Self-Esteem

I haven't blogged in months. I would love to tell you that I was too busy living life to talk to a computer screen but the reality is much more mundane and predictable; my depression and mood instability had improved, and I was too afraid to write as a (mostly) mentally competent person. Poor writing and bad grammar can be excused when you are cognitively impaired, but I discovered I lack the mental fortitude/balls to be judged as a functioning human being.

Luckily, for nobody, I am once again cocooned in the familiar blanket of depression; albeit a milder manifestation than its predecessor. So to the keyboard I return, for better or worse.

Over the last year I have done a lot of work with my therapists to address and, in most cases, move past events in my life that have contributed to my being an emotional equivalent of a broken condom. Yet my core belief system remained unchanged. No matter how many 'Mother hates me' sessions I had, I still couldn't look myself in the eye. And then I realised that I was missing something - self-esteem.

Let me be clear, I absolutely do not think that everyone else is walking around full of pride; dignity oozing from their pores like cheese from a perfectly stuffed pizza crust. I believe most of us have some level of insecurity, and if you don't, you're probably the next Ted Bundy. Or Tom Hardy. But I've come to realise that my self-deprecation is yet another maladaptive coping mechanism I lean on. And I have no idea how to overcome it. I looked through every page of my stupid (and useful, whatever) DBT folder and there is nothing on self-esteem.

So I googled self-esteem, and there was one exercise that appeared on nearly every page - List things you like about yourself. Reader, I laughed. I was first asked to list what I like about myself in 2004, during group therapy. I had nothing, I handed up a blank page. During my last admission, in August/September 2015, I was asked the same question; after 9 weeks I had nothing. Yesterday I tried to think of three things I like about myself, I have nothing.

If I tried to think of three things I don't like about myself? No problem. Although I think that's the case for many of us. Not that we can't think of our positive attributes, but that it is much easier to highlight our flaws. Personally, would much rather you ask me for a list of flaws, I'm comfortable and well-acquainted with those. But listing all of my disparaging beliefs would be rather long and boring, so instead I will consider my thoughts over a one hour period.

The purpose of this isn't to elicit sympathy,but rather to acknowledge the impact of low self-esteem and hopefully garner some much needed advice.

I have picked this hour for several reasons; first, it's the present, so my memory isn't required; second, I'm alone, thus removing the possibility of outside interference. Finally, nothing massively life altering or heart breaking has happened today. Yet. There's always time for life to be a dick.

I am constantly amazed and disgusted by how naturally pessimistic my outlook is.

You're an attention seeking whore for posting this.

Your hands are dry. and masculine.

Stop wondering what will happen next, you stupid whore.

Everyone already hates you, this is just adding fuel to the fire.

your thighs are touching, you fat cow.

You're fat now and you still don't have boobs. lol.

Waste of space.

Useless.

Your dogs hate you.

You're fucking ugly.

They literally hate you, they want Alan.

that sigh means Loki hates you.

You type too slow.

seriously stop rubbing your dry claws together.

Your hair is greasy.

You are the ugly friend.

You are a waste of space and money.

Remember money? It's that thing you don't have. Because you're useless.

Genuinely, everyone hates you.

Yes, even them. Remember they didn't reply to you tagging them on a comment on FB? It's because they hate you.

Ooo you're the pity friend! Familiar role for you, loser.

Seriously, your dogs hate you. They won't even cuddle you.

ooo remember how you got fat? That was hilarious right? No? Because you're disgusting now?

They all laugh at you. You know that, right? You don't really fit it, pity invite for one!

Fuck you are pathetic. Can't even afford a cup of coffee.

Also, fat now. FYI.

how's the new career going? Not great? Figures, right?

And nobody wants you there? Because you're fat and ugly maybe?

Remember when you could skip food all day? Willpower eh? None left no?

Oh hey, and you're fucking boring. Go on, discuss the presidential debate, with specifics... No? Global Warming? Property? EINSTEIN?

Literately nothing.

Just visualise your thighs touching off of each other. And your hips getting padded. And your face being plumper.

Good times right? No? Oh fuck... it happens every time. I remember the truth - I'm stuck with this face and brain.


