Using ketamine as someone in recovery (ketamine therapy for my mental health, part 4)

Was this an easy decision? Absolutely not. Am I glad I moved forward? One hundred percent.

Note: If you haven’t read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 of my journey with ketamine therapy, you can start there. If you’re in recovery and considering psychedelic medicine for depression or anxiety, you can head straight into my decision-making process here, then read more about my experience.

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After sharing my success using psychedelic therapy for my depression, many of you wrote to me asking, “Did you have concerns about using ketamine therapy in your recovery?” To catch you up, I’m a drug addict with 25 years in recovery as of April 2025. Unusually, I didn’t have a drug of choice. I used them all—street drugs like heroin and cocaine, MDMA, prescription drugs, pot, and hallucinogens. And yes, I also used ketamine—recreationally, often in combination with other drugs.

I remember exactly what it’s like to snort ketamine. I remember the disassociation, the “K-hole,” the hallucinations, and the nausea. So when a friend mentioned he’d been doing medically-supervised, legally-available ketamine therapy for his depression, I immediately wrote it off as not for me.

A few months later, however, I found myself thick in my depression and unable to dig my way out using any of the tools I’d learned. So I brought it up with my therapist, and we began to unpack my fears, one at a time.

Fear: I still viewed ketamine as a “drug,” and couldn’t wrap my head around using it therapeutically

I took a lot of medically necessary (for many) drugs recreationally. Painkillers when I didn’t have pain, anti-anxiety pills when I needed to come down, ADHD meds when I needed to stay up. I also snorted ketamine with friends, where we’d purposefully sink ourselves into a K-hole and trip our balls off.

In my mind, ketamine was a drug—and here I was, contemplating using that drug again. It felt wrong. It felt like relapse. And since the only experience I’d had using this particular substance was (a) in excess, (b) ingested in a manner you’d never see in a clinical setting, and (c) just for fun, I struggled to see it any other way.

My therapist carefully walked me through the differences here. In this context, ketamine is a medically prescribed substance, used to treat a diagnosed medical condition (depression). The entire process would be monitored by healthcare professionals in a clinical setting. It wouldn’t feel recreational, because being in a medical clinic for treatment isn’t the same as hanging out in someone’s living room. I’d see nurses or a doctor every 10-15 minutes. My blood pressure and heart rate would be constantly monitored. The dosing schedule was based on reliable scientific evidence. This was not that.

Logically, I could see this. Emotionally, I was scared. Mostly because of fear #2.

Fear: I’d like it, and start craving drugs again

Even if this was prescribed, even if it was administered in a clinical setting… what if I liked it? What if it felt like getting high? What if I left realizing I had missed that sensation? What if that experience made me want to seek out drugs again? Lots of people become addicted to medications taken for a legitimate medical need. I had worked so hard to transform myself into someone who no longer thought of drugs as a coping mechanism, and no longer believed using drugs would be “fun.” What if this session changed all of that? I wanted to vomit just thinking about it.

My therapist then reminded me that I’d already had some experience using medically-supervised drugs for necessity. She was right—I’ve avoided using recreational drugs for 25 years, but I have taken pain medicine in necessary situations.

The first time I took opioids when I really needed it was after nasal surgery in 2006. (Ironically, the surgery was to repair damage done to my turbinates from snorting drugs, including opioids.) I was incredibly nervous just having them, and made sure the pills were in the hands of my live-in boyfriend, who would only dispense them as prescribed. I avoided taking one for as long as I could, but the pain was intense. And then, a breakthrough!

I quickly discovered that taking pain meds when you needed them wasn’t fun. There was none of the euphoria or relaxation I had experienced in the past; they just made me slightly more comfortable and way more constipated. I didn’t like how it felt, I didn’t want more, and I quickly discovered my pain tolerance is excellent, which allowed me to leave more than half the bottle untouched throughout my recovery.

