Before

December, 2021. I was high. Just a few drops of a hybrid THC oil under the tongue after work on a Friday. Over the last six months, I had settled into a pretty regular routine: work, drugs, antidepressants, bed. After so many tumultuous years, I welcomed the stability. I didn’t mind that it was boring; it was peaceful. The Celexa I had started taking amidst the wreckage of 2020 was helping. I was on the highest dose. But the familiar signs started showing up in November. Crying for no discernible reason. Paralyzing insecurity. Entire weekends lost to the vague fantasies of what could have been. So on that Friday evening, after a phone call with a friend about radical depression treatments, I googled it.

Ketamine for depression, Philadelphia

When my phone rang on Monday morning, I hadn’t even remembered completing the contact form. Julie, the Patient Experience Concierge, was explaining to me the infusion schedules, and she had already reserved an appointment for me. It was so expensive, I was sure it was a scam. No, insurance won’t cover or reimburse for it. Yes, we need a credit card to hold your first session. But I was curious. And desperate. I was starting to imagine what a life without depression might look like. So I recited the digits of my Visa to Julie, and I added the dates to my calendar. The two weeks of paid holiday time I had coming up left me with almost no excuses. Given the cost of the treatment I had just committed to, I had no choice but to feel cautiously optimistic.