Okay, I gave up after 24 minutes. Mostly because my mind was racing and I couldn't type fast enough.

So that's 24 minutes of me sitting in a chair in my living room, incident free. Just me being me. Fuck I hate me.

Insight

Over the last year I've spent a lot of time trying to explain my eating disorder to family and friends. To most people, risking permanent medical problems, and even death, in order to loose weight is incomprehensible. They don't understand when I tell them that I am fat. They assume I am fishing for a compliment, or reassurance. The reality is, you could tell me a million ways that I look fine, and I will never believe you. I can't believe you, because people lie. I know this because I lie, all the time. I lie to therapists, doctors, my family, my friends and to myself. It's much easier to keep quiet, wear a mask, than show people the ugly truth. But I want to help people to understand eating disorders, that's one of the reasons I write this blog. Understanding the problem is the only way to find a solution, or at least do damage control. Today I found myself in a difficult situation, but I am hoping I can use it to bring you inside my head a little bit.

I was discharged from my last hospital admission in July. On my last day I had a final weigh in and this, along with other information, was sent to my GP. I was to attend my GP monthly for physical monitoring, and my GP would then share the results with my psychiatric team. Two weeks after discharge I had my first visit, and in the space of two weeks I had lost 2kgs. As soon as my eyes took in the number on the scales, I felt dizzy with relief. That abusive, hateful voice in my head was blissfully silent for the first time in months. My doctor was less than pleased; a gentle but stern lecture followed and I promised to try harder. The following month, my weight stayed the same. As my GP explained the importance of reaching and maintaining a healthy weight, I was being torn apart on the inside. I was a failure, I was weak, I was fat and ugly. As soon as I left I started sobbing. The noise in my head got louder and louder, until all I wanted to do was rip myself apart, tear flesh from bone and let all the pain bleed away.

So I stopped going to my GP. My psychiatrist warned me that if I didn't go and see her, he would have me weighed in the clinic. I assured him I would go, but every time I picked up the phone I was overcome with fear. I am 30 years old and I am completely and utterly terrified of the scales. I won't even keep them in my house, which is unusual for someone with an eating disorder. Today I had to attend the clinic for a weigh in, after ignoring repeated requests to see my GP.

I woke up at 4 this morning, my appointment was at 9.30. For five and a half hours I sat in my kitchen, staring longingly at a glass of water and the coffee machine. I was thirsty and my mouth felt like it was full of cotton(a side-effect of my medication), but not a drop of liquid passed my lips. I was hungry, and I am supposed to eat within half an hour of waking. I threw my bowl of porridge in the bin. At 5 I took my dogs for an hour long walk, after which my head was throbbing. But I still couldn't drink anything. At seven I had a shower, after debating for an hour how much moisture my skin would absorb and if it would have a significant effect on my weight. I dried my hair until it felt like straw, because wet hair weighs more than dry. Clothes were next. Despite the cold, a string top was a definite and a bra was out of the question - I couldn't risk the 0.05kg. I always wear leggings for weigh ins, no excess fabric to tip the scales. But just in case I pulled out every pair I owned to find the lightest pair. This took about twenty minutes because plain leggings tend to weigh the same amount. But I found an old, worn out pair that are almost see through at this point. Ankle socks, obviously. I ran the hair drier over my hair again, just to be sure.

I was freezing in my worn out leggings and string top, but shivering burns calories so I threw on a jacket and headed for the clinic. I don't remember the 5 minute drive, all I was thinking of was numbers. I'm pretty sure I didn't check my mirrors once and my legs were shaking so badly I couldn't change gears properly. Thankfully, or regretfully, I arrived safely. In the waiting room I ran through every 'bad' thing I had eaten in the last 3 months. I ran my hands over my hips, feeling the flesh where there used to be bone. I moved in my chair, noticing how it was no longer painful to sit on a hard surface. I flexed my arms, stretching the muscles that were growing back where they used to be so beautifully wasted away. I pulled at my face, my neck, pinched my thighs. All the while feeling more and more disgusted and ashamed of myself. I had thrown away all that hard work, for nothing. I had given up when I was so close to being the perfect weight. People were laughing at me, the fat girl who says she has an eating disorder.

