My first experiences with anxiety and panic attacks occurred when I was fifteen. It all started with the Junior Certificate, more specifically with the intense pressure I, and most students, was put under to excel.
In school I wasn't one of the shining stars of my year, nor was I considered a simpleton. I would say I floated somewhere in the middle, with a above average aptitude for one or two subjects. My parents has always told me that I was highly intelligent, and I was expected to demonstrate my intellect through my exam results. At fourteen I had started to have difficulties with my concentration, and found the forty minute classes difficult to sit through. While teachers tried to fill our young heads with historical facts, poetry and mathematical equations I found my mind constantly wandering. My thoughts would drift outside the classroom, daydreaming about unlikely scenarios or ruminating on mistakes and negative experiences. As a result, I struggled to keep up with my studies. At the time I put this down to a lack of brainpower; my inability to focus was clearly an indication of my dull wit.
As the Junior Certificate exams approached, and my mothers expectations of me were mentioned more and more, my fear and unease rapidly increased. During revision sessions it felt as though a metal band was around my chest, tightening evermore, often to the point that I would struggle to catch my breath. I was still self harming at home, but now I started to do so in school - repeatedly racking my nails over the back of my hand until it was raw. Waiting for my oral french exam I managed to draw blood, and tiny scars dot my hands to this day. My exploits with the nail scissors was easy to conceal, but there was no hiding the assault on my hands. I have no idea what my mother said when she discovered what I was doing, but I have a sense of shock and dismay. And anger.
TO her credit, she brought me to see a psychologist. I was hooked up to monitors and asked a series of questions. First a baseline was established, what age I was, my address etc, and then we discussed school and the upcoming exams. Unsurprisingly whatever she was measuring (heart rate? sweat level? To this day I have no idea) spiked when she brought up anything to do with my education. Her diagnosis was Anxiety, and she recommended breathing exercises and walking. The mere notion of going for a walk while I could be busy cramming a years worth of information into my head was...anxiety inducing. As for the breathing exercises, well lets just say I wrote a lot of awful poetry as a result of sitting in silence with my thoughts. At fifteen I had no understanding of how to quiet ones mind, hell I still struggle with it now. The mere thought of Mindfulness makes me shudder. The whole thing was an exercise in futility, I continued to dig furrows in my hands and the sense of impending failure grew and grew.
In the end I did okay in my exams, not quite up to standard, but good enough to satisfy my mum. I was relieved that I had done better than expected, but ashamed that I had not done better. Shame was something that I was deeply familiar with at this point, but more on that delightful emotion later. But overall I believed all of the stress and fear was worth it. Colour me surprised when I returned to school(skipping transition year in order to escape school faster), to discover that the Junior Certificate means absolutely nothing. In the fifteen years since I sat those exams not once have I been asked about my results. The pressure I had put myself under, and had put upon me by others, was utterly unnecessary. All of the tears, nightmares and sessions with my trusty scissors counted for naught. The Junior Cert is brushed off as soon as those results are placed in your hand, and if like me you went straight into fifth year, you start a new, and even more grueling journey to evaluation.
My final two years in school were the worst of my entire education. Worse than being spat on, worse than having my head slammed into walls, worse than being called a freak. My attention span became shorter and shorter, I struggled to complete course work and with every passing day I felt like more of a failure. Clearly I was stupid and utterly useless. My home life was turbulent, to put it mildly, and I had lost almost all contact with my old friends, and had very limited contact with girls in my year. Not only was I weird, awkward, acne riddled and unwanted; now I was also an imbecile. To me these were facts, and unchangeable ones at that.
Anyone who views themselves so unfavourably is going to feel bad, or at least unhappy for a while. Most people's teenage years are difficult at one time or another; I have yet to meet someone who didn't doubt or dislike themselves at some point. The difference for people with BPD, or anyone with self esteem problems, is that we don't just think bad things about ourselves for a while. Our core beliefs about ourselves become entirely negative; at the most basic level we believe we are unworthy, unlikeable, unlovable and that we are entirely to blame for this. You can't hate yourself and attribute your deficiencies to another person, because you believe you are the problem. If you have low self esteem, or no self esteem, you are always at fault.
Have you have ever done something wrong, and felt guilt or terrible afterwards? Or tried something and failed, and felt incompetent or inferior in some way? Unless your Donald Trump you probably have. Try to imagine feeling that way about yourself every second of every day. Everything you do is predicated with crippling self doubt, and a surety of defeat.
I completely cracked under the pressure of the Leaving Certificate. I knew I was going to fall short of what was expected and I cried over my textbooks everyday. I sat in evening study and stared blankly at the pages in front of me. I started walking at the weekends, winding my way up to Killiney hill and sitting as close to the edge as I dared. This was the first time suicide entered my mind. I was sixteen. I cut and cut and cut just to keep myself afloat. The pain no longer served only as a punishment, now the sharp bite gave me relief. It stopped the endless cycle of vitriolic diatribe in my head. I had graduated from a nail scissors to razor blades, and the razor became my most trusted companion. Bad day at school? Slash. Fight with my mother? Slice. Overwhelmed by loneliness? Hack. My only knowledge of the life of a sixteen/seventeen year old comes from my own memories, or television. But I'm pretty sure that being best friends with a Gillette 'Safety' Razor isn't the average experience.
The stress and pressure of exams however, is perfectly normal so I'm hoping you can all understand that part of this post. I'm also hoping you had a better way of dealing with it than me. Or at least a less destructive one.
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