Can ketamine therapy help with depression? Yes, but it’s expensive.

“Ketamine by itself is actually quite inexpensive,” says Levy. “What’s so expensive is the fact that you have a lot of professional time to go along with the experience. You’re screened by a psychiatrist, you have a therapy team, and someone to monitor you for the duration of the experience. experience. So these are people whose time is…unfortunately quite expensive.” The services are also not covered by insurance, as the use of ketamine for depression is considered off-label by the FDA.

Before going to Field Trip, I put antennas on my Instagram story: who had paid for the ketamine and found the experience “worth it? OK, so this wasn’t exactly a peer-reviewed study, but I thought some of their answers might speak to the frustrating reality of mental health in America today.

“I’m very interested in a ketamine-guided thing, but it’s so expensive that I admire it from afar on Instagram,” a friend told me. “And just do ‘mushrooms’ with my friends.”

“My girlfriend was curious how much it would cost and contacted one of these Instagram ads, $800 per session or something,” added another. “The only people who can afford it are the children whose [depression] is financed by a trust fund.”

After generations of depression relegated to the shadows of society, a dirty word not to be uttered in public, we live in a golden age of “it’s OK not to be OK!!!” Messaging. But how come you need tons of available wealth – or, in my case, a job with tons of benefits – to get quality help? Ultimately, the million dollar question “why is ketamine so expensive” can apply to most other exorbitant medical costs in this country.

What does a ketamine session look like?

Was I on this rostrum as I embarked on my ketamine journey? I must admit that I was not. I felt peaceful as Jenna began with a meditation, reminding myself that if things ever got too overwhelming, I could always catch my breath. “Blessings on your journey, Alaina,” she cooed as a chorus of female voices singing in unison rose from the playlist echoing through my headphones.

I first felt a melting sensation in my back – soon my limbs too felt like puddles and I lost all sense of having a physical body. Very slowly, I had no idea who I was or what I was doing. This, of course, was fucking terrifying, but I found ways to calm myself – taking deep breaths, following the music, remembering that I had a mouth that I could turn into a smile. I gave up worrying about it.

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