Teenage Nervous Breakdown

Teenage Nervous Breakdown
[Chorus 3] It's a teenage nervous breakdown It's a teenage nervous breakdown It's a teenage nervous breakdown It's a teenage nervous breakdown It's not fair, it's unfair [Chorus 4] It's a teenage nervous breakdown It's a teenage nervous breakdown It's a teenage nervous breakdown It's a teenage nervous breakdown It's gonna break ya, it's gonna ch-ch-change ya
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Well, some contend that this rock'n'roll
Is bad for the body, bad for the soul
Bad for the heart, bad for the mind
Bad for the deaf and bad for the blind
It makes some men crazy and then they talk like fools
It makes some men crazy and then they start to drool

Unscrupulous operators could confuse
Could exploit and deceive
The conditional reflex theories
Change the probabilities, I said it's a
Crass and raucous crackass place
With a Pavlov on the human race
It's a terrible illness, a terrible case
And usually permanent when it takes place

It's a teenage nervous breakdown
It's a teenage nervous breakdown
It's a teenage nervous breakdown

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Turns out falling apart can be the path to finding yourself.
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One random April day in my sophomore year, I arrived at school to find I no longer had any friends. No one spoke to me, no one made eye contact: They were icing me out.
You probably know the ice-out—it's a painfully relatable trauma for many high school girls. The hive mind governing a swarm of young women is a strange and fickle thing. One minute, the group is tight; then suddenly the ranks reform, offering up the most expendable member as a sacrifice to the Popular-Girl Gods. Suddenly, I found myself eating lunch alone in the art room, and though I had always obsessed over the looming Everest of exams, essays, and miscellaneous school assignments in front of me, now I fixated on them. Academically-driven mania filled the void left by my social life.
I told no one about the tightening in the pit of my chest, a sensation so constant and consistent that I assumed it was normal. I told no one that sometimes, when I worried too hard, I felt like I couldn't breathe. I told no one that my teeth chattered when I wasn't cold, or that my heart raced even when I sat perfectly still.
I don't remember anything about the day of the breakdown. I don't remember if it was a weeknight or weekend, if it was light outside or dark, or how I ended up in the bathtub with my clothes on. Here's what I do remember: gasping for breath, my hands trembling violently. My parents taking away my razor and telling me they didn't trust me with it. Crying and praying I'd die in my sleep. Recently, I asked my mom to fill in some of the gaps. She said that, at one point, I ran out of the house. This sounds insane to me. Where did I go? "We were very worried about you," she said. That I remember.
My parents are brilliant. They immediately withdrew me from school, but after that, they were admittedly at a bit of a loss. There I was, a 16-year-old dropout. I felt humiliated.
My psychiatrist diagnosed me with generalized anxiety disorder and symptomatic panic attacks. Any mention of school set me off—my anxiety centered specifically on the daunting amount of schoolwork and the pressure to achieve. But the crux of the problem, I discovered in my newly-started therapy, was that I felt like I couldn't be myself. Getting good grades consumed me so much that my personality and interests had long taken a backseat. I realized that none of my old classmates really knew me—I barely knew myself.
When I mentioned to my psychiatrist that I wanted to be a writer one day, he asked if I had considered attending an arts school. I hadn't, because I didn't know such a thing existed. But once my parents and I researched it, we found one very close to our home, a public charter school with dual focus on academics and arts. I applied to the Film & TV program. I got in. I practiced my breathing ercises, and I started in the spring semester of my junior year—by most accounts a crazy time to transfer, but then again, I'd just undergone a whole slew of crazy.
At my new school, I found my voice. I made friends—more friends than I'd ever had in my life—and I acted like myself: goofy sense of humor, eccentricities, and all.
I rediscovered my long lost love of learning, remembering that the real reason I became so studious in the first place was because I legitimately enjoyed school. Somehow I stumbled onto student council (in an elected position, no less). I took the SATs, applied to college, and felt equipped to address any anxieties that might crop up when facing the daunting "what will I do after school" question. I realized it's OK to ask for help.
Finally, I met people like me. It just took a breakdown to discover who I was.
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