The Connection

I don’t normally talk about the fact that I receive ketamine infusions every four months or so. For some reason, admitting this to a wide number of people has felt like admitting something I should be ashamed of. But why should I be ashamed for seeking help with something beyond my own ability to heal? 

The answer is that I should not be ashamed. And I’m not helping anyone, least of all myself, by hiding it.

I have CPTSD, which stands for complex post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s complex because my post-trauma stress isn’t from a single event. It’s from a lifetime of trauma, a lifetime of living in survival mode, and a lifetime of trying to clear the buildup of trauma response in my body and brain. 

Ketamine has helped with that more than anything else I have tried. And I have tried the gamut of techniques, including medication, psychotherapy, Reiki, shamanic healing, hypnotherapy, archangelic healing, quantum healing; the list goes on.

But the trauma followed. It lessened at times, ebbed, and pulled back to the point that I thought I was healed. Then it crashed back down on me like a tidal wave I was helpless to outswim. 

My nightmares are intense. I have RBD, REM sleep behavior disorder, caused by my TBI. So when I have a nightmare, it doesn’t stay in my head. I flail, kick, punch, and scream. My poor husband has borne the brunt of this, often being kicked or punched in bed while he sleeps next to me. His nickname for me is “screamy-dreamy.” It’s said with affection, but I can’t imagine how nerve-wracking it must be to be startled awake in the dead of night by my blood-curdling screams. And the worst part, for me at least, is that those screams rarely wake me. It’s only the weight of his hand on my back that stirs me from the terrors of my trauma, replaying in my subconscious. 

I also have flashbacks while I’m awake, and I am completely powerless to control them. I don’t know when they will happen or what will trigger them. At times, I’ve been triggered by a scene in a show, lyrics in a song, the heading of a news article, or even just the picture for a TV show about the Troubled Teen Institute. These flashbacks reduce me to tears, shaking, and sometimes hyperventilating. The worst one I’ve ever had left me screaming and unable to allow my husband, who has never shown me anything but saintly kindness during these episodes, to touch me or come near. 

My history of trauma is long. It encompasses psychological and emotional abuse, physical abuse, and sexual abuse, not by one person but by many people over many years of my life. 

My TBI triggered most of it, which is why I say it derailed my life. If it hadn’t happened, I don’t think I would have suffered nearly as much trauma over the years while trying to recover from the damage to my brain. The damage was not physically visible on the outside, was not well understood, and the pieces were not put together by others. I was too young to explain. 

I’m still sorting it all out. It will take time, lots of time. And patience. And inner strength I’m not sure I have. But I do know that I cannot heal from it without fully unraveling the onslaught of trauma that resulted.

But the ketamine helps, at least enough to dull the sharp edge of pain that stabs at my heart.

The infusion normally takes 30 minutes, but mine is set to 52 minutes because, as a neurodivergent person, I feel things more than most, and the slower drip helps my body process it better. 

In those 52 minutes, incredible things happen. I forget who I am. That may sound scary, but it’s not. Because in forgetting who I am as a single entity, I merge with the energy of all things. I literally become whatever is around me. I like to watch sea turtles and fish on the TV screen in the room, and this past time I listened to handpan music as well. It’s a meditative experience that pulls me outside my body and far beyond my own mind. But it is also incredibly intense and not for the weak of heart. 

Some of the messages I received during my last session were very profound. My husband sits in the room with me, and I tell him, “Write this down,” then allow the messages to flow from me. It’s hard to talk because it’s hard to form words when you can’t feel your body, and sometimes I don’t know if I am speaking out loud or not. But I am always excited to see what messages have been revealed to me afterward. 

Here is what I learned this time:

There are pieces of me coming off as scales,

I’m shedding all the way down to the core.

It’s okay to belong only to yourself,

belonging to yourself is beautiful.

And my favorite, which I think really encapsulates the whole experience:

I’ve gone down to the root and found we are all connected.

Because in the end, we are all connected. We are all part of this vast Universe. We all have stardust in our DNA. We can all learn from one another. And we should all turn more toward one another.

My hope is that by sharing my experience, whether it’s what broke me or what helps me heal, I can help others feel less alone and maybe even find their own way out of the dark. But I don’t just do it for others. I also share my experiences for myself, because through sharing, I, too, feel less alone.