Ketamine, TMS, a fecal analysis: my year trying San Francisco’s most experimental depression treatments

Carly Schwartz wanted a solution for her mental health struggles. She found one, but not where she expected

On a threadbare carpet in the living room of a Bernal Heights bungalow, I lay blindfolded on my back. Two middle-aged rescue terriers, one missing an eye, sniffed my feet and climbed up and down my legs. F**kin’ Perfect by Pink blared in the background, but the music sounded muffled and distant, like I was listening from underwater.

It was 1pm on a Thursday. Instead of going to the office, I’d allowed a shaman named Jonathan to inject my thigh muscle with a large dose of liquid ketamine. Even in my compromised state, high and spread out like a corpse on a stranger’s rug, I knew I’d reached peak absurdity. I also knew I wouldn’t emerge from this activity with even a slight improvement to my mental health.

Carly Schwartz is the author of the new memoir I’ll Try Anything Twice: Misadventures of a Self-Medicated Life and the former editor in chief of the San Francisco Examiner