The K-Hole Longevity | Ketamine Treatment, Bipolar Depression & Emotional Stability

Ketamine Round 4 and bipolar depression had quite the square-off. This was the first treatment where I’d honestly say I had a bit of a “trip.” We’ve been steadily increasing the dosage, and I guess this one hit the sweet spot — or the sweet spot hit me. After telling my doctor that my third ketamine infusion only kept the depression away for about five or six hours, we decided to increase the dose again.

I stayed lucid the whole time, talking with him as I slid into the so-called “k-hole.” I started recalling a trip from when I was younger. The memory felt sharper than usual — almost too sharp — and a couple of times I had to stop and collect myself because it felt like my thoughts were veering off track.

When the hour was up, I sat in the waiting room for a good fifteen minutes before getting in the car with my mom. By the time I got home, I knew the rest of the day was a wrap. Two hours of sleep the night before didn’t help. I collapsed onto the couch, watched TV for about an hour, and then drifted in and out of sleep for the next three. When I finally got up, I actually felt good. Clearer. Lighter. My mood was better than it had been going into the treatment.

This time, I felt like I got more mileage out of the ketamine — maybe one to three days of reduced depression, which felt like a win. Traveling out of town also helped. But here’s the strange part: after those few days, I started feeling like I could cry at any moment. Not in a falling-apart way, just… cracked open. Emotionally raw.

I’ve been drained almost every day — which usually means depression — but I read an article about how ketamine can unlock emotions we’ve shoved down for years. So part of me wonders if this wave of vulnerability is some kind of emotional unthawing. My doctor is out of town, so I haven’t been able to ask him yet. My next treatment is two weeks away, and honestly, I’m praying the ketamine keeps pushing me toward some kind of stability.

I also told my psychiatrist that if I didn’t get a night of sleep soon, I would end up overdosing again. I told him what I had taken the night before, and he said, “Well, that’s about a 50/50 overdose already.” I still don’t fully know what that means, but I do know that when I hit a certain level of despair, my brain just snaps into survival mode. All I can think about is getting sleep — not consequences, not tomorrow, not anything.

Thankfully, this time I had a plan. If things got bad, I knew I’d go to the hospital. I reached out for support early and stayed with my parents so I wasn’t alone. I’m grateful we started a new medication and never had to use the hospital plan.

Still, it’s terrifying — the places a bipolar mind can drag you. It’s like being strapped into the biggest roller coaster in the park with no restraints… except you never wanted to get on the ride in the first place.