Tatiana V. (ESI) — The Conscience of a Quiet Leader

An Absolute Need for Truth and Integrity

I could argue because truth is born in arguments. I knew what was right and I would argue, but I would feel awful after those arguments. Later on, I started hiding from such triggers.

I couldn't stand any kind of injustice or lies.

Truth prevails in everything for me. The slightest deceit or lack of integrity in people makes me suffer; it has made me feel sick since childhood.

When my mom would start playing tricks and saying that something needed to be done supposedly for my own good, I would say, "Don't lie to me! You raised me to tell the truth! Why are you playing tricks with me? I don't want this!"

Discerning Sincerity from Ulterior Motives and the Ultimate Breaking Point

I would fall in love if someone showed a genuinely warm, loving attitude toward me. I could feel it when it was sincere. If someone tried to suck up to me, I sensed it instantly, and I lost all interest.

I need care and attention, but if someone lies to me today, and lies to me tomorrow—I lose all interest in that person. I might not say anything to them, but I will avoid them. I understand that I can't help myself because spiritually, they just aren't my kind of person. I can socialize with them, and they will never know it, but they aren't my kind of person.

<...> If a person chips away at me today, chips away tomorrow, and chips away the day after, I endure it all, I swallow it and swallow it, but then I just explode internally, walk away, and I won't explain a thing.

That is how I got divorced. It was constant deception, some sort of maneuvering, and lying. Slander or don't slander, what's the use? I felt it: I am not loved. What I want isn't there. Why drag it out? I sat down, weighed everything, and said, "That's it, enough." No matter how hard it was for me, because I loved him, I left. I found the strength within myself and left; I divorced him.

In an extreme situation, I can be very strong—I can grit my teeth and do what needs to be done. When a person doesn't respect you, when they don't consider your feelings, when they hide money from you, when they cheat on you and you see it—that's it, game over!

The Pain of Injustice and Deceit

When I was about five or six years old, I was always brought to the countryside to stay at my grandfather’s. There were many children there, and I was the leader. One day we were out playing, throwing things at each other, and I got hit in the forehead with a stone. I came inside complaining, "Grandpa, why did Tamara throw it at me?" Grandpa called Tamara over, but she said, "It wasn't me, she did it to herself." My eyes widened, and I was completely stunned. I thought, "How can anyone do that? It's a complete lie!" I remember how awful it made me feel. "Why are you lying like that? You're not telling the truth!" I nearly choked on the sheer injustice of it.

When I see someone lying openly, I am overwhelmed with pain. It was always very hard for me when someone messed up and then, right in your presence, shifted the blame either onto you, onto someone else, or just denied it altogether. That stuck with me for life. Nowadays, I don't get outraged; I just swallow it and say, "Well, now I know what this person is capable of," and I shut myself off from them.

The Binary Code: Truth vs. Scheme

For me, a sense of conscience always comes first. I don’t like using tricks, I don’t like adapting just to fit in, and I lack flexibility—scheming or maneuvering my way through things just isn't in my nature. For me, it is either truth or a lie. I have seen a lot of pettiness and treachery, where a person says one thing but does something completely different, or shifts the blame onto someone else.

Reciprocity and Hard Lessons in Accountability

If I give my word, I keep it. But if someone treats me differently, it means I can treat them roughly the same way. If someone breaks their word to me, then I no longer have any special obligations toward them.

I remember my friend and I were planning to go somewhere together, but I had to go to the market very early in the morning. I didn’t feel like going with her, and she gave me such a verbal lashing: "I'm not friends with you anymore because I waited for you and you didn't show up." I remembered that for the rest of my life, and I never did anything like that again. She cured me.

But she had given me a reason to treat her that way in the first place. I would never be the first to do something like that.

The Exposed Nerve of Parental Influence

When my mom would tell me, "Now, you shouldn't do that..." those phrases stayed with me more than any physical force would. The conscience of a child like me is a raw, exposed nerve. I suffered greatly from the way people spoke to me; the intonation played a particularly massive role.

