Ketamine doesn't make you feel better

Author's note: this post has references to suicide and sensitive subjects. I write this with a lot of fear, as I know many who have lost someone to suicide, and I don't want anyone to feel blame because of what I'm going to talk about. It wasn't your fault. Please read with care.

"To be happy you must eliminate two things: The fear of a bad future and the memory of a bad past," ~ Seneca

Ketamine doesn't make you feel better and I really thought it would. I was hoping these chemicals would rewire my brain so I could find hope and maybe happiness, but that's not what's happening. My neural pathways are unpacking every trauma, abuse, and pain of my life all at once. The purpose is once the neuroplasticity of these pathways is pliable, then new connections can form. My therapist has said this is harder on you: alone, unemployed, no family support, no safety net. It hurts to hear but I appreciated the truth of this confirmation of what I'm living. 

Not only does ketamine not make you feel better, in the middle of it you feel worse. Decades of major depressive disorder, panic disorder, and suicidal ideation, so I thought it wouldn't be possible to feel any worse than I have....and I'm lower than I've ever been. I called this past December the lowest point of my life, as I was the closest I've ever been to ending it, but now it's strangely worse. Sometimes the crying won't end. Other times I'm on the edge of tears, and to cry would bring release, yet nothing comes out. I feel like I could explode and implode at the same time. I live every day in terror as I'm emotionally drowning with no land in sight. 

Driving to my last session I talked to my friend, smiled, asked about her life, while in my head ruminating was "I don't want to be alive. I hate being alive. I want this over." I didn't tell her. My psychiatrist has me do a test every time so they can gauge where you are at. The last question is "Do you have thoughts you'd be better off dead or of hurting yourself", and your response needs to be how many times in the last 2 weeks this has happened. My response every time: every day. The next question is "Do you have a plan to do this?" No plan. 

There’s something I don’t think gets talked about enough when it comes to suicidal ideation and it’s the sheer enormity of the pain a person is in. It's the version of this experience that isn't being understood. And the gap between intention and impact is a lot bigger than people think. It’s excruciating to say just how bad it is, have people see it, respond with a quick comment or a care react, and then disappear. It feels like I’m being burned alive and being given cheerleading comments from the sidelines. And when you’re in that kind of pain, you’re not thinking about hypothetical future joys or small moments. You’re trying to survive what’s happening right now. There’s no space for “maybe someday.” There’s barely space to think at all. This isn’t about anyone not caring or not trying hard enough. It’s about how that level of pain actually works from the inside. For some of us, the pain will override everything. We know we would hurt people. We know it would cause devastation. We feel immense shame that we can't just suck it up. And we are doing everything we can just to keep breathing but the pain can take over anyway.

The sun is shining right now, my cats are sleeping by my side, and I feel like a boulder is on my chest as I try to take a breath. And the obvious question is "What can I do? I try to say something positive, and you say I'm hurting you? What can anybody possibly do?" Fair. There are no feel-good sayings here. The perfect words don't exist. What we need is presence. "Just letting you know I'm thinking about you and haven't left." "I see you are in horrifying pain, and I can't imagine how awful it must be. I'm sorry you are experiencing this." "You aren't a burden." Believe us when we say we are trying.

I have a post-it on my wall that says, “Someone’s waiting for the words you haven’t written yet.” I know I’m not the only one who feels like this. So, I’m writing them.

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I didn't write this. But I could have. I feel it.

 “She calls me”

I like to flirt with death.

I’ll perch on the edge of towered roofs and watch the skies burn molten embers with lemonade hues, one nudge and my free-falling bones will shatter into shards of elated expiration.

My dormant doormat body springs to life in adrenaline junkie highs, the heated rush of driving so fast butterflies take flight. Cackled laughter explodes from my throat as the world surrounding me turns to a smudged oil painting, the only constant is I.

I dance and sing in thunderstorms of crackling light and stinging rain. Repetitive rumbles ricochet through my core and each CRACK births tingles across my skin. Fear and desire hum the same tune into my eager ears. Petrichor mixed with battery acid lines my mind with blind excitement

When I’m falling in faster than I breathe. Each slither of my heart I offer to another soul, takes part of my life bringing me closer to the edge each time it’s discarded. Love. Forever relapsing in an addiction I refuse to give up. source no longer replenished it withers into a forced reset.

I’ve danced with the devil and been baptized of my sins. Only for my human vessel to break those unblessed vows again and again. Red spider Lily lamentation forces fistfuls of a poisoned wake into an already slowing heart.

I do not fear death, She welcomes me into a warm embrace. Her finality seductively draws me under with hypnotic harmonies; I sway and wait with bated breath.

I fear a life unlived

I fear a life unloved

I fear a life unfulfilled

I have died a thousand times, this season is all but a pebble in an estuary lying in wait for something more, in the next wave carrying me into the oceans of a new life

I’ve got a piece of mirror lodged dangerously close to my heart. I never know which twist in the story will be the one to open up my insides and help me drown in my own soul. ~Unknown