What is it like to “feel dead?” I don’t mean near-death experiences.

I mean, when you feel dead inside. Dead to joy. Dead to hope.

This kind of death is not a happy dream of angels. It’s hell.

It’s dark, frightening, and everlasting.

If you’re reading this, you may know this feeling all too well. And if you know, you sympathize with those enduring the harsh realities of serious illness.

Every one of us carries burdens. Some burdens are visible. Others are not.

I don’t mind telling you: I’ve been through many periods that I found almost impossibly difficult. These times stretched on and on and on. I can’t believe I’ve survived this long.

Ketamine has restored my hope for a better future, not only for myself but for others suffering from severe depression.

I still take life in bite-sized pieces, day by day. But I’m now much more confident that I’ll make it. And after all these decades of suffering, this feels like a miracle!

My wish is for all of us to find new hope. Let us all look forward to better tomorrows.

But first, let me tell you about my depressing yesterdays.

It’s Not Fair

My maternal grandmother took her own life when I was only two. With it, we lost her extraordinary kindness, the reassurance of her embrace, and the opportunity to create more memories.

When a life is lost to suicide, you try to make sense of it.

How did this happen?

Why?

Could it have been avoided?

Most painfully, what did I miss?

After all, she had a psychiatrist, a loving trio of daughters, a stable husband, and a talent for baking desserts.

Her psychiatrist rejected her family’s concerns. And her husband failed to recognize her decline.

My mom’s older sisters had already married and left home, leaving my mother and grandmother to interact as best friends, even sharing clothes and jewelry.

Those exchanges were about to end.

The only warning of my grandmother’s passing was one cryptic statement she made to my mother. The day before she left us, instead of planning the usual return of her jewelry, she instead said: “Honey, please take this bracelet. I won’t need it anymore.”

When my mother found her with the car running, filling the small garage with carbon monoxide, devastation rippled through the family.

A life lost to suicide feels incredibly unjust. It seems so senseless and unnecessary. It’s even more jarring when it happens with a well-loved person that “seemed fine.”

Could this tragedy have been prevented?

I don’t know. But low-dose IV Ketamine therapy helps patients climb out from depression’s darkest pits.

She may have been one of them.

Too Many Diagnoses

Like many other people, my life began with physical health problems: asthma, allergies, strep throat, and bronchitis --all of which disappeared upon adulthood.

Then came the mental health trouble as I began suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), generalized anxiety disorder (GAD), and social anxiety disorder (SAD).

Beginning in medical school, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder (BPD) Type 2.

Next, I barely survived a mysterious encephalitis condition (Hashimoto’s Encephalitis).

I’ve no doubt forgotten some diagnoses along the way. It’s a long list!

Symptoms from all of these conditions compromise normal function and can lead to awkward and regrettable life effects. Sufferers of medical conditions often endure humiliations related to their illness.

How Embarrassing

We all need social support, even more so when we’re battling a serious illness. That’s why it’s so cruel when disease cuts into the social bonds we need to recover.

Grinding social anxiety made me avoid people. I can’t count the times I’ve bowed out of a business lunch, rescheduled dinners, or called off from that job.

People noticed.

Some colleagues understandably developed a negative opinion of me. To them, I was disrespectful for blowing them off. I’m sure that’s how I came across. My impulse to isolate myself left others feeling rejected.

How could they understand I was hiding from my own problems?

Like many chronically ill people, I tended to self-isolate. I became “Mr. No Show,” breaking appointments and avoiding everyone because I felt sick all the time. This tendency led to me falling out of touch with people, ducking out on friends and family, and crawling into a cocoon. Anything to escape more pain, stress, and embarrassment.

Many of us are involuntary “no shows.”

Some of us lock ourselves in the house for a year at a time. Some of us are in the hospital a lot.

Others are on medications that make us emotionally flat and sedate.

All of these circumstances can prevent one from “showing up.”

Boom and Bust

I’ve noticed a “boom and bust” pattern in my life. Work hard.

Bust.

Get good grades.

Bust.

Take a semester off. Wander. Consult with new doctors. Begin moving forward.

Bust.