My mom could say quietly, "That's not how girls behave, it's unseemly." She would say it quietly, and I wouldn't know where to hide from the shame. If she had screamed, I wouldn't have reacted that way.

Unyielding Standards and Peer Independence

I remember my mom saying, "A woman should never drink hard liquor, nor beer, nor vodka." I remembered it for life. Immediately, a kind of revulsion toward all of it set in. I despised it my whole life, and if a woman drinks beer, I look down on it.

I was very, very strict with myself and, at the same time, completely independent of anyone else's opinion. It was hard to influence me from the outside. I hung out with girls who behaved differently than I did. I knew: "I am not going to do that!" I didn't like it when people swore, I didn't like it when they smoked. I would stand there, watch, and say, "I don't want to do that." It was hard to make me drink; I was afraid of it. I had heard that girls can get addicted much faster, and that also influenced me.

Earned Trust and the Unapproachable Persona

I always knew what was good and what was bad. I was very independent. At eleven years old, I was already put onto a passenger ship to Astrakhan all by myself; my mom trusted me. Later, around the age of sixteen, I was sent alone to get some sea air. I was there for a month and a half. My mom trusted me; she would say, "Your honor is yours to keep, so protect it." I reasoned to myself, "To make sure no one bothers you, never talk to strangers, and don't smile." No one told me this; I came to this conclusion myself. I am very observant when it comes to relationships between people: if a girl giggles, it means she is giving a guy an opening, she attracts him by doing that. I kept my eyes down and behaved as if I were unapproachable. That was my principle.

The Trauma of Commands and Suppressed Resentment

My parents were my role models. No one ever argued at home. But my mom could scold me in all kinds of ways, and for me, that was the scariest thing. If I came home in the evening at half past nine instead of nine, she would come out and start raising her voice: "Why didn't you come home on time?"

Everything inside me... I would shake and tremble; for me, it was the ultimate insult. What she should have done, as I think about it now, was come out and say quietly, "Tan, you haven't forgotten you're supposed to be home at nine, have you?" I would have burned with shame before her—not before the street, but before her. But with commands, resentment kicks in. I couldn't express my resentment, and by the age of sixteen, my thyroid problems manifested. I understood that I had always been suppressed.

When my mom was eighty years old, she burst into tears and said, "But we were raised that way, it wasn't customary to show love to a child, I was even ashamed to stroke your head." And I said, "And I spent my whole life thinking you didn't love me, because of the way you lashed out at me with words..."

The Clash of Wills: Coercion vs. Conscience and Gentleness

I always had my own opinion, and she wanted to break it. "Do it this way, not that way!" "But I'm going to do it this way!" "No!" She needed me to submit, but I couldn't submit. I would cry and say, "I want to say 'yes,' but I can't bring myself to, so I say 'no.'"

I couldn't control myself. That was how I reacted to her commands, to her harsh intonation—it triggered a protest. You had to be gentle with me, you had to reason with me. I am a conscientious person, after all.

Once, I decided to do something nice for her. I thought, I’ll go wash the dishes now, put everything back in its place, and make it look beautiful. And suddenly, as I was walking to the kitchen, she yelled at me: "Quick! Wash the dishes!" By then, I was walking there in tears, I couldn't stand the sight of those dishes, and I didn't want to do a thing. I said, "I won't do it!" I suffered, I was broken, that was it... She would beat me to the punch with her commands. You can't treat a child that way. She should have been nice to me, and I would have turned myself inside out for her.

<...> You couldn't yell at me. I always used to tell my mom, "Speak to me in a sweet little voice!" I couldn't stand an authoritarian tone. You had to be gentle with me—if you just asked nicely, I would do anything.

I was drawn to people who spoke with a gentle voice. For example, if a mother was walking with a toddler and speaking to them in a sweet tone, I would be drawn to them.

I desperately loved to please people if they needed me. If anyone asked me for something, I would always meet them halfway, but the moment someone told me, "Go do it!"—that was it, I couldn't. It was a constant spirit of contradiction. I couldn't tolerate any kind of coercion in anything.

