Could you tell me a time you felt panic?

I was twenty-two. It was a balmy summer evening. The kind where you’re thankful for the reprieve of the breeze after the unrelenting beating of the sun all day. The night felt still and calm, which was stark in contrast to how I felt inside. 

I was working overseas at a summer camp. The days were long and emotionally exhausting but somehow still splattered with fun and fulfillment. It was the kind of experience that was hard to describe to anyone outside of the bubble, and even now the words feel in-adequate. I’d reached the level of tiredness where you can’t even particularly feel the fatigue anymore. It felt like an out of body experience in all ways except that the day's events screamed for my attention so I was also acutely aware of my surroundings. I used to question whether it was humanly possible to sleep whilst swimming underwater and my bloodstream was undoubtedly made up of 99% adrenaline. 

This particular day was mildly more stressful than any other. I say that simply because they were all a bit insane. At the time, I was working in two roles from the crack of dawn, then stumbling to bed for 4 hours and getting up and doing it all over again. I was also months into this particular travel stint and feeling homesick. I was expecting it all from myself even when I can now reflect on how utterly impossible juggling so many balls at once would’ve been for anyone.

I was feeling a bit overwhelmed at the particularly crazy string of events the day had held and had taken a moment outside with a friend. I soon found myself with a front row seat to an emotional and disgruntled colleague. Confrontation isn’t my favourite thing on any day, particularly when there’s yelling involved, but on this particular day it was like kryptonite to my already stretched mental state. 

Within a matter of minutes the commotion around me became foggy because an overwhelming sense of breathlessness had taken over. It felt like the noise outside of me didn’t exist anymore and instead I was trapped in my head with four thousand panicked thoughts demanding my attention. My chest felt restricted in a way I’d never felt before and all I could manage in a constrained whisper was “I don’t know what’s wrong with me”. I don’t add one ounce of exaggeration when I say I genuinely felt like I was going to die.

Unlike me at the time, it was painstakingly clear to my friend that I was having a panic attack. It was the day I'd find out first hand that the name does not lie. It was the first of these I’d experience in my life-time, but not the last. Ironically, it was also the same exact scenario I’d spent months counselling kids out of. Calmly, confidently, recognising the signs and counting with them slow breaths until they returned to a state of equilibrium. The entire time, having no concept of just how much it takes over your entire body. How real it physically feels. How much it takes away your control and how overwhelmingly petrifying it can be. Especially, when you don’t recognise what it is. 

We’ve taken strides at advocating for and supporting mental health and all it encompasses. This is incredible, necessary and undeniably important. But, sometimes we make the mistake of thinking we understand it to the point where we can imagine what it feels like to walk a mile in someone else's shoes, when really we can’t. No matter how alike our experiences or their effects on us, whether we’ve felt this sense of panic I experienced, or stress, or anxiety, or depression, we'll all experience them in our own way.

Before this day I can say I thought I understood what panic felt like. I would breathe with others and was genuine and sincere when I provided words of comfort. But, after this day I was also acutely aware of how I could never understand this experience for someone else either. Where their limits lie in comparison to where the breaking point was for me will be different. So too will the plethora of thoughts running through their mind. And, that's crucial to recognise because every experience would also be equally valid and real. Each would include its own measure and experience of panic.

We can have a concept of the struggle of those around us, we can support, champion and advocate for one another (and we absolutely should), but we also have to acknowledge that we all see the world through a different lens. Everything is painted in a slightly different hue.

We all have mental health struggles. But, they're all real and valid. Acknowledging we could never truly understand one another’s struggle is part of making each other feel seen. Part of understanding is accepting the fact that none of us can ever truly understand at all. But, the fact that we know can’t is also what brings us together. Understanding that each of our experiences is unique, but also equal, well that's what unites us all.