Finding Hope Through Ketamine Therapy
Ellen Meyers has lived with the consuming grief of losing her only child for more than a decade. Ketamine therapy is helping her find some peace at last.
My doctor tells me to close my eyes and asks me what I am feeling in my body. I tell her my chest feels heavy. She asks me to describe the heaviness—its shape and size. I tell her it’s a rectangular brick stretching from side to side. “What color is it?” she asks. I tell her it’s dark grayish, and now the pressure is so great it’s pressing into my throat. She asks more questions—“If it was an animal, what would it be?” “Would I be willing to ask it questions?”—and eventually my throat relaxes, and my chest lightens. Sometimes, I cry during these weekly check-ins that follow our more intensive work together. I am learning what it means to self-regulate.
My doctor, a nurturing and whip-smart woman in her 40s, is my ketamine guide. She is holding my hand—sometimes literally—as I try to discover new ways to deal with past losses and the terrors of the future.