Emotional Dependence in Learning and Authority

I always shared things with my mom, but despite all that, it was always very difficult with her because, in my mind, she was a bit too harsh for me. Around me, you always had to think about what you were saying, how you were saying it, and with what intonation.

I suffered deeply from this emotional dependence. The slightest harshness from a female teacher, and I wouldn't study her subject. But if I fell in love with you as a teacher, I would study from morning till night to get straight A's, doing nothing but studying your subject.

If I feel affection and love for a person, I will do whatever they ask. Ask me at two in the morning—I’ll do it at two in the morning.

<...> Once, a teacher humiliated me in front of the whole class, and I said, "I'm not going to study her subject." And I didn't study it until I racked up a bunch of failing grades and my dad gave me a proper scolding. I suffered from a guilty conscience, but as a matter of principle, I refused to do it. And then I complained to my mom, "Why did she humiliate me like that?" It was hard for me to live with myself: "I don't like the teacher, so I won't study." She had told me in front of the whole class, "She can do it, but she doesn't want to."

I had a bare passing grade in math. I feared that teacher like wildfire: malicious, sweeping judgments—"not my style." But when she said that about me being capable... I was the first to solve a problem at a math Olympiad, while the straight-A students couldn't. I didn't even expect it from myself. I needed to be encouraged in order to believe in myself. I have this trait—I must prove myself to someone so as not to disappoint them in my abilities. All through my childhood, I lived in fear: I was afraid someone would get angry, offended, or shout loudly. A neighbor comes out, I know she is about to start shouting, and I'm already afraid of this neighbor. I used to get so exhausted from this.

I could overcome a fear if I knew it was necessary: "I can do it anyway." I have a will to win; I will prove it.

The Direct Link Between Safety and Performance

If I didn't understand something in class, fear would set in. My mom hired math tutors for me; after that, I could snap those problems like twigs, and I felt like a completely different person.

You need to help a child if they don't understand something and won't admit it. You need to help them, to explain things. And sometimes you just need to change the teacher and the environment—the attitude toward me is what matters, so that there is no tension.

When you are afraid of a teacher, nothing goes into your head. The rudeness of teachers would make me freeze; I was terrified of rudeness, and nothing worked out for me. I would move to a different territory—a different teacher, different relationships, different academic performance. I was incredibly dependent on this.

Love as the Ultimate Motivator

For a child like this, the primary driving force is: I love or I don't love, I am friends or I am not friends. If I'm friends—I'll do anything, I'll catch a golden fish for you; if I don't love you—I won't do it! And it doesn't matter that my life depends on it—I won't do it!

I need to be loved, to be spoken to gently; if someone asks a question but the tone of voice is off, I shut down and refuse to speak.

Inner Tension

My energy levels were always low, and I got tired quickly. I was constantly in a state of tension; I was always afraid, there were always fears. I was afraid that someone would speak loudly, God forbid they started shouting. I used to wonder why I was always so tightly wound? It was hard for me to be with myself; I gravitated toward calmness, but my soul was often unsettled.

<...> You absolutely must show the child what the outcome will be if they do something, because if you just scold them, fear sets in—fear of what they have done wrong, even though they understand very little of it, and fear of how to live with it going forward. You must not scare them with the future.

A Plea for Attentiveness and Affirmation

It is important for a child like this to look good; you need to teach them to tidy themselves up—you need to notice this and praise them for it. If the child approaches you, don't turn away; listen to them. I used to tell my mom, "You aren't listening to me, you don't love me!" I wouldn't want to talk to her; I would just walk away.

A child like this can be prone to hysterics; I cried very often without understanding why. Tears just well up in my eyes immediately. Such a child sees a lot of things through a lens of rejection, which is why they need love, tenderness, and a kind word.

They need to be taught a positive perception of the world. They constantly see the negativity on their own, and yet parents often point out your flaws and chip away at you with them. You must never do this.

