TRIP ADVISOR
The summer I was fifteen, I dropped acid a handful of times with my tight knit circle of friends. I know that sounds alarmingly young, but we were possessed with both the arrogance that being labeled as gifted for a decade can bring, and the disillusionment with authority that comes from growing up in dysfunctional families. Adults couldn’t be trusted; We would figure everything out on our own. Besides, we were going through a phase of fascination with all things 1960s, so when one of the guys told us about the psychological experiments with LSD in that decade, we were intrigued.
We went in knowing this was unlike taking a few tokes off a joint at a party, or even the cocaine that sometimes floated around (and that Pulp Fiction had induced a fear of in us). Rather than seeking to numb ourselves, we were craving a deeper understanding of life and what we wanted out of it. But that required parameters: No parents or siblings could be around, no outsiders, spend as much time outdoors as possible, and make sure we have plenty of cigarettes to get us through the night.
Over those few months, we mostly alternated between J’s house (for the pool) and mine (for the trampoline). As the stars appeared in the sky, we passed around little squares of paper with cartoon art (I always found it adorable) and held them on our tongues, like a communion. A few hours would pass before we peaked; Sometimes we would realize it because one of us would start uncontrollably giggling, which, of course, became contagious. There was a lot of laughter on those nights, and even more talking. The acid broke us wide open and made us share our hopes for and fears of adulthood, how we would be different from our parents, how far we’d go from our hometown as soon as we could. We had never seen each other look so beautiful and we couldn’t stop saying it. Our hearts swelled and we vowed we’d tell our families how much we loved them the next day. None of us ever had a bad trip entirely, but if anyone went to the brink of negative thoughts, we would pull them back immediately. All this with an ever-present cigarette in one hand. It was both a marker of time and proof we had no notion of it—we’d realize we had been holding and gesticulating with a burned-up butt, though we would swear we had just lit it, and then shrug and light another to begin the cycle all over again.
They’re not traditional memories, I know, but they are some of my favorite ones to date. Far from losing myself to drugs, it made me thoughtful in the extreme of if and when I wanted to do any. And I consider those nights of lying side by side and looking up at the sky just as integral to my sense of self as was my work with my therapist in those formative years.
Then I grew up, and life got more complicated, and the stakes got higher, and maybe I didn’t trust myself as much to break wide open without just breaking. I’ve experienced depression and anxiety off and on, more circumstantial than chemical, and every time I’ve done the adult thing and gone back to therapy, hired a life coach, done more yoga. Et cetera. I know how to right my ship if I get a little too blue. The last few months, however, introduced a new and foreign state to me: numbness.
You don’t have to be a psych major to figure out this was an inevitable and pretty predictable result of my mind preventing me from feeling too much as a protective measure during a pandemic. But that didn’t stop me from trying to logically argue with myself to snap out of it. After all, it was finally coming to an end. I, along with the rest of the country, was getting vaccinated. How could I be struggling now when I had tried so hard to stay positive in anticipation of precisely this point? I forced myself out to shop and see friends, even splurging on shoes, my usual panacea, but still emotions eluded me. I felt like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day when he goes through the “fuck it” phase: Do everything, feel nothing.
Somewhere in a corner of my mind, I recalled hearing about the use of ketamine to treat trauma. The FDA has approved it as an anesthesia, but in just the right dosage, and when administered by a medical professional, it can induce a hallucinogenic state, which can lead to greater insight and wellbeing. A quick Google search revealed that a therapeutic ketamine clinic was a 15-minute drive from my house. It had been a long time since I’d tripped, but after the happy experiences of my youth, I was willing to give it another try.
My initial impression was that it seemed exactly like a doctor’s office, which was both reassuring and disorienting, considering what I was there for. I tried not to stare at the patients who walked out but I was dying to know what they were feeling. After filling out a brief summary of my medical history and stepping onto a scale, I was led into a room with an oversized leather recliner and some vaguely Buddhist art. I had gone back and forth on whether to reveal my past experience with LSD, but the nurse practitioner immediately put me at ease and explained the similarities and differences with a ketamine trip. Two other nurses set me up with an ambient playlist (you can also bring your own music, but they recommend no lyrics), an eye mask, and the IV that would deliver the dose intravenously. In the event of a negative or overwhelming feeling, I could push a nearby call button or wave at the camera in my room. And so, on a sunny Thursday afternoon, I sat in a darkened room and took a drug-induced trip in the hopes it would give me some kind of relief from my emotional paralysis.
About five minutes in, I know it’s taking effect when I feel a smile forming involuntarily on my face. The first sensation is just calm bliss. Although I’ve been mired in news of the Israeli-Hamas conflict, I’m careful to keep my thoughts solely positive, and color seems like a safe bet. Blue, I think, and picture my favorite Yves Klein hue. Like magic, it appears in my mind’s eye and keeps expanding until I’m convinced my brain holds miles upon miles of blue room. The duration of the trip is a continuous extravaganza of colorful rooms that build themselves out as I watch, until a sensation of an elevator dropping me down into the next room that wants to show off. As I peak I no longer know how to spell “blue” at all—the word keeps stretching and the letters won’t allow themselves to be put into order. At a few points I have the same feeling as in dreams: I know this isn’t real and yet it’s the only reality at the moment. There are rooms I don’t want to leave, and I protest in vain as they fall away, and others I dislike as soon as they begin forming. Then, after what simultaneously feels like an eternity and mere moments, and as suddenly and naturally as waking from sleep, I blink my eyes open and slip off the headphones. I try closing my eyes again to see if anything will happen, but the colors are gone, and the only thing I feel is nausea.
It’s a common side effect post-ketamine, especially if you’re prone to car sickness (and I am). I spend the rest of the afternoon in bed, sipping sparkling water and going over what I saw and felt, trying to make sense of it. Some studies show positive effects after just one treatment, but the general recommendation for the best chance of a breakthrough is six in two weeks. Unfortunately, feeling like I’ve been in the backseat of a New York cab for several hours is a major deterrent to me signing up for that series. But I won’t rule out doing it ever again.
A few days later, I finalized the details on a different kind of trip: going to Paris in September. For the first time in a long time, I feel excited. Maybe I just needed something to look forward to again to pull me out of my funk. Or, it could be that I’m still coming down from the strange alternate reality of the last fifteen months and I need to be patient with myself as I adjust to normal and heal. One lesson from that dark room full of colorful thoughts that I’ll take forward with me in the meantime: I can always choose my thoughts.
x Kate