especially if you haven’t written here in nearly a year. How do I account for all of the space and time in between? And how could I possibly provide an adequate “update” for two or even three different seasons of life? Especially when there are multiple jumping off points. I think the best path forward (or backwards?) may be to start by dropping a pin in the present moment, and then let all of the connective memories follow in unpredictable order…welcome to my diabolical parade *cue evil laughter.*

To kick things off, I just finished week five of Spravato treatments for depression and OCD. Basically it’s ketamine in nasal spray form that is supposed to affect the glutamate receptor of the brain. But what is ketamine? you ask—well, the form I was prescribed is called Spravato (doesn’t that sound like the name of a famous composer?), and by boosting glutamate it begins exciting cells in the brain, encourages learning functions, boosts memory, and trains your brain to become comfortable with this new state, helping to battle the symptoms of depression.¹ There’s also evidence to show that it can help relieve OCD, which is another reason I decided to sign on to another time-consuming treatment strategy.

Twice a week, I leave work early and take a Lyft to a nondescript office building in West Dallas. I check in with the nurse and then the clinician, and, finally, am led back to the dimly lit treatment room where I choose a recliner to sit in for the next two hours. My favorite spot is chair three, because I like the photo of Texas wildflowers on the wall. There is a sound machine somewhere that is set to emulate an ocean’s tide. I get to sit back in the recliner and wait for the clinician to watch me self-administer three doses of the nasal spray in each nostril, each dose spaced five minutes apart. On a small table to my left there is an unceremonious barf bag, a box of tissues, and a nurse-call button (unfortunately, vomit has been an unsavory side effect of most treatments so far). It’s a decidedly sterile environment for an experience that is anything but.

For about fifteen minutes, things are as normal as they can be for someone who left work early to sit in a dark room of ocean sounds. Thhhhen, I start to wonder what would happen if the photo of wildflowers were to expand beyond the frame and its wall – what if it were to eat me, but not in a gruesome way, more by method of N64 Super Mario? I try to type such questions in my phone throughout the treatment. I usually start to notice slowed hand-eye coordination, followed by disassociation. Ankles don’t feel like ankles anymore. During the initial treatment I imagined that the inner workings of my brain were porcupine needle gears turning, and then all of those thoughts stripped away to beg what at that time felt like the most important question to ever be asked: why do porcupines exist?

About thirty minutes in, it usually starts to feel like my brain is moving faster than my legs can carry me. Thank god for that recliner. I also almost always feel the inescapable urge to text all of my friends a curious gif of Alice falling down the rabbit hole, or a random gif of Pusheen the cat. After about ten more minutes, it gets trickier to type out coherent words (this is usually where autocorrect comes to my rescue), and at some point I give up on my phone altogether and focus on the purpose of these strange twice-weekly interludes of headspace and time, which is: to feel better.

To be completely honest, I don’t feel very different from when I started. I still struggle under the weight of self-imposed milestones I am yet to reach as a thirty-one-year-old woman: dream career, a published book of poetry, a comfortable and plant-filled apartment for my cat and I, a healthy relationship—the list goes on. And all the while, I review and dissect every social interaction down to its base skeleton. In addition, my brain has the pesky habit of pointing out how everything is awkward.

But in spite of all of the fear and discomfort, I am trying my best to show up. Showing up looks like: dragging myself to work even when I want to call in sick, staying connected with friends, continuing to have hope for recovery in all its various forms, being open to possibility even when I feel like shutting down. Right now, I am open to the possibility of a second cup of my grandmother’s spiced tea. It’s also Easter Sunday, and the entire house smells like homemade bread—I have no doubt that these are indicators of something good. It is the final week of my acute series of treatment, and rest assured I will return back here with any and all notes relating to the ketamine experience. Until next time~

¹“What Is Spravato?” Revitalizing Infusion Therapies, 9 Nov. 2022, revitalizinginfusions.com/what-is-spravato/. Accessed 9 Apr. 2023.