Medicate myself into semi-functional mush.

Graduate.

Get a good job.

Bust.

Loss of dignity.

Loss of confidence.

Disability status.

I just keep repeating this cycle.

Does any of this sound familiar to you?

Let me share with you one of the most impactful moments of my life when my diagnoses turned a harmless experience into a personal horror.

Cornered

My father spent numerous post-retirement years singing in nursing homes, bringing joy to thousands of residents who magically came back to life as they sang songs from their early days. During one of my periods of disability, my dad suggested I try to get back on my feet by coming out to his jobs with him. He’d have me do little things like setting up his equipment: speakers, cables, microphones. Occasionally, he’d even push me into singing a bit myself.

The first day I accompanied him on his job, I recall my panic clearly. We had just moved his sound equipment into the meeting room. Nursing aides wheeled in the audience. Residents came in all conditions, some able-bodied but unable to live independently. Some were physically disabled and contorted by arthritis, strokes, and neurological disorders. Bearing witness to all of the different medical circumstances in that room utterly overwhelmed me.

As an OCD sufferer with health-based ruminations, this room contained all of my worst nightmares.

My dad asked me to help set up the equipment, run some speaker wire, and test the microphone. Of course, I’d have to go into “the room” to do it. I’d have to brush past wheelchairs, avoid soiled clothing, and stay ever vigilant about how precisely I moved to avoid “contamination.” To my horror, in this already panicked state, one of the residents grabbed me and tried to kiss me on the mouth!

That day, as the show was about to start, I wanted to be in the room helping. But fear took me hostage. I struggled against incapacitation. I felt panicky. Keep in mind that I was already unable to work. I had just spent a year locked in my house. Here was my first attempt to get back into the real world. My mind filled with visions of catastrophic medical disasters.

I was gasping for air, thoughts ablaze; I prayed for peace as terrifying imaginations of the patients in the next room closed in. Visions of being “in their shoes” made me shudder. How would I endure in that condition? I found it hard to look at the audience. I did, though, and someone caught my eye.

There was a young gentleman in the back of the room. He wasn’t anywhere near retirement age. He may have been in his 20s. The staff wheeled him in with a heavy-duty chair. Because he was young, he still had a good bit of weight to him. His chair had a headrest to support his involuntarily twisted neck.

Rather than an open lap that allowed the passenger to stand up, his thighs braced a little desk, like the ones used by school children. Somehow, his condition had him bent towards the desk. That’s why it was there: to give his arms something to lean on. From what I could tell, he had little control over his limbs. He looked taut and frozen. I felt tragically horrible for this man. Surely, no one deserved a lifetime of this. Even 20 years later, I can still see him.

Hiding in the hallway, I had a decision to make. Rationally, I knew that going back in wouldn’t hurt me. There was nothing contagious there. We would perform, pack up the truck, and return to a less distressing home life.

But anxiety doesn’t work that way. It scoffs at rationality. I shook in that hallway with its blue cinder block walls, its well­meaning end tables with fake flowers. They weren’t soothing. This place embodied the stark horrors of my worst fears.

My mind would not release the obsession with ending up like that poor young man in the back of the room. I kept thinking about the proximity of the bathroom. How far away was the sink where I could wash my hands? But then, who else washed their hands there? Residents? Staff? Could I wash off my fears in there?

But we all know the answer to that. It’s not easy to wash away fears, wash away worry, wash away that depressed feeling. You’ve likely tried. I know I did. Eventually, it feels like you run out of options, but that is why I’m here to reassure you that there might be another way.

The Workin’ Blues

When I came out of undergrad, I got a great job with an interna­tional consulting firm. Newfound freedom from schooltime poverty and late-night cram sessions promised a celebration of new friends and fortune (well, not quite “fortune,” but it felt like that). My colleagues and I, us “new recruits,” bonded over hard work and new responsibilities. Even with my health problems, this new world’s excitement fueled my professional and social ambitions.

We traveled all week for work. We sipped on fancy cocktails we charged to clients or could finally afford on our own. Despite whatever benefits that we enjoyed, we continued the long-time tradition of complaining about our bosses.