Seeking Reconciliation and Apologies

I always wanted to mend relationships between people, to reconcile them, to explain to one that the other is good and vice versa, to smooth over the rough edges and build bridges. To bring balance to relationships.

Once I came home and complained, "Dad, a boy hit me!" Dad said, "Stop complaining, take a stick and give him a good thrashing!" I forced myself to overcome my hesitation, grabbed a stick, and hit him. Afterward, I suffered because I felt how much it hurt him. My father had pushed me into it by force. But it’s not in my nature; I start having qualms of conscience and suffering. You must not prime a child like this for cruelty.

Family Drama and the Fracture of Parental Love

The example of relationships in my family—how my mom and dad treated each other—was very important to me. The way you see that is how relationships will form in your own family. In our home, my dad never raised his voice at my mom. My mom always treated men with respect.

My dad loved socializing with other women. I saw how dry he was with my mom and how different he was with everyone else. I hated all women. I used to say I would take an automatic rifle and shoot them all. This was a childhood drama—I saw it within the family. I was torn in two in an unthinkable way: I loved my dad and I loved my mom. For me, these sufferings were unbearable.

I tried to bring them together somehow: "Dad, let's go buy Mom a present." How I suffered, it was awful. I would ask him, "Dad, why do you talk so cheerfully with strange women, but you don't talk to Mom that way?" Later, I figured it all out. They divorced, and I had a dream that they got back together. I told my mom, "Mom, I don't want you two to get back together."

The Search for Closure, Pity, and Deep Understanding

When I grew up, I tracked down my dad, established a connection with him, and told my mom, "Mom, no matter what kind of father he was, he is still my father, and I must make peace with him. You need to forgive him; he had his own reasons for acting the way he did." I have always read a mountain of psychological literature—I've been passionate about it my whole life, trying to figure everything out. I find it fascinating.

I am a psychologist at heart. I can read people's feelings; I only need to take one look, and I know what makes someone tick. If I see a mother somewhere who is irritated and starting to berate her child, I always step in and say, "Why don't we try it this way with him?" If the mother is patient, she will listen. A child is often nervous simply because the mother is nervous. I say, "He just needs some comfort and pity, I can see it, I just know it from my own experience."

I used to often say, "Mom, please have some pity on me!" If someone offended me, I always said, "Apologize. If you don't apologize, I won't be friends with you." That's how it has always been with me. Once they apologize—that's it, I don't need anything else. In a relationship, I need someone to reach out a hand to me, someone to feel and understand me in my struggles. It was hard for me to do this myself. If such a person came along, I was deeply grateful; I would begin to thaw, to trust, and to open up.

A Mother’s Duty: Flipping Negativity Into Forgiveness

The parents' task is to teach the child not to fixate on people's flaws, and to know how to forgive them.

If a child comes to you with a grievance, saying someone is bad, the mother needs to smooth things over and say, "Oh come on, that's just the way they are, don’t pay attention to it."

One of my friends would run off, buy a dress, and show it to me, and I knew she had copied it from me, but she would hide it. But my mom would tell me, "Daughter, you should be proud! They look at you and imitate you, which means they like you—you are a role model to them."

If negativity comes from a child toward someone, this negativity needs to be flipped into a positive, justifying that person and explaining everything. After all, to a young child, a mother is the ultimate authority. If she says about someone, "No, my darling, she is just poor and unfortunate, she wants it but can't have it, that's why she did it. She is ashamed, but she took your toy because her mother can't buy her one, so just let her have it." The child needs to let go of the situation and forgive the person; otherwise, it will be hard for them, they will push everyone away and end up alone.

An Unbreakable Core Attachment

I couldn't live without my mom. We had a close relationship.

I hated summer camp because I just wanted to be with my mom, nothing else. There was always this unimaginable attachment to her. I shared absolutely everything with her. For me, my mom was everything: who I fell in love with—I told her everything, everything, everything.