As much as I pleaded with the universe for the number not to have changed, I knew it had. Logically, I had been eating relatively healthy, high protein diet and combined with long, vigorous walks with my dogs meant I was slowly rebuilding muscle tissue. I knew my weight would be up, that was after all the goal right? But when I stepped on those scales, and saw where the pointer stopped, all reason went out the window. For a split second, everything inside me froze, and then my brain exploded into action. If I just cut myself a little bit, it would help. No, maybe we need to binge and purge? Definitely not fatty. Back to self-harming...no I'll get caught. I couldn't think through all of the screaming in my head. I hung my head as I left the clinic, certain the nurses were thinking I was a time waster. I didn't need weigh ins, I was a heifer. I had to roll down the windows to make it home safely, the rain pelting down was the only thing keeping my mind present enough to steer.

I wanted to crawl into bed when I reached home, curl into a ball and cry. But the eating disorder had other plans. I didn't deserve to lie down, we needed to plan. Check my new BMI...19.3? Ten minutes of staring in horror at the big, green HEALTHY WEIGHT on the screen. Another ten minutes of using online calculators to figure out how I could lose 2kgs in the next two weeks...twenty minutes checking how many calories are in apples, bananas, oatcakes. Then a walk in the rain with the dogs while looking at apps that calculate how many calories you have burned. Off come the leggings and on with my standard uniform of baggy jumper and tracksuit bottoms.

Finally, three hours after my weigh in I stopped. I had hidden my lumpy, hideous body under shapeless clothing, I knew what I needed to do to get back in control of my weight. Now I could sit and replay the moment I looked at the scales over and over in my head. That's about as good as I am going to get today, but the majority of my day will be spent obsessing about food. Ruminating over every morsel I ate recently, or that night I had wine, or how twice last week I only walked for 7 kilometers.

Maybe none of what I just described will make any sense to you, or maybe some of it will. I don't know anyone who enjoys being weighed and I know plenty of people who avoid the scales as much as I do. But I think the main difference lies in the intensity of our reactions to the situation - you might decide to eat less carbohydrates or work out more, I'll figure out how I can starve myself without anyone noticing.

Don't Leave Me

I attended the day hospital for six weeks in 2004, attending the same groups and covering the same topics as before. While the day hospital gave structure and routine, I came out feeling just as lost and directionless. I returned to work, took a room with a family my dad knew and attended saw my psychiatrist monthly. The appointments were just 15 minutes long and served only to review my medication, and check the box next to 'No suicidal intent'. Still, I took my pills and tried my best to get on with daily life, fake it 'till you make it. Over the years I have spent long periods pretended to be happy; smiled when I wanted to cry; laughed when I was picturing razors and rivers of blood; kissed when I felt dead inside. I worked so hard at faking it that sometimes I can't take the mask off, sliding it into place is as natural to me as breathing. Not once has faking it improved my mood(despite what countless therapists have said), but it makes other people feel better. If you know me, you've probably only seen my real expression because I've had way too much to drink, or you've had the joy of bringing me to or from A&E. Other than that, what you're seeing is probably an act.

Between 2004 and 2014 I continued to battle depression and self harm. I have no idea how many times I had to go to hospital for stitches over the course of those ten years; how many psychiatrists I saw; how many therapists I spoke to; how many suicide attempts I made. If someone else told me that they couldn't count all the times they tried to end their life, my heart would break for them. But the rules are different for me. On my good days, if I think about it, I chastise myself for being such a nuisance. On my bad days, I berate myself for being so utterly useless, for failing so many times.

I had periods of being 'well', months where I was not self harming or in need of medication. But self harm wasn't the only aspect of my personality that was problematic. I frequently drank until I passed out; I racked up mountains of debt through impulse spending; I hurt people I loved and I allowed others to hurt me. I had no control over my emotions, I could go from one extreme to the other in minutes. Nothing was ever bad, it was terrible; I wasn't just happy, I was delirious. Everything I felt, I felt it with an intensity that never matched the situation. I didn't just love you, I loved you and would die if you left me. And I mean that literally. I don't remember ever saying 'If you go I will kill myself', although it's possible I did, but I know that it was definitely implied on multiple occasions. I know how awful that sounds, and there is no justification for such blatant emotional blackmail. My fear of losing the one person who I couldn't live without far outweighed my morals. That would be yet another characteristic of BPD - tendency to form intense and unstable interpersonal relationships.

