A fictional story based on many ketamine assisted psychotherapy sessions
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.”
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.