Failure Didn’t Give Me Depression; The Fear of It Did

Nandini Chandra
Aug 28, 2017 · 7 min read
Photo Credit: pixabay.com

Exams have never been my forte. To put it simplistically, I have always found it difficult to memorize facts, rules, formulas, dates etc. without understanding the story behind it. Needless to say, I have never fared well when it came to proving my worth against 100 odd numbers. But during the half-yearly examinations when I was in the 9th standard, this seemingly difficult yet manageable predicament took a sad turn.

I was preparing myself for a day scheduled with two papers, Physics and Chemistry combined, and Biology consecutively. The preparation proved to be a herculean task. Due to illness, I had missed school for three months, and was barely able to follow what was happening. My classmates had more functional knowledge of all the subjects than me. Still I appeared for the examinations thinking that I’ll manage. But after going through the first few pages of my Physics book, I realized, managing 100 pages of theories is not a job to be finished within a mere 5–6 hours.

Inevitably, I started panicking. It started with gloomy thoughts of how it was impossible to score even the passing marks with the time left for preparation. But within minutes, my brain started telling me how not only would I fail, but how failing my exam would brand me as an unwanted student in the class, or how I would be the worst person in a batch of 110 girls, or how all my classmates would avoid talking to me and laugh behind my back, and worst of it all, how I’ll never get admission in a good college, or land a good job, and be a failure for the rest of my life.

My fourteen year old self couldn’t handle this. I felt going weak in the knees. Breathing became increasingly difficult, and after a point I literally couldn’t breathe anymore. My mother became hysterical when she saw me trying to breathe in desperately through my mouth, and immediately called in a doctor. He came, examined me, and announced that I had what was called a regular ‘walk in the park’ panic attack. He prescribed a few medicines, and told me to take it easy. Although I had no idea how to do that, I nodded my head. I went to bed early that night, a rarity during my exam days, appeared in the exam, wrote both papers diligently, and scored the lowest marks in both the papers.

It has been fifteen years since. Now I don’t even know where my mother has kept all of my marksheets. But the memory of this episode still haunts me.

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It was 2010. I was in college and finishing my last semester. The entire class was gearing up for the final project which would decide our fate as degree holders. It was an exciting project, and talks were already on between various individuals, as we had to team up and form groups. I didn’t worry about it much. For the last three semesters, I had worked with the same group, and we had always done well. Naturally I assumed this time there would be no difference. I was wrong.

When the time came to form groups, my group mates abandoned me, and by the end of the session I was one among four individuals who were not part of any group. Our professor told us to try and see if we could be a part of the groups that were already formed. Basically, he subtly instructed us to see if anyone would pity us, and let us tag along with zero considerations for our opinions. It was humiliating to say the least.

I came back home, physically and emotionally tired. My brain had already started processing the series of consequences. If I can’t be a part of any group, then I wouldn’t be able to complete the final project. That would inevitably ensure I wouldn’t be able to graduate. If I don’t graduate, how will I get a job? Not to mention, the dejection and humiliation I will face from my relatives and friends for the rest of my life. What would I do? Where will I go? It seemed, for the time being, my life had become worthless.

Then it all started. Panicking led to breathlessness and low blood pressure. The walls of my room started to close in, and I was on the verge of blacking out. I shouted out to my mother, and cried my heart out to her. She listened, at first a bit confusedly and then steadfastly. After I ran out of breath while describing my utter worthlessness, she gave me a glass of water, and told me to take deep breaths. Amazingly, it helped. I started calming down while my mother described how I can always do something on my own, and how my professors wouldn’t fail me without evaluating my work first. After some time, I calmed down completely, and fell asleep. The next day, I went to college, and formed a group with the three people who were also left behind. We worked hard on the project, and during the evaluation came out with shining colours.

This episode ended in a good note but my panic attacks didn’t.

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Panic attacks are a direct cause of Anxiety Disorder. Any psychiatrist will tell you that it’s a class textbook case. What they don’t tell you is how it can start impacting your day-to-day life, if you don’t work towards to a cure.

I suffer from panic attacks on a regular basis. It usually starts with a trigger, either a professional one, or something deeply personal, or maybe even a financial one. The reason differs from time to time, but the outcome is always the same. A deadly sense of worthlessness coupled with a mind-numbing sense of fear which manifests itself physically by blocking my breathing process, draining me physically and emotionally, and leaving me exhausted enough to reject going out and doing something for myself.

It is tiring, excruciating, demotivational, and horrible. In other words, it is madness and chaos, wrapped efficiently into periodic episodes.

As a result of which, I have become a victim of insomnia and depression. Over the years, I’ve slowly started losing interest in the many things that used to excite me the most. It is extremely sad to realize it. It’s sadder still, when I realize there is no concrete cure for it, yet.

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I don’t need to read those countless no. of self-help or personal growth articles to find out how failure is necessary for success. I know failure and success both are a part of life. I also know failure teaches us lessons which are valuable and it needs to be embraced. Looking back, failure has never stopped me from moving on in life. On the contrary, success has. Whenever I have achieved a goal, I have become complacent, comfortable. I have thought, this is it, and I should continue exactly like this. That has never helped.

Truth is, Failure and Success are terms with which we have come to define our worth. It is really no different than keeping a scorecard. And after all these years of keeping scores, and realizing how dissatisfied I am with the marks so far, I have come to the conclusion that it was never failure that bothered me and threw me into depression. It was always the fear of it.

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As children, we are always reminded of our goals by our parents. Getting good grades, getting a good job, earning money, the checklist has always been defined by our elders and the society. And as grow up, we start to internalize it, and without us knowing, their goals become ours. We start living and breathing the checklist, and break down even at the tiniest hint of things not working out. I don’t think, as a kid, I aspired to become someone like this. I don’t think anyone does.

Today at 28, I realize that I’m smarter than my five year old self. But am I braver, stronger, and happier? Sadly, the answer to all three would be a strict no. And if I dig in deeper, I realize, as a five year old, success or failure didn’t matter to me. What mattered was what I was doing, and what I was learning. That was enough!

As an adult though, it’s never enough. There always needs to be something more. And as an adult coping with depression and anxiety, nothing is ever good enough. This is where it hurts the most.

Now I wake up every morning panicking, tossing and turning on my bed. I have forgotten the last time I had a good night’s sleep or the time I had woken up with a smile on my face, looking forward to the day. I do look forward to go to work simply because it keeps me busy. But when I come back home to my empty room, the dreaded thoughts make a come back, and I’m unable to whisk them away. I go to bed, desperately trying to keep myself distracted. I watch something on my laptop, nimble on books, browse through the same posts on Facebook, and yet nothing seems to work. Not anymore at least. My mind is always full of what ifs. What if this doesn’t happen, what if that goes wrong, what if I screw everything up completely, what will happen? I fall asleep in the wee hours of morning, hoping that when I wake up it will be better. And inevitably always, it never is.

[To be continued…]

This story is a part of my ongoing project “A Year Full of Hope” where I talk about my struggles with and learnings from depression, and anxiety. The hope is to help others who are struggling to connect, and raise awareness. If you think this story should be read by many, please show some support, and share. Thank you!

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Writer | Mumma’s Girl | Animal Lover | Dream Weaver | Aethist | Feminist | Mental Health Advocate

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