MY KETAMINE TREATMENT

I was cautiously optimistic leading into my hospital treatment. Yes, there were plenty of negative thoughts floating around in my mind, but I kept coming back to the same sentence: "Just give this a go and let the treatment do what it is designed to do." I knew this was never going to be just a week in hospital. If it worked, the real treatment would continue long after I walked out the door.

During the three weeks before my first stellate ganglion block (SGB), I'd already started preparing my mind and body as best I could. I deliberately removed anything that seemed to push my nervous system into overdrive. Heavy training stopped. Intense exercise disappeared. I stayed away from the news as much as possible, significantly reduced my time on digital devices and social media, and even avoided television programs that I knew would leave me feeling tense. Instead, I focused on gentle mobility work, stretching, medium-heat saunas, breathing exercises, and scheduling genuine rest. I treated it like the prehabilitation someone undertakes before major surgery. It gave me something I'd been missing for a long time: the feeling that I still had some influence over what was happening to me.

I also went into treatment knowing neither the SGB nor ketamine was likely to be a one-off fix. Chronic conditions rarely work that way. Like many treatments, they often need to be repeated. My symptoms could return, and realistically, they probably would. That didn't discourage me. It simply meant I wanted to make the most of whatever opportunity this treatment created.

Ten days before I was admitted to the hospital, I underwent my first stellate ganglion block, followed by a second block the day after I was admitted. The procedure involves injecting a local anaesthetic around a group of sympathetic nerves at the front of the neck called the stellate ganglion. The aim is to interrupt the abnormal nerve signalling that keeps the nervous system locked in survival mode and allow it the opportunity to reset.

The effect surprised me. My pain eased almost immediately. The constant hypervigilance I'd been carrying around softened. It honestly felt as though someone had finally turned down a radio that had been blasting in the background for years. I'd become so used to the noise that I'd forgotten what quiet even felt like. The second block wasn't as dramatic, but it reinforced what I'd already begun to experience and gave me confidence that the ketamine might build on those early changes.

The ketamine infusion ran continuously throughout the week. Alongside the ketamine, I was given midazolam. Its role wasn't to treat the pain itself but to calm the central nervous system, reduce anxiety and agitation, provide light sedation, and make the treatment more tolerable over several days. Together, the medications made the infusion much more manageable than ketamine alone.

The treatment aims to reduce the abnormal pain signalling that develops when the nervous system becomes sensitised after years of persistent pain and trauma. The fatigue afterwards is significant. It almost feels like returning from somewhere else. As the doses were gradually increased, I experienced dizziness, a floating sensation, and moments when everything felt slightly disconnected from reality.

It wasn't actually the physical sensations that I noticed most. It was what happened emotionally. I became less guarded. Feelings that I would normally push away became easier to sit with. Instead of automatically trying to control them, I could simply observe them. I wrote regularly throughout the infusion, recording how I felt, what I was thinking, and whatever surfaced. Some entries made perfect sense. Others didn't. That didn't matter. They were honest, and they were mine.

There were moments that were strange, too. As the dose increased, colours became more vivid. Occasionally, I noticed geometric patterns that seemed to appear from nowhere. There were moments that were difficult to explain, thought-provoking rather than frightening. They left me curious instead of distressed.

As the week unfolded, I experienced moments of genuine peace. Moments of clarity. Even moments where I felt inspired in ways I hadn't experienced for quite some time. They weren't dramatic revelations. They were quieter than that. More like brief glimpses of what life might feel like if my nervous system wasn't constantly preparing for danger.

Toward the end of the infusion, my specialist introduced lidocaine, another medication commonly used to reduce abnormal nerve firing associated with neuropathic pain and central sensitisation. It complemented the ketamine and midazolam by targeting a different part of the pain process and had an almost immediate effect.

One reason ketamine continues to fascinate me is its potential to create a temporary window of neuroplasticity. Put simply, it appears to make the brain more adaptable for a period. Chronic trauma and chronic pain create deeply worn pathways in the nervous system. The brain becomes incredibly efficient at expecting danger, amplifying pain, tightening muscles, and remaining constantly alert.

The way I picture it is like walking across a snow-covered field. If you take the same route every day, the path becomes deeper and easier to follow. Trauma and chronic pain create those same deeply worn tracks in the brain. Ketamine doesn't magically erase them. What it may do is make it easier to begin creating new tracks alongside the old ones. Every time I reinforce those healthier pathways through movement, quality sleep, therapy, breathwork, meaningful relationships, and positive experiences, they gradually become stronger.

