On Wednesdays we wear Friday

 

Ketamine feels a little bit like being excused from class.

 

Not forever.

 

Just long enough to step into the hallway and realize how loud the room had become.

 

The strange thing is that I never notice the noise until it’s gone.

 

The constant calculating.

 

The replaying.

 

The imaginary conversations.

 

The what-ifs, the should-haves, the tiny anxieties dressed up as responsibilities.

 

They become so familiar that I mistake them for myself.

 

Then a rush of light arrives and creates a little distance.

 

Not between me and reality.

 

Between me and the belief that every thought deserves a microphone.

 

The thoughts are still there.

 

They’re just quieter.

 

Less convincing.

 

Like actors after the curtain falls.

 

What surprises me every time is how small I become.

 

And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

 

I stop feeling like the main character in every problem.

 

I stop believing the universe is waiting for me to solve it.

 

I become a person among people.

 

An animal among animals.

 

A girl on a planet spinning through space, carrying her coffee cups and heartbreaks and grocery lists around with everyone else.

 

There’s something comforting about that.

 

The world suddenly feels much older than my worries.

 

Much bigger than my grief.

 

Much less interested in my catastrophizing.

 

A relief for both of us, honestly.

 

Sometimes memories drift through.

 

Sometimes sadness does.

 

Sometimes joy.

 

But they arrive without their usual demands.

 

They sit beside me instead of climbing onto my shoulders.

 

For a few hours, I get to observe myself rather than defend myself.

 

I get to witness my life instead of managing it.

 

And somewhere in that space, compassion sneaks in.

 

Not the loud kind.

 

Not the inspirational quote kind.

 

Just a quiet understanding that maybe I’ve been carrying certain things longer than necessary.

 

Maybe some mysteries don’t need to be solved.

 

Maybe some wounds can simply be acknowledged.

 

Maybe healing isn’t an achievement at all.

 

Maybe it’s a softening.

 

When the experience ends, the world looks mostly the same.

 

The dishes still exist.

 

The missed calls still exist.

 

The unanswered questions are usually right where I left them.

 

But something subtle changes.

 

The knot loosens.

 

The grip relaxes.

 

The room inside my head feels a little larger.

 

And for a while, that’s enough.

 

More than enough, actually.