the weight of depression and a chance to explore my own mind in ways I never thought possible. I’m still processing what I experience during these sessions, but I know that, for now, it’s helping me see the world and myself through different eyes. And, in some strange way, it feels like the experience is offering me the space I need to heal, to grow, and to understand the deeper layers of my mind.