That is why I believe what happens after treatment may be just as important as the treatment itself. Ketamine might open the door, but it's the choices we make afterwards that begin teaching the nervous system a different way to respond.

For me, recovery didn't finish when the infusion stopped. In many ways, that was when the real work began. I wanted to protect whatever opportunity the treatment had created, so I became intentional about the things that would help reinforce a calmer nervous system.

Sleep became a priority because that's when much of the brain's repair and consolidation takes place. Rather than rushing back into heavy weights or long training sessions, I accepted that my body needed reassurance before it needed challenge. Easy walks, gentle mobility work, stretching and gradually increasing activity became the focus. The goal wasn't to test my limits. It was to remind my nervous system that movement was safe again.

I continued the breathing exercises I'd started before admission and deliberately built quiet moments into each day. Sometimes that simply meant sitting with a coffee and my notebook, reflecting on what I was noticing. It wasn't about forcing myself to think positively. It was about repeatedly sending my brain and body the message that, at least for now, I was safe.

I also tried to minimise unnecessary stress. If something could wait, I let it wait. Difficult conversations, emotionally demanding decisions, endless news updates and the constant pull of social media all had the potential to keep my nervous system activated. I came to realise that it doesn't distinguish particularly well between physical stress and emotional stress. Both ask the same question of the body.

Simple things also mattered more than I'd previously appreciated. Eating regular meals, staying hydrated, and allowing myself proper rest became part of my rehabilitation, not separate from it. My body wasn't just recovering from years of chronic illness. It was also recovering from a demanding week of treatment.

I kept journalling throughout my recovery as well. If ketamine had opened a temporary window where my brain was more adaptable, I wanted to use that opportunity to reinforce healthier thought patterns, process what I was experiencing and simply observe the changes without judgement. Looking back over those pages now, I can already see subtle shifts that I may otherwise have missed.

None of these things are particularly dramatic on their own. They won't make headlines, but together they've become my rehabilitation program. They're my way of giving the treatment every chance to work beyond the hospital walls.

Unfortunately, I couldn't complete the full treatment protocol. My specialist had extended my admission by a further two days to allow for the introduction of lidocaine and maximise the potential benefit of the infusion.

However, on Saturday morning my ketamine infusion was disconnected for what should have been a routine refill. Despite waiting several hours and being repeatedly advised that the medication was being prepared, the infusion was never recommenced. As my pain progressively returned, I eventually made the difficult decision to leave the hospital without completing the planned course of treatment.

Because the circumstances surrounding that interruption are now the subject of a formal clinical review, it wouldn't be appropriate for me to comment further at this stage. What I can say is that the interruption triggered a significant flare from which I am still recovering. Whether it also affected the overall therapeutic benefit of the treatment is something I simply don't know yet.

That uncertainty hasn't changed my commitment to the recovery process. Although my treatment ended earlier than planned, I'm doing everything I can to salvage as much of the potential benefit as possible. Whether the interruption ultimately reduced the treatment's effectiveness is something only time will answer, but I don't want to look back wondering if there was more I could have done.

If ketamine opened even a small window of neuroplasticity, then I want to make the most of it. I'm continuing to prioritise quality sleep, gentle movement, stretching, breathing exercises, journalling, good nutrition, hydration, and reducing unnecessary stress. None of these things is a cure on its own, but together they give my nervous system the best opportunity to strengthen healthier pathways while that window remains open.

Where I'll be in a month, or six months from now, I simply don't know. I want the improvements I've experienced to continue, but I'm also realistic enough to know there are no guarantees. For now, all I can do is keep showing up each day, continue doing the work, and give myself the best opportunity to build on whatever the treatment has started. Recovery doesn't finish when the infusion stops. In many ways, that's when the real work begins.

This isn't medical advice, and it certainly isn't a recommendation that this treatment is right for everyone. It's simply the story of one person living with chronic pain and trauma who reached a point where conventional approaches were no longer enough. I'm still learning. I'm still recovering. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm walking towards something rather than simply trying to survive it.

Maybe recovery isn't about finding the person I used to be. Maybe it's about giving the person I am today the opportunity to live with a quieter mind, greater emotional steadiness, and a calmer body.