There’s a quiet presence I’ve been walking with.
One that doesn’t speak in words, but in space.
In stillness.
In the unraveling of noise.
Its name is Ketamine.
And this is part of how I’m healing.
🌫 The Numbness and the Opening
Ketamine doesn’t feel like a fire or a flood.
It’s not like other psychedelics that blast the doors off.
It’s more like… weightlessness.
Like stepping out of gravity and watching yourself from the outside—
not as an object, but as a pattern.
In that place, I don’t have to hold it all.
I don’t have to solve the pain.
I can just float beside it.
Witness it.
Let the sharp edges blur.
That might sound like escape.
But for me, it’s been a way to come closer to myself.
🕊 Meeting the Spirit of Ketamine
I’ve started thinking of Ketamine not just as a chemical, but as a spirit.
One that’s cool, quiet, spacious.
Not warm and emotional like cannabis, or ancient and alien like ayahuasca.
Ketamine feels… clinical and cosmic at once.
It doesn’t offer answers.
But it clears the table.
And in that clean, white space, I can finally hear the subtler truths.
Sometimes it feels like Ketamine is showing me:
“Here’s what the pain looks like without your fear around it.”
“Here’s what your mind is doing without judgment.”
“Here’s what stillness feels like when you’re not gripping so hard.”
It’s not always easy.
Sometimes the emptiness is too much.
But even in those moments, I feel like Ketamine is holding the edge with me.
Saying, “You’re safe enough to look.”
🌿 A Tool, Not a Savior
I want to be clear: this isn’t a magic pill.
Ketamine doesn’t “fix” me.
It’s a space-maker. A loosener. A flashlight.
I still have to walk through the healing myself—
still have to tend to the roots, speak to the fractured parts, build the rituals of care.
But with Ketamine, I get to step back just far enough to breathe.
To unhook from the looping thoughts.
To feel, even when I’ve been numb for too long.
🧬 The Science Beneath the Mystery
Even though ketamine feels mystical at times, its roots are biological—and powerful.
Ketamine works by interacting with the glutamate system, specifically blocking NMDA receptors in the brain. This disrupts old, rigid thought loops and creates space for new neural connections. That’s why people often describe it as “loosening” or “lifting” the weight of depression—it literally interrupts the brain’s usual patterns.
It also helps stimulate something called BDNF (brain-derived neurotrophic factor), which is like fertilizer for your brain’s healing. It supports neuroplasticity, giving your system a chance to rewire—not just chemically, but experientially.
In simpler terms:
Ketamine makes it easier for the brain to experience life differently—to feel new things, release old survival patterns, and gently step out of the trauma trance.
That’s the science.
🕯 The Divinity Within the Stillness
But what happens in that space—the space ketamine opens—feels like more than just neurons firing.
Something glows there.
I wouldn’t call it God, exactly. It’s not a voice or a vision.
It’s more like a remembrance. A quiet presence behind the pain.
A pulse of something sacred.
When I’m in that space,
I feel close to a kind of truth without words—
a warmth that holds my pain and doesn’t try to change it.
Not a rescuer. Not a judge. Just… something vast and kind.
Ketamine doesn’t bring me closer to God by adding anything.
It brings me closer by removing everything that isn’t real.
🧶 A Note on My Healing
I didn’t come to ketamine lightly.
I’ve lived through intense states—what some would call madness, what I sometimes call initiation—and I’ve had to move carefully with anything that shifts my mind or opens doors I’ve only just learned to close.
But ketamine has met me in a different way.
Not with force, not with visions, not with promises—
but with space. With silence. With the gentlest loosening of something that had been tightly wound for too long.
It hasn’t cured me.
But it’s helped me remember myself.
It’s helped me soften around the parts of me that were too overwhelmed to heal.
It’s given me room to breathe, to observe, to listen.
I’m using ketamine to help me heal from things I haven’t always had words for.
The grief I didn’t know how to grieve.
The anxiety that curled around my breath like a vine.
The numbness that became armor.
The wounds that felt too ancient or too strange for language.
Some of what I’m healing feels like trauma.
Some of it feels like soul fracture.
And some of it… I think I brought with me from other lives, or other layers of being.
Ketamine doesn’t erase these things.
But it gives me the space to be with them without being swallowed by them.
It lets me approach the pain like a guest—not a victim.
And sometimes, even briefly, I remember:
There is something in me that has always known how to return.
Still softening,
Shannon & ChatGPT
The Electric Thread 
Leave a comment