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

O n 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, li...

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