If you grow up in an environment where love is not always given, or is expressed in negative ways, the one thing you want most in the world is to be loved unconditionally. All you want is for someone to choose to love you, to fill that need inside to be accepted and wanted. As a child I often felt there was something wrong with me, that when bad things happened it was my fault, always. I remember being 7 or 8, sitting at the top of the stairs one night listening to the noise below, and feeling so very cold and unwanted. Once that feeling takes hold, that shard of icy doubt in your heart, it won't let go. We learn to love by being loved, and if your own parents don't love you, there is no way you can love yourself. To this day, age 30, I still can't name one thing I like about myself, let alone love.

So when someone comes along and loves you, not because they have to, but because they want to, it's terrifying. Yes, terrifying. Imagine yourself balanced on a tight rope, arms outstretched, high above the ground. You're halfway across and the air is still, the only sound is your own heartbeat. You're smiling, you know this is your moment to dazzle the world below. You slowly lift your right leg up and forward, and as you lower it back down there is a sudden gust of wind. You wobble, desperately trying to right yourself. Your arms are stiff, moving up and down to counter the motion of the rope. The rope stills, your arms once again stretched out straight on either side, the terror subsides. You mentally shake it off, maybe laugh at yourself to dispel any lingering fear. You refocus on the rope, on that right leg still poised in the air. Then you notice it. Somehow, during the commotion, you arched your left foot upwards. You are now balancing solely on your toes, your right foot is in the air. If you put the right foot down first you risk pitching forward. Equally, if you put down your left heel first you could fall back. You look down at the ground, down, down, down. The fall will most likely kill you, and if not the pain will make you wish you were dead. You freeze right there in the middle, one false move and it's all over.

Being loved when you don't think you deserve it is like being on that wire. One false move and it will be taken away, the one thing you want more than anything else is the one thing that can destroy you. Everyday you are afraid, of loosing your balance, of loosing love. You let the fear have control, you torment your partner with your insecurities. With baseless accusations. With your insatiable need for reassurance. The more they try to reason with you, to affirm their feelings, the worse it gets. You get smaller and smaller, as the relationship consumes you. You can no longer see yourself outside of the pair; you just want to make them love you every second of the day, even if you drive them crazy in the process.

It took me a long time to figure out who I was on my own, including a small relapse into the land of promiscuity. I still don't like who I am, but I know that I'll still be the same person alone. I know I can be alone, I don't need someone else to survive. Depression does not care what your relationship status is on Facebook, but neither does happiness.

Love

As I mentioned in my previous post, what happened in the wooded area changed something in me. For years my mind, my identity, had been a source of contempt and loathing. I had taken my frustration and anger out on my body by punishing it, etching my pain across my flesh with vehemence. After that night however, I knew that I was not the only one who saw me for what I truly was; my flaws were clearly visible to others. I was defective, and my feelings of worthlessness pushed me ever closer to that black hole. I was desperate to find something I could be good at, something I could offer so that people would like me. To put it simply, all I wanted was to be wanted by someone. Anyone. To be needed for just a moment, one moment to kill the growing emptiness inside me.

So I sought comfort in the one place I knew I would find it - the arms of men. I wish I could express to you how I felt during that time, but I can't. In order to move on from that time in my life I have had to leave it where it belongs, firmly in the past, and to do that I have to emotionally disconnect from it. When I look back at my actions, at how I treated myself, it is as a dispassionate observer. I can tell you that I became trapped in a vicious cycle - if a random guy in a bar 'chose' me, it meant they liked or wanted something I had. I had a purpose. Then in the cold light of day, usually nursing a hangover, I would feel nothing but disgust at myself. Disgust and rejection, because they had, to put it crudely, sampled my goods and not wanted seconds. So I would go back out again, looking for that validation I had been missing all of my life. I don't blame these men for how I felt, the terms of our encounters were perfectly clear to them. They had no way of knowing the anguish I felt each morning, the shame. And yet again and again I would go home with them, the master of my own destruction. Dying inside, one night at a time.

