Sixth. Form. These two words fill me with a sense of dread
and panic that I’ve never once faced in my eighteen years of walking this earth.
If you live outside of the United Kingdom these two words will be foreign to
you, so I shall explain. Sixth form are two years of education for students
between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, where we partake in advanced level
education. We focus on passions of ours and expand our knowledge in those areas
in the hopes, for most students, that we’ll end up at university. It’s taken me
a while to write this blog post, partly out of fear of revisiting two of the
most difficult years of my life but also because I didn’t have any words that
could sum up my experience at sixth form. I have the words now, I am ready to
share now. This is an extremely long blog post, so I’d suggest sitting down
with a cup of tea and a snack, so you can settle in for the ride. I also want
to warn people that there are sensitive subjects dealt with in this blog post
such as depression and suicide, along with a whole other realm of mental health
problems.
Education is always something that has always excited me,
learning is something I wouldn’t be able to live without. When the prospect of
sixth form became apparent on my radar I was ready, I was ready to move schools
as quickly as possible and mature both in terms of me as a person but also in
terms of my education levels. Deciding on what I was going to study at sixth
form was not something I struggled with at all so checking the boxes for
English Literature, English Language and History wasn’t difficult. This has
always been part of the problem, I thought I was so ready for what sixth form
had to give me that when I realised what sixth form really entailed I became
overwhelmed. It was so much more that what I had been told. My first week at
sixth form was perfect…until it really wasn’t. This was for personal reasons
that I’ve never spoken about and probably will never speak about, it opens a
can of worms that I’ve supressed so hard that it would inevitably be like
opening Pandora’s Box.
It became quite apparent to me quite quickly that I was
deeply struggling with the social aspect of moving schools. I felt like I was
intruding on the secured friendships that people had made of five years. I felt
like everything that came out of my mouth sounded ridiculously stupid. I felt
like I was a swan; on the outside, for the most part, I looked calm and
collected but under the water I was drowning. This very quickly began to show
in all aspects of my life; my school work was nowhere near the standard that it
needed to be, every social occasion that I attended I felt out of place and talking
to both family and friends about how I was feeling became increasingly
difficult. However, I stayed silent for months and months, pretending that I
was just tired when I was exhausted physically, mentally and emotionally. I had
nothing left to give, until one day I broke. There was one of my friends stood
outside of the sixth form with me before lessons had even started watching me
break my heart crying telling her in a room full of people I felt completely
and utterly alone. That conversation was one of the hardest I’ve ever had but I
do honestly believe it saved my life, as dramatic as that sounds.
March 2017, the 16th to be precise, I was diagnosed with
depression and anxiety disorder with suicidal ideation. Even though I think
it’s always been expressed on my social media platforms that these are issues
that I deal with I’ve never written that sentence. There are tears in my eyes
as I write that sentence for the pure fact that sometimes I give myself a lot
of grief for not being able to live the same carefree lives that others do,
however, there’s a valid reason for it and I shouldn’t be ashamed to talk about
it. This is probably the main reason that I’ve never properly spoken about my
experience at sixth form; because I’ve been afraid of admitting this fact to
myself, but I think that the person that I’ve grown into has realised that
these problems aren’t going to get easier if I don’t speak about them.
This was a problem throughout most of my time at sixth form
after my diagnosis. Speaking to people was an idea that I thought was
ridiculous, because I knew what the problem was I believed that I could deal
with it myself. Inevitably this didn’t work, and I fell out with my best friend
over this because I refused to tell her that I was okay when it was obvious.
Although at the time I cried and cried and cried and cried over this argument,
in the long run its helped unbelievable amounts. Our friendship is stronger
because I feel comfortable telling her about my problems and she helped me
realise that people do care about how I’m feeling. During my last year at sixth
form I took comfort in speaking not only to my best friend but one of my
teachers about how I was feeling. Speaking to people is something that I still
find difficult and probably always will, however, I really do recommend trying
to find a small handful, maybe even just one person, that you feel comfortable
talking to. This was difficult for me at first, I know that it is for a lot of
people with mental health issues, but after I started opening up to people I
realised my sixth form experience did change slightly.
Even though my mental health suffered extremely badly
throughout my time at sixth form there was a point where my grades slowly
started to improve. I threw myself into my studies as a form of distraction
from what was going on in my mind, which is something that I probably shouldn’t
have done but I do think taught me that perseverance through anything pays off.
However, something else happened when I full throttle, highway speed chased my
grades. I began to make friends who I, for the first time in a long time, felt
comfortable around and felt connected to. We would sit during our free periods
and talk in depth about issues that we felt were important to talk about and be
discussed. Although not a lot of work was done during those hours they changed
my aspect of the social side of sixth form. It made me realise that my mental
health wasn’t the first and only thing that people noticed about me. For the
first time at sixth form I felt as if I belonged somewhere and wasn’t a fish
out of water. I’m still friends with these people and believe I will be for an
extremely long time.
Throughout my two years at sixth form the one situation that
I found the most difficult and stressful were exams. Whether it was a mock exam
or my final exams the stress and panic that I felt was overwhelming, just the
mere thought sends me into a frenzy. No matter how well I was able to write an
essay during class or as a piece of homework the dots just didn’t connect and
none of the information managed to slot together when I had to do it under exam
conditions. This has always been a problem and always will, however, the stress
was insurmountable during my A Level exam period. Exam stress is a factor of life
that most people deal with but mine felt so other worldly that after every exam
I cried so much that I think that I’ve cried all the tears that were put in my
body. To be completely honest though I don’t really know whether I was crying
about how I felt my exam had gone or because I had so much pent up emotion that
there was nothing else that I could do.
Attempting to explain how much painstaking fear the idea of
returning to sixth form puts in my body is difficult, I don’t think that there
will ever come a day where I will have enough words to fully explain this. The
other day I attempted to do this, and I failed miserably. Actually on a recent
visit to my dad’s I had to pass my old sixth form building and the amount of crippling
fear and anxiety that this put me in was overwhelming; I couldn’t speak, I
couldn’t move and my mind began showing me a sort of highlights of my time at
sixth form, but it was just a series of bad memories instead of good. I know it
sounds dramatic, and sometimes I am one who tends to exaggerate, this is in
fact the one time that I will never be able to do so.
Although I will forever remember the pain, the heartache and
the difficulty that I faced throughout my two years at sixth form, the memories
that I made within those two years combat it all. Sure, there were bad days,
there were awful days, but there were also good days. They came in many forms.
They came on Friday afternoons in the middle of my Literature class with my
favourite teacher and some of my favourite people in the world. They came from
the videos I would send my best friend of me dancing round my bedroom on my
mornings off. They came from the free periods I would spend in the Learning
Centre on a Tuesday afternoon. They came from the sarcastic comments passed
between my form tutor and I every day. They came from knowing that I had made
it through a full day at sixth form. They came from merely knowing that I’d
made through another at a place I thought I couldn’t belong in any longer.
My sixth form experience was rough, my sixth
form experience is not the standard sixth form experience, my sixth form
experience is not to be taken at face value. Sixth form isn’t easy, it’s true
when they say that they’re the toughest two years of your life, however, I
wouldn’t change my experience for the world. It would be much easier to not
deal with the implications that it’s left on my mental health on a day to day
basis, but I came out of sixth form a much stronger and a much wiser human
being. If that’s all that I take with from these past two years of education
that’s fine, I have no problem with that because that piece of information will
forever carry me through my darkest days. So, although it feels like a
contradiction to all the problems I faced, I’m grateful for the teachers, the
friends, the memories and sixth form for showing me that.
♥