I’ve had other experiences that reaffirmed those feelings; my emergency appendectomy, my emergency C-section. Remembering these experiences with “drugs” and how they made me feel was reassuring. It also reminded me that today, I am a very different person than the girl who used drugs as an escape from the trauma I had yet to address.

Fear: Using ketamine, even therapeutically, would “break” my recovery

My biggest fear was that taking ketamine would mean I had “used.” Even if logically, I could easily defend the context in which I was using ketamine, it still felt like I would no longer be able to claim 20+ years in recovery. I knew that other people’s opinion of my recovery didn’t matter—all that mattered was what I (and my therapist) knew to be true. Still, I needed reassurance here too.

My therapist first reminded me that this experience is very different from the way I had relapsed in my recovery so many years ago. Then, I relapsed in secret. I didn’t tell anyone I had relapsed, and continued to hide my use from everyone. Here, everyone in my life is aware of this experience! I have her blessing, and future sessions booked to integrate my experience. My husband knows, and will come with me to the session. The treatment will happen in a clinical setting, monitored by multiple healthcare professionals. There is nothing shady or secretive about this.

My therapist also asked me if I thought using pain pills during my surgeries “broke” my recovery. I immediately said no. Those pills were only given after surgery, and they were specifically prescribed by my doctor. I took them exactly as directed, and only as needed. I didn’t see an intersection with my recovery at all in those cases. Still, there was one more lingering doubt holding me back.

Fear: My depression wasn’t “bad enough” to warrant psychedelic treatment

Those pain pills were prescribed as part of my treatment plan, but ketamine felt different. It felt elective. I wasn’t being prescribed ketamine, I was seeking it out. And that felt druggy to me.

To be honest, this was me wrestling with the stigma of depression. When I had my appendectomy or C-section, it was clear those were legitimate medical needs. My appendix ruptured. My son’s heart rate dropped alarmingly low. I would have died. My baby could have died. Those were life-threatening situations.

Was my depression really that serious? I was still going to work, caring for my child, showering, eating. I didn’t need a drug for this… did I? Sure, I felt dead inside, I couldn’t connect with my husband or family, nothing brought me pleasure, and I felt like I was sinking in tar. But was that serious enough to require… drugs?

Once again, my therapist reminded me this wasn’t “taking drugs;” this was therapeutic treatment for a medical condition. Also, depression is a serious health condition, which I believed was true for others, but struggled to accept for myself. She also emphasized that I deserved to use any tool at my disposal to feel better.

I had tried talk therapy, somatic therapy, exercise, outdoor time, stress reduction techniques, and every other tool in my arsenal. It wasn’t working. Ketamine therapy has proven effective for many people. My therapist encouraged me to give myself permission to use it—and release any of the stressful stories holding me back from doing so.

Releasing my stories

As I explain in Part 1 of my ketamine experience, I did make an appointment with a local medically-supervised clinic. I did the health screening, the orientation, and made sure my healthcare providers knew I had a history of addiction. My husband came with me, and stayed with me through the entire treatment. It was exactly as clinical as my therapist had described—and as immediately impactful as I’d hoped. This only affirmed all of the points my therapist made, and reassured me that this experience was night-and-day different than my past experiences with drugs. From that point on, I was 100% comfortable with ketamine therapy, and am still using it today to manage my depression symptoms.*

If you’re in recovery and considering psychedelic therapy, you don’t need my blessing. But I hope walking you through my thought process here helps you give yourself the blessing to explore any and all available treatments to help you feel better. I also give you permission to define your own recovery as you see fit—because it’s nobody’s business but yours. Still, I believe with my whole being that availing yourself of prescribed or recommended supervised medical treatments has absolutely nothing to do with your commitment to, or time in, recovery.

XO, MU

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*I’ve since transitioned from in-clinic injections to at-home, medically-supervised treatments using Mindbloom’s psychedelic therapy. This has proven a far more comfortable and equally effective protocol for me. You can read more about my experience with Mindbloom in part 2 of this series.