“Art: The word, the thing, or the person?”

Exploring the theoretical and practical overlaps in Ketamine Assisted Psychotherapy, Art Therapy, Psychoanalysis, and Trauma.

By Margaret Whitehair, LPC, ATR-BC; EMDR Certified Therapist, and KAP provider

Title: ‘What the fuck is that guy doing in my painting?” 

Watercolor on paper 5”x7” 

by Margaret Whitehair 2024

The structure was twelve women–six sitting and six journeying. One nurse, strong, calm, and centered.  Two facilitators: one very experienced and comfortable holding a big space for everyone, and one learning the ropes and offering her Yoga skills as a part of the opening grounding rituals.  Everyone, everyone in the room is trauma-informed and therapy trained and certified to the gills. I, trained and experienced. Thirteen years of professional experience, multiple therapists starts and stops, and real blocks at times. I was feeling the boost of confidence from my recent certification in trauma. And some of the imposter syndrome is starting to lift. And yet, a total disbelief at my discovery. 

You set an intention at the beginning of the journey. What do I want to learn from this? What am I open to receiving in this journey towards myself, my true self, and my higher healing intelligence? Initially, my exploration was about understanding my attachment style.  Why do I have to go so far to be able to come back and be close? There is, and has been, an inevitable orbit to my relationships and attachment patterns. The most noticeable one that was confusing and recurring was becoming an issue in my daily life. Why would I need to “hate” or “dislike” or even resent my other? Why was it inevitable that at times I would enter into that mind frame and need to escape? It sent me off on a trajectory, which now feels like an orbit of sorts. A lopsided orbit, where the gravitational pull at the farthest end of the orbit served to catapult me back to closeness. I was tired of the trajectory, this involuntary trip I took, in response to I did not know what. Years of trying to understand my “why”. 

In my daily life, I would feel it like a switch. Suddenly I would want to get away. To run, to go anywhere. Walgreens? To run an errand? It did not matter. Any escape would soothe me. And like magic, going away, then gave me permission to miss or see clearer. An emotional nearsightedness. Exhausting.

I love people, I love their stories, their eyes, their love, their feelings. I connect deeply and then the orbit starts. I had been used to it as a child, having parents living in different countries, spending time in one or the other, adapting to the rules of one household and the lack of rules in the other. Oscillating from a level of taking for grantedness, and comfort that, at its worst, resembles emotional neglect. At its best, it meant freedom. Too much freedom at times. Then catapulted to a structured ruled environment with clear expectations and “routine”, that dreaded word.

In these two existences, I wanted to connect. There were unspoken rules. In one, do not talk about your mother’s boyfriends, parties, impulsivity, or beauty. In the other, don't do anything to risk not being accepted in this already precarious arrangement. Be as cute and helpful as can be. Be nice, so nice.

In one, I wonder where on the planet the person may be, or what they may be doing, all though it was probably sleeping with a hangover if it was early. In the other, wonder and notice any sign of tension and diffuse it. Diffuse and frustration, and be grateful. Learn to speak English as soon as possible so that the person who is caring for you can understand what you need while your dad is at work. Do whatever your older sibling says, as he is in charge while you travel alone across the globe on planes four times a year. He is your ally, but he has a temper. 

Don't say things you should in the second place because he will get upset. 

Don't upset the lady, because then there will be a family meeting. And there will be consequences. Don't drink her ginger ale. 

Consequences. What are those? Can't we just do what we do at the other place? Leave in the middle of the night to some random trip 14 hours away, wake up in the car after being snuck in there on a whim for some spontaneous fun. This is so fun. Where are we? Sleep in the car because we arrived too late to take the “lancha” to the cabin? No problem. Don't complain, and look pretty, like a lady.

Are you thirsty? Don't worry, the adults have beer. Take a sip, beer will calm your thirst, you cute seven-year-old.

