When I was a Child

It wasn’t always easy being a little kid and I soon found it was downhill from there.

I won’t get into many specifics but “trauma” became a constant companion very early – violence, assault, death (too many deaths but the death of my brother when I was 13 – my only trusted confidante – nearly killed me) and pain became the canvas on which I painted my life.

The “trauma” wasn’t just a one time thing, it was a series of events that shattered my trust, my safety and attacked my soul, starting in my first 3 short years of life and,  subsequently,  reinforced with every new death, every new attack, every new hurt. I was imprisoned in a cage of my own creation where I hid “me”.

Sure there were “tiny points of light” in the self-erected web surrounding me – welded steel of rage and sorrow; fear and isolation – but that’s what they were. Just tiny lights flickering in the shadows buried deep in my own underground.

Alienation defined me – Activation my sublimation.  My Freak Flag flew higher than most but I became adept at running feral “off the grid” then becoming a chameleon on the home-front, the school-front and the Suburban KC-front.

I loved to read once I learned the magic trick of besting my dyslexia…

I went from reading Winnie the Pooh to reading Carl Jung’s Memories, Dreams, Relections; reading the stories of Wilhelm and Jacob Ludwig Grimm to reading Aldous Huxley’s The Doors of Perception by the ages 10, 11 and 12.

I was reading philosophy – From Camus to Kafka and Kierkegaard; Nietzshe to Sartre and Schopenhauer; Marx to Goldman (I love Emma Goldman). I was enthralled with the ideas promoted by Gerrard Winstanley and William Everard (The True Levellers, aka Diggers)  and the new Diggers of San Francisco circa 1960’s (Emmett Grogan, Billy Murcott, Peter Coyote, et al).

Psychedelics were not unknown to me – 13 yrs of age and beyond, I had the sources for quality material. They became a sacrament. I didn’t “experiment”, I immersed myself in the teachings.  No party favors for me; They were my Eucharist for my lost soul.

Unfortunately, they became nightmarish for some of my friends – a boyfriend who almost killed me when he was coming on to 2 hits of purple double dome at a drive-in theater  (That took 4 guys and a soft croaking voice from me to get me loose from his chokehold – we found our “medic” with a Benzo shot, drove around for an hour, got him sleepy and put him to bed. He was out for most of that trip); Another friend who watched shadows in the room become his demonic stepfather looming large as he cowered in a corner afraid of being smashed into oblivion – I held him close and talked him down from that trip; Another friend who lost himself for months until he started rallying again and swore off acid for a lifetime.

Psychedelics are not for everyone.

By the age of 19, I shied away from them (as well as opium and hashish).  I had become the “therapist” for those on bad trips and those too damaged.  I filled myself with the pain of the bad trips and the bad living of others all before I was 18.

I had had enough, thank you. So I jumped my chameleon self into “straight-ness” –  First as a drug and alcohol “counsellor and educator” then on to art therapist specializing in abused and schizophrenic adolescents. Yeah, I know…..Irony.

Repression was the name of the game and I had gotten so good at it – but not really.

After seeing what passed as “professional mental health” from the inside, I wanted no more part of it.

My only relief came from the streets. My Freak Flag was now my activism – I screamed, I shouted, I marched and I danced the streets of multiple cities as I moved around the western half of the nation – from the Missouri River to the Pacific Ocean to the Rocky Mountains and back and forth again.  I radicalized early and fueled it with “steroids” of anger, fear, and horrors from my youth.

Unfortunately, it left me with the ashes and carnage of distrust, feelings of low self worth, bad choices and bad relationships throughout the rest of my adolescence and adult life… a slow rolling psychic suicide.

I often imagined myself going out in a blaze – quite literally.  Gasoline and lighter at the ready.

PTSD (Posttraumatic Stress Disorder, DSM-5 309.81)

It took until my 70th turn around the sun for some “professional” to finally recognize my PTSD – I knew it was there, I knew what it was called; I could have told all those therapists I had seen, off and on for decades, the definition, the symptomology and my diagnosis but no one asked.

Mental health is not something that should always be left to “the professionals”….That’s another story

In the early days, PTSD was an unknown; Then it became “battle fatigue” (Gen. George Patton was dressed down, forced to publicly apologize and eventually removed from Sicily after slapping a couple of serviceman in the throes of PTSD,  calling them cowards). During the Vietnam  War,  it became acknowledged as a disorder suffered by veterans and military servicemen at war.  It wasn’t until fairly recently, PTSD has been recognized as a disorder that can be experienced by anyone who has suffered certain traumas and exhibits certain symptoms that consistently arise as a result of that trauma experience on an on-going basis.

