Not Just Mental Stress; If You Know of the Infamous Movie Projectile Scene, You Would Know What I Mean.

My earliest confirmed memory of a panic attack traces back to elementary school; I was only seven.

That poor girl standing in front of me during the assembly - I recall only the consuming blur of my own distress, but she certainly had it worse than me at that moment.

I remember feeling unwell and trying desperately to stay still until, without warning, I projectile vomited, almost The Exorcist-style.

Everything turned hazy for a moment, but I can never forget the cup of Milo my teacher brought me; it remains the nicest I've ever had, perhaps because it came with the magic of kindness.

Photo by Nataliya Melnychuk on Unsplash

I still struggle to excuse myself away from difficult situations or simply explain what's happening. Many times, I simply try to wish the panic away until it's too late.

My auto reflex is to avoid standing behind or facing anyone, to clear my path for the projectile. The silent commandment is absolute: thou shalt hurt no one or mess up someone's clothing.

This has plagued the rest of my life. Though I've learned to identify and avoid many triggers, there are always unexpected elements that bring on an attack.

When I started working, my commute required two different buses, with an interchange in town. It was typically unreliable -typical for public transport.

I am convinced that I missed the round on some days due to delays, knowing how few trips the bus made. There wasn't even a proper bus stop; it simply pulled up next to someone's front door.

Once I secured a seat, I was locked in no matter what. I was probably the most awful person on that bus because I absolutely would not surrender my seat.

It wasn't a priority seat, but any decent person would offer it to those who needed it more. And yet, things always seem to happen when they are already at their worst.

While battling the motion of a panic attack, willing myself not to make a spectacle and certainly not to repeat the Exorcism stunt, it felt as though everyone had to stand right next to me with their silent demand to surrender my place.

If I stood up, there would be no space left on the bus floor for me to even faint. To avoid eye contact and the possibility of being called out or scolded, I kept my head down, eyes fixed on the floor for the entire journey.

Fast forward to the present, and I've had to stop driving entirely because of my bag of conditions. I rely on e-hailing for doctor's appointments, but the cost is astronomical, especially during the 7 to 8 a.m. peak.

If I were in a different country, I truly believe I wouldn't have this problem. Public transit in places like Tokyo or New York is reliable and on time, which wouldn't trigger my anxiety because I could adjust everything accordingly.

The cruel irony of my life is that my own functioning system - my ability to manage my anxiety - is constantly undone by another external, malfunctioning system.

That's my so-called life.

©Britt H.

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