At the lake, I would paint. Art was allowed in both places. It was the bridge. The one aspect that transcended the distances, language barriers and the rules. So I fell in love with art. I needed it, and I depended on it.

Art also had a “lancha” and a cabin and a lake. And he was the epitome of good. Kind, warm, like a muffin man. A picture-perfect husband with a picture-perfect wife. Both were tall, tan, and blue-eyed. Both beautiful…

 After the second day of training and my first journey, I made art as a way to integrate my nonverbal experience, as a way to process whatever had been moved.  As I was painting, I realized there was an image in my painting that I had not intentionally “put there”. I asked myself, “What the fuck is the person doing in my painting?”. There had been no asking and no permission to enter that space. And yet there he was, in my painting. Pain.Thing.

It was a string I had noticed in my consciousness and started to pull on. If KAP is a gateway to the dissolution of walls and dropping into the unconscious, then is art the language to bring that back?

The following day, the intention was to “be better with myself more” to know “I will find my way home”. I was more open and ready to release. I knew I was safe, in my nest with the support and guidance of these 11 other amazing women exploring their own intentions.

The colors and the music were everything, I descended into the earth and became the earth. I observed with love and awe and encountered creatures. At some point, I say, “ I cannot see”...”, “I do not want to go there”, then,  “ I love dancing, blinking my eyes. I'm going to stay here for a minute.” There is so much going on… I love art so much”....and then silence. 

There it was. Motherfucker. I said it. “Motherfucker”. “That guy?” in total confusion and disbelief. 

The level of disbelief, despite all the evidence and supporting structure, was harder to believe than the possibility itself. Even though I knew it in the experience to be true, nonverbally, and with Default Mode Network offline, letting and allowing all the connections to be made freely, with my body and spirit knowing I was safe, surrounded by support and expertise and readiness. The conclusion or realization was hard to believe. This is what was most surprising. 

Love can turn into anger so easily. 

I cry. If music is God then what is art? I am not sure I want to go back there. Wait, if this is true, does Art equal hell?  That doesn't make sense. I felt my intellect (defenses? Words?) start trying to work overtime. Does that mean I have to choose? How can I choose? I asked myself to just feel. I cry. 

How could it have taken me so long to understand? The language piece and interrelationship between these words and their function in my life. Art was my main source of self-expression, the main way to express feelings where words were lacking. “Art” is an identity and foundation for all my quirks and permission to be who I am and how I am, due to art. 

Why would I then think Art is hell? Why would I feel like I have to choose between the “Art” that I thought to be mine and true, and the art that was hiding all along? Or that had gotten buried in my psyche?  The one that would have crushed my reality if I had dared accept the experience. 

I was now confused at having solved a puzzle that made no sense. Why would this conflict lead me to believe I had to choose? How could art be the perpetrator and the savior at the same time? 

The kind and calming presence of the retreat leader, whom by this point I trust fully, the experienced and compassionate gaze of my therapist/colleague sitter reminded me I was safe. Her beautiful presence, long black hair, and precarious relationship with her own body and pain, reminiscent of Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride come to life, gave me permission to feel my own pain. Their presence reassured me it was OK to feel this. The nurse's caring and supportive curiosity asked me, gave me permission to take that extra step to admit that this was a difficult thing to navigate.  I did not want to have to choose the thing that is so important to me, my healing, my lifestyle, and my journey because the “word” was and is somehow contaminated by this early experience whose reality was now undeniable, but which I could still somehow not allow myself to believe.

What would it have taken for me to even consider that experience true? Where would my reality have gone? As I emerged from the journey, the sadness and fragility of my sweet child self was overwhelming. I felt bare, exposed, and deeply connected to some other time and place. 

So many contradictions, and so much confusion. I was such a shape-shifter that I didn't even know who I was. I had secrets I could not tell my mom or dad. What if I DID want to talk?

Was it Art? Is this bad? Did Art hurt me or save me? Probably both.