PTSD Criteria according to the DSM-V (Diagnostic and Statistics Manual) identifies the trigger to PTSD as “…as exposure to actual or threatened death, serious injury or sexual violation. The exposure must result from one or more of the following scenarios, in which the individual:

• • • • directly experiences the traumatic event;
      • witnesses the traumatic event in person;
      • learns that the traumatic event occurred to a close family member or close friend (with the actual
        or threatened death being either violent or accidental); or
      • experiences first-hand repeated or extreme exposure to aversive details of the traumatic event (not
        through media, pictures, television or movies unless work-related).

The disturbance, regardless of its trigger, causes clinically significant distress or impairment in the individual’s social interactions, capacity to work or other important areas of functioning. It is not the physiological result of another medical condition, medication, drugs or alcohol.” (“American Psychiatric Association Posttraumatic Stress Disorder”)

DSM-5 recognizes 4 distinct diagnostic clusters described as, 1) re-experiencing, 2) avoidance, 3) negative cognitions and mood, and 4) arousal

• • • • Re-experiencing covers spontaneous memories of the traumatic event, recurrent dreams related to it,
        flashbacks or other intense or prolonged psychological distress.
      • Avoidance refers to distressing memories, thoughts, feelings or external reminders of the event.
      • Negative cognitions and mood represents myriad feelings, from a persistent and distorted sense of
        blame of self or others, to estrangement from others or markedly diminished interest in activities, to an
        inability to remember key aspects of the event.
      • Arousal is marked by aggressive, reckless or self-destructive behavior, sleep disturbances, hyper-
        vigilance or related problems. The current manual emphasizes the “flight” aspect associated with PTSD;
        the criteria of DSM-5 also account for the “fight” reaction often seen.

That’s me in spades.

Dancing in Graveyards and Other Dreams

Let me make one thing perfectly clear:

Rules #1 THROUGH infinity:

KNOW YOUR SOURCE

I’ve been hearing about Special K for years.  Have friends who have used it but, for me, street shit is just that – street shit. Sure, there might be those who have access to a stash of real K but how many times has it been stepped on?

I still subscribe to the ONLY rule: Know your source. I mean really know and trust your actual source  – not just the guy with 100 hits on a street corner downtown or the one you met at Burning Man on the last day or the kid in Study Hall or the …

In recent decades, I have found some MDMA of worth (well, until those sources disappeared) and a few mushrooms. LSD – not for me any longer and even if it was, I distrust the pedigree of what is local.

I no longer have access to quality material.

That said…

After decades of sleepless nights, nightmares, panic attacks, irrational bouts of rage, depressions, bouts of agoraphobia and now a heart that is dying from the culmination of all that stress, I decided it was well past time to look for a few answers and find a way to deal with it all.

I was excited to hear my old friend psilocybin mushrooms were being decriminalized and, in some areas, legalized for use.  In the state in which I live, it is legal for use in “licensed healing centers” but “the rules” are still “being written”. I guess they don’t have anything but clay tablets since it will take until 2025 for the first draft of those rules to come out and then they will be tweaked and rewritten numerous times before clinics can offer psilocybin therapy.

There are underground therapists, “shamans” and others offering “treatment”.  My rule of “Know your source” applies here as well… so here I was “all dressed up and nowhere to go”.

Then I found that “licensed healing centers” in my state were using Ketamine.

In the US, Ketamine is a Schedule III class controlled drug used in both human and veterinary medicine.  It is a “dissociative anesthetic” with some hallucinogenic effects, of short duration,  that places the subject , patient or user in a trance-like state providing pain relief and sedation. The drug does not suppress the respiratory system like other anesthetics and stimulates the circulatory system rather than depressing it (making it unsuitable for those with blood pressure regulating issues).  Like PCP, Ketamine (Ketamine hydrochloride), as an “NMDA antagonist”, antagonizes or inhibits the action of the N-Methyl-D-aspartate receptor (NMDAR) thus interfering with pain transmission in the spinal cord.

Ketamine, like PCP, induces a state of sedation, immobility, pain detachment and environmental detachment, and amnesia (limiting the memory of events that took place to you or around you while under the effects of the drug). Ketamine can induce hallucinations at lower doses.

Ketamine was used widely in field hospitals during the Vietnam War and subsequent wars.

Phencyclidine or phenylcyclohexyl piperidine (PCP) was introduced into clinical practice in the 1958 in the UK, first as an anesthetic in war zones (Vietnam) since it required a minimum of equipment .  It was quick acting, efficient and able to be used on the battlefield and mobile hospitals.

Though effective with many animals and humans, Phencyclidine had its problems.

In 1962, Ketamine was first synthesized by Calvin L. Stevens, a professor of organic chemistry at Wayne State University and a consultant at Parke-Davis. After research and testing, Ketamine proved to be a reliable dissociative anesthetic with shorter duration of action and significantly decreased behavioral toxicity compared to PCP .

