Earlier this morning, I was listening to Blindboy’s most recent podcast episode with David McWilliams.
He begins the podcast with a monologue about his experience being autistic and surviving the Irish education system. He describes the imprint left from navigating a system that culminates in the Irish Leaving Cert, a system that demands and validates rote learning.
Rote learning refers to a style focused on memorising information and reproducing it in assessments.
Blindboy describes an environment and process that systematically disadvantages neurodivergent people – all in aid of what?
Then I started to reflect on my own experience.
Like Blindboy, I left secondary school feeling like I was a ‘failure’, ‘lazy’, and ‘obstinate’. I felt like there was something fundamentally wrong with me.
What was ‘wrong’ with me that I couldn’t learn all those reams of quotes? Was I ‘thick’ because I couldn’t remember the facts I was supposed to memorise for biology? Was I ‘lazy’ because I couldn’t recall all those lists of phrases in Irish and French that I was supposed to learn?
Yet, there were glimpses of something more. I thrived in creative writing, expressed myself through music, and was endlessly curious about history. But none of that mattered in the face of the Irish Leaving Cert. This process was about memorising and reproducing – not problem-solving, creative thinking or idea production.
Somehow, I scraped enough points together to get into social science - just. But by then, the psychological damage was done.
I had already internalised the conditions of worth imposed by the Irish Leaving Cert system. I identified as ‘thick’, ‘lazy’, and ‘obstinate’. My ability to value myself was desecrated by years of struggle, misunderstanding, and the final nail in the coffin – my CAO exam results, which confirmed that I had not achieved what my school expected of me.
Okay, it’s time for a brief person-centred theory intermission!
‘Conditions of worth’ are a person-centred theoretical concept.
A ‘condition of worth’ refers to the idea that our self-worth depends on meeting certain external expectations and norms set by others. These conditions are shaped by the social, cultural, political, and economic world around us, telling us what we need to meet in order to ‘deserve’ acceptance, love, or positive regard from others.
We learn these conditions from the moment we’re born because we are wired to please our caregivers, peers, teachers, and society in order to secure our sense of safety as humans within a group. When we internalise conditions of worth as values and expectations regarding how we should behave or be, it no longer matters what our true (congruent) sense of self is.
Conditions of worth leave us feeling that we don’t have an inherent sense of value, that it’s not safe to be ourselves, and ultimately cause us psychological stress and distress.
So, how does this bit of person-centred theory link to the Irish Leaving Cert system?
For neurodivergent people navigating an education system that prioritises rote learning, the Leaving Cert and the process leading up to it leave conditions of worth deeply etched into our sense of self.
This system communicates that our ability to memorise and perform well in standardised exams is the only measure of intelligence and ability. When we struggle, it suggests that we are ‘lazy’, ‘unable’, ‘inattentive’, ‘disruptive’, ‘challenging’, ‘obstinate’, or [insert any other infuriating label you can think of here].
When we internalise these harmful beliefs about who we are, we’re left feeling inadequate, isolated, othered, frustrated, distressed, anxious, and depressed. In other words, we become stressed and distressed.
The repeated message that we don’t ‘fit’ or meet the Leaving Cert standards reinforces a negative view of ourselves. This prolonged and inescapable exposure to judgment is a form of trauma for many neurodivergent people.
As Blindboy mentioned, this doesn’t even begin to explore the impact of the school environment – a place where overwhelm thrives.
So, when we see that yearly joke circulating on social media about how funny it is that we still have nightmares about the Irish Leaving Cert long into adulthood, maybe it’s not that funny at all.
Maybe it’s a sign we survived something deeply wounding.
Maybe it’s because we know that, ultimately, our ability to learn and meet the standards set by the Irish second-level education system does not reflect our abilities, potential, or worth.
Maybe it’s hard to acknowledge what we’ve really been through.
But if you’re left unpicking these ideas about yourself five, fifteen or thirty years down the line, that’s okay too – you’ve been through something, and without tending to the wound, it remains.
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