Whenever I went away somewhere, I felt miserable there; I wanted to go home to my mom. Even now, if we have a huge fight and I walk out of the house, I'll call her on the phone and apologize: "Mom, I love you, I can't live without you, forgive me." She goes, "Yes, I know, and you forgive me too."

It was the same in childhood. I was more stubborn, of course, and didn't speak my mind fully because I was little, but I was always drawn to my mom, always to my mom...

I trusted her completely and told her everything; I was an unimaginable tattertale about everything that happened: who offended me, who said what, who did what, how to behave—I told my mom everything.

For instance, in our kindergarten, there was this one girl, the daughter of some boss. When she arrived, the teacher would fuss over her all "cochie-cochie-coo." But she would hit the rest of us little ones over the head with a ruler. I complained to my mom. Mom said that if she started a fight with her, it would only make things worse for me.

I saw how much injustice there was around me.

Quiet Romance and Internalized Guidance

Ever since kindergarten, I was in love with one boy. I loved him my whole life; he didn't even have a clue. I loved him quietly, peacefully, and that was it. For me, it is very important to love. But I was always independent; it felt alien to me to run after boys or show that I was in love with them.

I could tell my mom, no matter what our relationship was like at the time, but nobody else. I kept everything inside, hid everything. She would lecture me: "Oh, look what you did there!" I would close up, but then I couldn't hold it in for long anyway and would tell her everything in confidence.

In my relationship with my mom, I received guidance. She could say just a single phrase, and I would remember it for the rest of my life. The more emotionally that phrase was spoken, the deeper it penetrated me. She might say, "Well, if I were in your shoes, I would never call a man first." I would feel intensely ashamed.

Hyper-Perception, Disdain for Pretense, and Isolation

It's hard for me to be around people for extended periods. There is a constant conflict in my soul. They don't know about this conflict; it is purely internal. I have lived my whole life feeling detached and isolated. Why? Because I see and feel people so deeply. I can immediately see who is a friend and who is an outsider. I see the negativity, the sycophancy before someone of status—I despise it, but you aren't supposed to show that.

I would distance myself, and it turned out that I had practically no one to be friends with. I had no friends. I didn't understand what a girlfriend even was, I never felt the need for one, and I kept to myself.

<...> I was never bored; I knew how to play so many different games. ... Why did I stay away from other children? I didn't need friends because I felt like they were imposing their own ways: "Let's do it like this!"—but I didn't want to do it that way, so I avoided them.

They would stop by to pick me up for school, but why? Because they were bored. I didn't understand what "bored" meant; I could always keep myself busy.

I never considered myself a leader, but I realized that people were drawn to me, while I was selective about who I found interesting. I couldn't tolerate anyone for too long.

<...> In childhood, interacting with other children didn't interest me; I gravitated toward people who were intellectually above me, older than me. I made friends who were three or four years older because listening to childish nonsense irritated me.

The Hidden Barrier to Reading and the Search for Self-Knowledge

When I was little, I didn't like to read—I absolutely hated reading, but I was constantly being forced to do it. Yet, I would listen to stories breathlessly. I have congenital astigmatism, making it hard to focus my eyes on a single point; they would start to ache, and reading was physically difficult for me. Many years later, I finally understood this. When I read back then, it felt like needles in my eyes. Once I got glasses, I started reading voraciously, but not fiction—I read educational and non-fiction books. I am interested in everything connected to myself: how to behave, how to think, how to learn not to weigh down one's soul. I needed socializing to come easily.

The Drain of Giving Without Receiving

On one hand, I am highly communicative with people, but on the other, I tire of them quickly. I pour out a lot of information, I want to give a person so much, saying, "You need to do it this way, and that way..." I expend my energy, exhausting myself; it puts a strain on my psyche, causing tension. I give, but I cannot receive; I don't get what I actually want from people: understanding, closeness, warmth, and humanity.

I analyze myself and wonder why I am so drawn to children? Especially to those who defer to you, whom you can teach. When a child says a word to you and it's something you taught them—my God, what incredible energy comes from them! So I think, maybe I really should spend a few hours a day working with a child just to fulfill myself somehow, to find peace.