By 1970, the FDA approved Ketamine for use on battle-injured American military personnel in Vietnam, the 1st Gulf War, and on and on…

In 1973 and 1974, the antidepressive action of Ketamine was shown as a potential treatment for clinical depression; In 1997, the first research showing its benefits in the treatment of addiction was reported,

Since that time, Ketamine has been studied for use to treat depression (specifically treatment resistant depression or TRD), severe anxiety, PTSD, substance abuse and addiction and is showing great promise.

It is the only “hallucinogen” that is approved (by the government) for use throughout the US (One caveat: There are certain hallucinogens approved for specific use as part of religious ceremonies by certain recognized religions). All others are still considered Schedule I drugs (drugs, substances, or chemicals “with no currently accepted medical use and a high potential for abuse”). 

Being the brass-ovaried, push-the-envelope kind of person I am, I decided to check it out for myself. At best, I might get some relief from this beast controlling my every breath (Yes, hyperventilation and breath holding are just two of the symptoms I am happy to extinguish in my existence).

“Healing Centers” are not all equal, I have found: Many are manned by people who took some courses in facilitation and went out to start a center; Some just send you pills, let you trip then follow up with a Zoom call (what the fuck?); Others will give you headphones and an eye mask, put you in a recliner or on a couch, and watch your prone body until you come back…(“all good? Bye”); Then there are the “centers” that “just change the music”; and finally, there are those who actually have the experience and training to check medical conditions, monitor blood pressure, with staff teams assigned according to the needs of the individual client, and who have thoroughly investigated the drugs and have carefully designed the setting, chosen the music and prepared for their clients experience.

Know your source….

I located a clinic just 20 minutes south of my home, called them up and began my research into their professionalism, their methodology, their certifications, their location and their openness to accepting me as a client (always that former art therapist approach).

After 2 calls and an office visit, I found “home”. From the moment of contact, I felt a growing sense of excitement. Then I had my first in-person intake appointment.

The building, nestled in a stand of trees, was an oasis of tranquility in the middle of a rapidly growing hospital district just south of the City.  Once inside, I was greeted with cool air and muted lighting; More “Retreat” than “Clinic” with cool colors and lots of greenery; comfortable furniture and peaceful ambiance.

Upon meeting the founder of the center, a Board Certified Psychiatric Mental Health Nurse Practitioner, and after an hour of pouring my heart on the floor, I realized I had actually confronted myself with a string of “hits” from 70 turns around the sun. Catharsis is a good thing but such an intense and deep catharsis was not something I was accustomed to doing. It helps to have a facilitator who actually knows just where to poke and prod. (Note: In my years of wandering though the maze of what passes for “mental health” in the US, from deep immersion in “professional mental health” – as a client, student, therapist, president of  a local chapter of  the national art therapy association, and even chairing a national conference – I have found only a handful of people who actually knew how to listen and facilitate a conversation).

Next up, I met my Ketamine Integration Specialist – a woman with 32 years of experience working with psychedelics and psychonauts as well as the uninitiated and newly converted. We took a tour of the facilities, reviewed the procedures and set a plan defining those issues I needed to address.  We decided to proceed with one session a week for Ketamine (2 hours – one hour for the Ketamine session and the other for processing the experience) then an integration session to be scheduled within 48 hours of the Ketamine session since that 48 hour window is when the brain’s neural plasticity is at its peak (Or as I call it:  The “State of Squishy” or “Squishiosity”).

My first session was explosive:

Body turned to concrete – little sense of my surroundings (though my psychonaut being knew I could move if I really needed to move. I just didn’t want to move).  The imagery confronting me was vivid and profound – That which could have incited fear, did not. In fact, I was in awe.

I travelled in a single seated roller coaster car, rapidly winding my way through a tight maze of blackened iron and steel lattice work, welded with hot glimmering “points of light” at each joint, all buried deep underground. After what seemed like days, I worked my way up into wrought iron filigree that eventually led to a new layer morphing into shimmering green lace with splashes of gold and finally floating in a glowing glass orb.

Damn – as the saying goes, one doesn’t need a couch from Vienna to figure that out (Sorry, old psychoanalysis joke).

Symbolic expression is a language I learned a long time ago. We all know it, but most of us refuse to try and understand it.

I used to paint and draw constantly – I found, as I aged and as I stopped trying to deal with my shit, I stopped. Then, whenever I tried, I found myself blocked.  I just couldn’t.

After that session, I started creating again…drawing images of the adventure through my psyche and expanding on them.

Each subsequent session led me on my personal journey:

One was through webs of branches with glowing, shimmering leaves and splashes of red and gold into a sky where I flew over landscapes of trees and fields dotted with small, uniform, red houses.  I peeked inside each one to find them devoid of life. I would travel to the next and the next and the next :

Malvina Reynolds , “Little Boxes”, 1962