Around a year and a half in, my issues of anxiety and depression ground me down. I was a disaster, physically and emotionally, from this high-pressure, high-flying lifestyle. While my friends would occasionally turn tired or frustrated, I was becoming overwhelmed and unstable.

My doctors increased my medications. Eventually, I couldn’t wake up in the morning. Instead of being there at 8 am, like my peers, I’d drag myself in at 10 am. Can you imagine the heat I was getting from “upstairs?” Here I was, this young upstart, showing up for work TWO HOURS LATE every day! Was I nuts?

My managers weren’t impressed. And, let’s face it, I looked perfectly healthy on the outside. They knew I was qualified to do the work. They could only conclude that I was irresponsible and disrespectful, breeding resentment and negative feedback. This unfortunate cycle stimulated even more anxiety and depression. My mind spun like a revolving door of unlikely catastrophes to the point of incapacitation. My mood became frail and fatalistic. Eventually, my whole being collapsed. I felt like my life was over. I called Human Resources and told them I needed time off. I never made it back.

Losing that job wasn’t the most troublesome aspect I faced; it was losing my friends. I had some good friends in the firm that meant a lot to me. But my frequent meltdowns were untenable. I heard from friends less and less. All they knew was that I disappeared one day and ended up on long-term disability.

Twenty years isn’t that long ago, but mental health challenges were still more stigmatized and misunderstood than they are now. I couldn’t do a great job of explaining myself either. Plus, I was taking a barrage of meds. Who knows what I said or did to the people around me as I fell off the map?

One particular night, I recall talking to a friend and asking for his support as I attempted to change my life for the better. Whether I was speaking gibberish or whether he wanted nothing to do with the drama, I still remember the feeling of an impenetrable wall rising between us.

Think back to your relationships: family, friends, and colleagues. Do any of my experiences sound familiar?

Will They Stick with Me?

Many of us have loved ones with health problems. We want to care for them and fulfill their needs, but it’s complicated. Sometimes, the overwhelming exhaustion of being a caregiver strains a relationship past the breaking point, which is natural and understandable. It’s difficult for both parties. This dynamic reminds me of a particular case when I was in a new and promising relationship.

I was already having health problems before meeting her, and I told her about them. She was very caring and understanding. When I would lock myself in after work each day, she would sit on the couch with me, glued to “The First 48.” I felt accepted. I felt like, here’s a girl who is OK with me as I am. Our future doesn’t depend upon me miraculously transforming into this perfectly healthy person to improve our relationship.

During that time, I agonized every minute of the day. My medications were giving me akathisia, and I was screaming inside. This inhuman pain burned my entire body and brain. There was a spear sticking through my skull. My nervous system was hooked up to a battery, overloading my pain sensors and causing me to tremor. My neck was tight. My jaw clenched. I felt like if I stopped moving, I would jump out the window.

I still went to work. Intense exercise during lunch and after work provided some relief. I’d hit the gym on my lunch break. Then, the raft of meds I was on would put me to sleep. Lunchtimes, post-gym, you’d find me passed out in my car at the far end of the parking lot. My colleagues didn’t know what to think. My late arrivals, furtive dashes off to the gym, and naps in the parking lot didn’t bring scores of new friends.

After work, I would drive downtown, rip my bike from the trunk, and pedal the trails as fast as possible. When I pedaled hard enough, for long enough, I could feel the electrification of my nervous system withdrawal. While I never became completely calm, I could survive another day.

My new girlfriend was a tremendous supporter. She listened to me, brainstormed medical decisions, and comforted me through the text messages we exchanged throughout the day. At night, we watched goofy reality TV shows, followed by her tucking me in.

Getting into bed, I could sense my body beginning to writhe. Muscles were tightening. Adrenaline began pumping. Trying to lay down and “rest” was laughable under these circumstances. That’s why her waiting with me to sleep every night was so helpful. She would climb into bed and listen for me to lapse into sleep. Then, she would gracefully sneak out and head back home. She did this every night. Even now, I look back upon her devotion with awe.

However, there did come a day when she couldn’t do it anymore.

