“The Day I Stopped Living Like It Was Still Happening”

“The Day I Stopped Living Like It Was Still Happening”

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A fictional story based on many ketamine assisted psychotherapy sessions

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I almost didn’t go.

I sat in the car outside the clinic,
 hands frozen on the wheel,
    heart rehearsing excuses
  .  like I was preparing for war.

Not because I was afraid it wouldn’t work —
 but because I was afraid it would.

I didn’t know who I’d be
 without the tension I’d worn like skin.

They wrapped me in a blanket
 like they knew I was unraveling.

Eyeshades on.
 Music low.

I had discussed setting an intention for today's session with the therapist and I didn’t say peace.
    I didn’t say healing.

I said,

 “I just want to stop bracing.”

The medicine didn’t crash in.
  It came like dusk —
    soft, and exactly on time.

I felt my jaw unlock
 and realized it had been clenched
     since I was small enough to hide in the closet. 

I felt my hands unclench
 and knew I had been carrying things
    I never asked to hold.

Then the world disappeared,
 and I went with it.

Not like falling.
 More like floating away
    from a self I didn’t need to protect anymore.

What was left
 was silence.
    Stillness.
    And me.

Memories came,
  but they didn’t attack.
   They drifted.

A slammed door.
 A name shouted.
    The moment my body first learned not to trust anyone.

But instead of reliving,
 I watched.
   Like weather.
    Like rain that finally passed.

And then –
  I saw him.

The boy I used to be.
 Tired.
   Thin.
    Carrying shame like it was inherited.

He looked at me and whispered,
  “Are we safe yet?”

And I said yes.

I pulled him into my arms
 and something inside me —
    something ancient —
     let go.

I wept.
 Not from pain.
    But from the weight that had finally fallen off.

A voice, not mine, but somewhere deep said:

“You are not broken.
   It wasn’t your fault.
     You didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

And for once,
 I didn’t argue.

I just believed it.

Coming back was slow.
  Like surfacing through still water.

They asked how I felt.
 And all I could think to say was:

“I am NOT going to live like it’s still happening anymore.”

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That was my first journey.

Not a cure
 Not just some trip
    Not an escape

  But a needed reunion
   

   With that sweet little barefoot boy

      That always had pockets full of rocks

          Who would whisper secrets into the wind

hoping they would be carried away

 to somebody

   somewhere

         who cared.