LENA’S KETAMINE JOURNEY

I had been living with depression most of my life, although it wasn’t something that simply appeared one day. It was more like a shadow that gradually creeped into every corner of my mind. By the time I was in my mid-thirties, those shadows were so deep in my life that any small amount of joy felt foreign to me.

Therapy had helped me understand the patterns, and medication kept the worst of storms at bay. But there were dark days when I was in such a fog and felt like I couldn’t get out of bed. Those days made me feel so hopeless.

Then my psychiatrist mentioned something new: IV ketamine therapy. I had vaguely heard of this before. My psychiatrist explained that it was a treatment that had gained attention in recent years for its rapid effect in people whose depression hadn’t responded to traditional antidepressants. I really wasn’t sure what to think about it because ketamine was a powerful anesthetic used in surgeries, and yet now it was being touted as a potential lifesaver for people with depression.

After a few more sessions with my psychiatrist and still feeling trapped in the same cycle, I finally agreed to try ketamine therapy. My psychiatrist referred me to Tidewater Health and Ketamine Center. After my hour consultation with Dr. Smith, I left feeling more hope than I had felt in a long time.

I was very nervous on the day of the first infusion. When I arrived at Tidewater Health and Ketamine Center, I was taken back to a quiet room and settled into a comfortable recliner where I met with Dr. Smith again. He had already discussed the procedure with me and made me feel very comfortable about the treatment I was about to receive.

My nurse, Susan, started the IV and I began to feel the cool sensation of the fluid entering my bloodstream, but it was very subtle. I closed my eyes and listened to the soft music playing.

I began to notice that the edges of my thoughts began to blur, like the world outside the room was gently fading. It wasn’t a sense of sleepiness; it was more a gentle, protective feeling wrapping around my mind, muting the noise that had always been so relentless. I felt a sense of calmness.

While Susan monitored me during the infusion, I barely noticed her presence. A warm, pleasant sensation had started to spread through my limbs, and my thoughts seemed to float, disconnected from the weight of my worries.

Time seemed to bend. Minutes stretched. For the first time in ages, I felt no urgency to “do” anything, to fix anything, to be anyone. I simply existed in the moment, without the constant hum of self-judgment or the suffocating cloud of doubt.

As the infusion continued, I felt my body relax even further. My muscles, which were always so tense like coiled springs, relaxed. I felt weightless, but not in the sense of being numb, more of a detached feeling and free.

When my infusion was over, I felt a gentle awakening back to reality. The darkness that I had lived with for so long didn’t feel as heavy. It wasn’t dramatic, no “aha” moment, but the world seemed lighter.

Over the next few days, I noticed small changes. I would wake up in the morning without the dread of another day. I found myself laughing at TV shows and going outside more noticing things like flowers, the beautiful creation all around us. A good way to describe it is the black and white world had become intense colors again.

It wasn’t a miracle and the darkness didn’t vanish completely. But the weight had lifted enough to allow me to begin to heal and feel like a person again, not just surviving my mind each day.

Dr. Smith had told me to be patient, that the effects of ketamine therapy could vary from person to person. Some people felt a lasting change after a single session; for others, it took multiple treatments. But I found myself hopeful in a way I hadn’t been for years. I had glimpsed a new reality – a horizon that wasn’t entirely shrouded in clouds.

It was a beginning.

A few weeks later, I sat in my psychiatrist’s office reflecting on the journey. I felt lighter, more present. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. I could talk about my depression without feeling like it was a permanent part of my identity. I could imagine a future again, and that in itself was something new.

“How does it feel to feel better?” my psychiatrist asked in an encouraging tone.

I had to think for a minute to gather my thoughts. “It feels like I’m learning how to breathe again,” I said with a genuine smile. “Like the air is clearer. Like there is space to live.”

And the biggest thing is I believe it.