When the fear fills the room

We had our fourteenth support group meeting today, with six of us coming together. It felt like an intense session, filled with stories of fear, paranoia, voices, uncertainty and the struggle to remain grounded in our bodies and in the present moment. There was an atmosphere of terror in the room today—the sense that something frightening might happen, that someone might come and attack us, that we might suddenly lose our sense of safety. It felt important that we could stay together with this fear rather than immediately trying to push it away.

One member spoke about hearing very loud voices that disturb and shake them deeply. When the voices become intense, they can become paralysed with fear and find it difficult to do anything at all. Another member shared about hearing abusive voices and being particularly sensitive to loud sounds and noises. These experiences can become overwhelming very quickly. They described having experienced psychotic episodes in the past, trying to come off medication and feeling better for some time, before eventually experiencing another overwhelming episode and returning to medication. Now they are taking a smaller dose and trying to find a balance that allows them to remain well while also feeling present in their life.

Another member spoke about experiencing voices that tell them someone is going to hurt or attack them. Sometimes the experience becomes so vivid that it feels as though their body itself is being wounded or tortured. There is a deep physicality to the fear—it is not simply a thought that something bad might happen, but something that can be felt throughout the body. Another member recognised this experience, speaking about how trauma can sometimes feel as though it is happening to the body again, bringing back sensations of being violated, hurt and completely alone.

We also spoke about medication and the uncertainty that can come with it. One member shared that they have been taking psychiatric medication for many years and have been on many different medications over time. They are now wondering whether their medication needs to be reassessed, but even thinking about changing it creates anxiety. Their family sees the medication as something that has kept them stable for many years, and they are afraid that changing anything might bring back the illness. There is also a fear of frightening their mother or family by even raising the question. They want to approach the conversation carefully and would like someone to help bring their mother into this discussion. I could feel how difficult it is when decisions about our own bodies and treatment are also deeply connected with the fears of the people who care for us.

Amidst all this fear, there was also something beautiful about the range of interests and curiosity within the group. One member spoke about philosophy, sociology, personality types, psychology and books about trauma and the body. Another spoke about Immanuel Kant and his Critique of Pure Reason, and we found ourselves moving briefly into conversations about philosophy, knowledge and the limits of what we can understand. Someone brought up Titanic, remembering the tenderness of the relationship between Jack and Rose and the tragedy of losing someone we love. Even within a meeting filled with fear and paranoia, there were books, films, ideas and memories that gave us something else to hold onto.

Another new member shared about being extremely sensitive to light and crowds. They had struggled with college and eventually dropped out, and they were curious about how people actually heal and recover and whether it might be possible for them to study again. They also spoke about paranoia and the difficulty of interpreting other people's facial expressions. Sometimes a person's expression can feel threatening even when they may not intend anything harmful. At other times, the fear seems to come more from within—from the terror that has already been carried for so long—rather than from the other person. This makes boundaries difficult. How do we know when something is actually happening and when our fear is filling in the gaps?

There was a moment when this member became quiet, and eventually left the group. I wondered whether the intensity of the conversation had become overwhelming. It reminded me again that even creating a safe space does not mean that everything will always feel safe. Sometimes simply being in a room where others are sharing intense experiences can bring up our own fears. Perhaps safety also means being allowed to leave, to take space, and to return when we are ready.

Another member shared that they too were feeling overwhelmed by the meeting. But there was something different about being overwhelmed together. It was not only my overwhelming experience anymore; it was something that belonged to the group. We were all sitting with difficult feelings, and that made it possible to remain present with them. They spoke about how difficult it can be to feel their own body, describing it as hollow and empty.

We tried to stay with that experience rather than immediately moving away from it. Another member also spoke about feeling insecurity in their body and connected this with mindfulness practices they had encountered through workshops. Yet I wondered about the difference between truly being in the body and drifting into a kind of calmness that is actually numbness. Sometimes what looks like peace may also be emotional deadness. Sometimes we can become so detached from ourselves that even the absence of distress does not necessarily mean that we are truly present.

This question stayed with me: What does it actually mean to be in our bodies? Is being calm the same as being present? Is feeling nothing the same as being peaceful? Can we distinguish between grounding ourselves and simply escaping into numbness? One member stayed with us only briefly today. They joined while someone else was speaking and left while someone was still speaking, so there was hardly any opportunity for them to share. I felt sad about that. I wished there had been enough space for them to speak freely and for us to hear their voice. I am sure there are experiences, thoughts and feelings they carry that could become part of our collective understanding if there were enough time and enough room.

Today's meeting reminded me that support groups are not always peaceful spaces. Sometimes they are full of fear. Sometimes paranoia enters the room. Sometimes voices become louder, bodies become tense, and people need to leave. Sometimes we cannot find the right words. But perhaps the work is not to create a space where fear never enters. Perhaps the work is to create a space where fear can enter and still be held. Where someone can say, I am terrified, and another person does not immediately run away. Where someone can speak about voices, paranoia, medication, trauma, or the fear of being attacked, and still remain part of the community. Where we can be overwhelmed and not have to be alone with that overwhelm. I left today's meeting thinking about how fragile our sense of safety can be, and how much courage it takes to keep returning to one another despite that fragility. Maybe healing begins not when the fear disappears, but when we slowly discover that we do not have to face the fear by ourselves.

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