After an evening meal at my place, the break unfolded. I was no doubt squirming from my daily bout of burning alive. I slumped into my usual needy state. It was the last straw.

Understandably distraught, she vented her long pent-up frustrations. She confessed to being worn out from taking care of me. It was just too much and too constant and everlasting. Given my fragility and having a definite appreciation for her essential role in my daily life, this was frightening and dishear­tening.

I understood, though. I conceded her right to be exhausted, burnt to a crisp. How couldn’t she be? I felt the same way about taking care of myself! I wish I could’ve walked away with her.

Of course, I felt dejected. I wasn’t mad at her. I just knew I would miss her. The word “miss” didn’t capture it. She was the bridge to my remaining slivers of social function. Once again, my substandard health was destroying my relationships. That was a 1-2 punch.

I’ve spent years on disability. I’ve been barricaded alone in my house. I’ve watched in angry despair as my hard-won earnings disappeared into doctors’ pockets. I’ve watched friends walk away. Girlfriends trail off. Colleagues snicker.

Do you know anyone that can relate to this? It’s a difficult downfall.

The “Frank” of years ago would’ve been too embarrassed to confess these stories. But, as other people have inspired me with their honesty, it’s my turn to throw out a lifeline.

I hope you will take these confessions as a way to connect with me. So, when I say there is hope and help (even if it’s not Ketamine), you can say, “OK, maybe. Frank sounds like a bad case. If he’s optimistic, I can be too.”

Just Try Harder

Carrying a medical burden is expensive: financially, emotionally, and socially.

Have you lost friends? Been unfairly judged?

Maybe you’ve just drifted away because of your isolation?

Lost a job? A spouse? Custody of your children? Or just some self-respect?

When you can’t “snap out of it” or “take a pill,” you are the most frustrated. You feel terrible watching the movie of your life starring you as the sick, lonely, and misunderstood character.

These backslides are not from the lack of trying--just the opposite. I’ve put my very best into every effort. For many years, not just days or weeks, I’ve pushed myself beyond the breaking point. But in life, as we all know, you don’t always get an “A” for effort. Instead of comparing myself to others, I remind myself that whatever my achievements, I’ve made them despite my soul-sucking illness.

Even as the public becomes more educated, people often don’t “get it.” But I get it. I know how mentally and physically excruciating a health problem can be.

While depression is somewhat relatable to the general public, with most people having a sense of what it feels like to be “sad,” bipolar disorder and OCD are more abstract.

Here’s an example from my own life:

Do you know that quick email you dash off to a friend or colleague? That may take me hours. I can’t stop checking it, reading it, rereading it, rechecking it, squinting at it, and reconsidering it.

When I’m cleaning, I engineer an ordering of tasks that will be the least “contaminating.” I wouldn’t want to schedule brushing my teeth after touching that filthy garbage can.

Whenever I hear or see a date, my mind launches into calculations. If that movie came out in 1991, how old was I? If someone was born in the same year but a different month, how far apart are our ages? Am I older or younger than them?

Am I going to lose control of myself or my thoughts and do something rash or illegal? Will I end up in jail without a defense even I can understand?

When are my loved ones and friends going to die? Which one(s) will die first? Can it be prevented? Will I survive their parting?

These are standard daily obsessions in my life. There are many more. They overrun my mind from morning to night. Do they then rest? No. Sleep brings vivid night terrors.

Is it any wonder how a person’s mental health suffers? Do you ever experience some of these thoughts? That spiral, that frantic and endless churning of your worries and fears?

It’s tough to live in this kind of mental state. To watch everyone else, seemingly fine and happy, going through life “effortlessly” while you can barely get out of bed or take out the trash.

I’m confessing some of my baggage here in hopes you’ll feel more comfortable reading along. We all need some encoura­gement. When someone shows vulnerability, it is a reminder that we are not alone. That someone imperfect, just like the rest of us, is making progress.

Most of my health concerns are psychiatric. Low-dose IV Ketamine therapy’s impact on mental and behavioral health conditions is what I know the most about as a researcher and a patient. Accordingly, the text below refers to these conditions often. The good news is that people are finding help for other conditions, including forms of chronic pain and substance abuse.