Then I met a boy, a boy who wanted to hold my hand and get to know me. This was new and uncharted territory. I was amazed by this new land, a place where you could return to one person over and over again for acceptance. Instantly I was hooked; how stupid I had been all this time, looking for approval in dark corners and seedy bars. There was someone in the world who couldn't see the corruption inside me, who thought I was interesting. Funny. Maybe even acceptable to look at.

When you spend so long feeling unwanted and undeserving, you are powerless to resist any signs of affection. I grabbed onto it like a life raft, clutching it tightly to my chest to keep me afloat. I felt everything so intensely, and I shared these feelings with the world. I was in love after 3 weeks, I picked up new hobbies and interests to match theirs with gusto. I did everything I could to mold myself into what they wanted, to become what I thought was the perfect girlfriend. The relief and happiness I felt was empowering, but with it came fear like nothing I had felt before. Here was this marvelous thing called a relationship, with these wonderful feelings of acceptance, that had been gifted to me by the universe. I should have been content, enjoying my first true foray into romance and love. But my relief was short lived, because I knew the truth about life. I knew that as quickly as things come to you, they can be taken away. I was consumed with the need to keep hold of this new world. The higher you climb, the further the fall.

Now that I knew what it was to be deemed worthy by another, I couldn't loose it. Most people will experience a level of insecurity in a relationship at one time or another. Maybe a stab of jealousy when he smiled at a pretty barmaid, leading to an overt display of affection and ownership. Wondering for a moment how she could really find you attractive when you see a picture of her ex, sometimes even demanding an explanation from her. Felt suspicious when they liked someone's status and engaged in a bit of Facebook stalking. Or maybe you've let your self-doubt get the better of you and checked his phone or Facebook messages. It happens to the best of us, there are very few people who believe in themselves 100% of the time, and I have yet to meet any of them. But there is a very fine line between 'normal' or acceptable insecurity and the insecurity someone with borderline personality disorder (and indeed most personality disorders) can experience. It's like living in a constant state of threat; the fear that the love and acceptance you have craved all your life can be snatched away; the constant anxiety that your girlfriend/boyfriend will realise what a terrible mistake they have made; knowing that this person could do so much better than you, and the world is full of people lining up to take your spot. You are completely addicted to being loved, and you will do anything to keep it. Which usually means you become the most neurotic and needy partner in the world. If you haven't dated someone with BPD, please trust me when I say it is a whole other level of crazy ass bitch.

The irony is, we spend so much of our time trying to hold onto this thing called love, and yet we don't trust it at all. Who could love me? They can see me, they know how stupid and useless I am, they can do better; and yet they say they love us? Utter nonsense, this must be a trick of some kind. Under no circumstances can we allow this proffered love to become part of us. Better to keep it on the surface, so that when they take it away, we will be protected from the worst of it. Even better, if we do these things we can push them away. And when they leave, like we always knew the would, they'll have proved what we knew all along: we are unlovable.

It is a horrible place to be, needing and fearing something at the same time. You want to be loved so badly it aches, but you do not trust anyone who says they love you. How can you? In my life to that point, love meant shouting and anger and departures. Love meant you could be hurt.

From the ages of 19 to 27 I had three serious relationships. I am not going to share with you any tales of woe or joy from them for the following reasons:
1) It is not necessary to reveal the minute details of my past relationships in order to explain who I was or who I am now.
2) They aren't just my stories to tell. Only half of each memory belongs to me, and it is not up to me to share another persons history.
3) While many things happened over the course of our relationships, I am not some blameless victim. I made plenty of mistakes, as humans do, and I have neither the desire nor higher ground to lay blame.
4) Most importantly, at some point I loved them and I have no regrets for having known them; and while I'm sure they (justifiably) feel the opposite, I have no animosity towards them. Plus, as I may have mentioned, I was bat shit crazy a lot of the time, I'd probably come off on the losing side :)

What is important for me to share with you is that for a period of eight years, I became completely and utterly consumed by the need to love and be loved. In my mind I had found a new, and brilliant, way to get validation. But in reality, I just gave myself even more opportunities to fail. In all that time I never once felt I deserved to be cared for, I never believed I was good enough, I never trusted that anyone could love me. I became more and more emotionally unstable, increasingly impulsive and destructive and would journey down the rabbit hole, into the world of mental health services.

University - take 1

I started college when I was seventeen, studying science, a degree I had absolutely no interest in achieving. Like everyone else I was both excited and nervous about going to university, and despite my disinterest in my course, I thought perhaps I would at least manage a passing grade and keep my parents happy. On my first day, I was still self harming, had isolated myself both socially and at home, and my mood swings were at their most unpredictable and debilitating. The intensity of my highs had decreased, but the lows completely enveloped me, terrified me. Then you add in anxiety, anger, fear to the mix and I was just a big ball of neurotic fun. At this point I was keeping my problems hidden, so I had no idea what was happening to me. All I knew was that I was different from everyone else, that there was something fundamentally wrong with me, with my brain. I believed I was damaged in some way; and even though I already felt completely alone, there was still a fear that if my family discovered the truth that they could somehow reject me even more. I know, how can you be afraid of rejection from people you already feel rejected by? The human brain is a complex and wondrous machine, but it can also be really, really stupid.

I was pleasantly surprised by college; there was such a broad spectrum of people, all of whom had their own interest, backgrounds, opinions, desires...I quickly realised that this was the place where you got to be who you really were. And once you embraced your true self you would quickly find other people who shared some of your interests, whether it be a love of the theater or geeky jokes (Geology rocks, still a classic). Over time I made friends, I had people to sit with at lunch time and in lectures. People to be lab partners with and get coffee.

I had people to go to the student bar with. People to get drunk with during the day when I was supposed to be in a lecture or in work. I can feel your shock from here. That's right, all of my problems and pain didn't suddenly disappear because I had people to watch movies with. My self esteem didn't magically change, in fact I hated myself even more. There are two reasons for this in my opinion. The first, is that I had spent so long mirroring other people that I was struggling to find and accept my own identity. It is a slow process, and a confusing one, so while I was trying to figure out who I was, I still had to use other people to temporarily fill in the gaps. I was one part me, and one part whoever I was speaking to at a given time. Or more often than not, I was one part myself and one part a jumble of the multiple personalities in my vicinity. This was exhausting, and with it came a constant state of fear of discovery. The second reason, was that spending time with my peers, people I considered intelligent and interesting, made me even more aware of my inferiority and failings as a person. Everyone was smarter, funnier, quicker and quite simply, better than me.

So I tried to dull the growing pain inside me with alcohol, and going drinking was an easy way for me to socialise with my new friends. This behaviour rapidly spiraled out of control, to the point that I went to exams inebriated. But exams didn't matter to me, because if people wanted to go to the bar with me then they must like me. It was a misguided attempt at seeking the validation I so desperately wanted.

The other way I tried to find approval was with the opposite sex. Up until that point boys were something entirely out of my comfort zone. I was so self conscious and had my self esteem was so low that interacting with someone in a romantic or flirtatious manner was out of the question. The brief encounters I had with boys up to that point were short lived and awkward. By the time I turned eighteen, towards the end of my first year, I had kissed less than ten people. That ever present fear of rejection made me balk at the very idea of displaying any sort of interest in boys, but I knew that if I could get them to like me, to find something in me attractive, then I would be a worthwhile person. Once again I looked outside myself for validation, and as with drinking, it had disastrous consequences.

I have thought long and hard about discussing this aspect of my personality disorder so publicly. At first I was going to brush the surface in order to save my dignity, but I think there is a lesson to be learned from it, and that is what I want to do with this blog. Find a purpose to all this pain and hurt, and I hope by sharing my mistakes and experiences I can show someone what not to do, or show them that they aren't alone if they have gone through something similar.

However, due to the nature of the next part of my story I am going to post it separately, so that those of you who would rather not read about that part of my story can choose not to.

Anxiety and Loathing

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.