Rebelling Against Coercion: The Power of Autonomy

A child like this needs to be developed in every way, taken to various after-school activities, but never by force. At the slightest hint of force, I would reject everything. Conversely, if my dad wouldn't take me skiing—that was it, skiing was the only thing I wanted to do.

To truly feel what a child is experiencing, you need to observe how they react to things in different situations: music plays—do they want to dance or not? If you are doing crafts, there's no need to force them, saying, "Come sit with me." If they are interested, they will come over on their own. When my mom forced me to embroider every day, I grew to hate it. Then she would hide the sewing machine from me and wouldn't let me sew. So I cut everything up, redesigned everything. I desperately wanted to sew clothes for myself. ...

You mustn't forcefully push or drag a child like this anywhere. If you are planning to take the child somewhere, use a little clever trickery: if the child gravitates toward you and enjoys it without coercion, if they get interested, they will go. And you shouldn't choose their activities for them. It has to be what they want.

The Art of Influence: Inspiration Over Coercion

How do you guide a child somewhere? For example, say a mother is going to the pool: "Vasya, come to the pool with me if you want." You can describe in vivid colors how wonderful it is to swim there, and that there is a gym too: "Oh, look at the muscles I'll get!" I fall for that kind of thing. I also have this trait: "How is it that someone else can do something, but I can't? How can that be?" I didn't know how to rollerblade—so I found some rollerblades, stood up, tried it, and got an immense sense of satisfaction. Downhill skiing: someone else can do it, but I can't? I went out and made it look like I had been skiing my entire life, and it worked out.

You need to hook a child like this by your own example. This will work if the parents hold authority with the child, if there is a real connection in the relationship. They will imitate their parents because they love them and want to show them what they can do. I remember how I was forced to mop the floor: "Why didn't you wipe the baseboards?"—"I don't want to!"—"Come on, do it over!" I would throw a tantrum, but I would redo it. And then later, when I had tidied everything up and my mom would pull things out of the drawers and then stuff it all back in haphazardly, I’d tell her, "What did you teach me? Why do you put things in the drawer like that?" And she would start redoing it all. And I would watch. You taught me to do it well, which means you have to do it well yourself. The parents' example is crucial.

Overcoming Resentment Through Connection

If you are cooking at the stove, don't force them; just let them wander around: "Go play if you want." Eventually, they will drift over and start cooking. Because I was always forced to either peel potatoes or wash dishes... I grew to hate the kitchen more than anything. I still hate it to this day. But when a loved one appeared in my life, I would make breakfast, lunch, and dinner—I did everything fresh for the sake of the person I loved.

If a child like this has found a real connection in a relationship and loves someone—and what they need in a relationship is a warm look and a soft tone of voice—they will perform their absolute least favorite task for that person. For instance, if that person loves to sew and I love them, it means I will sit beside them and learn how to do it.

To raise a child gently, a mother needs to have cleverness and wit. Children are very unstable in their desires; you can't tell right away whether they love sewing or something else. If a parent knows how to do something and does it themselves, their task is to pass on these skills, but it must be done with cleverness, without pressure.

My dad used to pass the time by assembling radio receivers. I would sit next to him, he would show me a small part and ask, "What is this?" I would answer, "A resistor, a diode..." I knew everything by heart. No one forced this knowledge into me. I just wanted to be closer to my dad, to endear myself to him, to please him, so I sat right beside him. For a child like this, everything depends on relationships. The main thing is the parent's attitude toward the child. If they show their love—not through mindless baby talk, but wisely, engaging their feelings—everything will be fine.

The Relational Leader, Organizational skills

I couldn't or didn't want to get close to anyone specific in relationships, but I could organize people and be a leader.

I can be a leader if there is a need for it, but I never actively sought leadership—I never needed that headache and responsibility. When we arrived at a summer camp, for example, and the place needed to be cleaned up but nobody wanted to do it, I was the instigator at that moment. I could organize it. I'd see that no one cared, but the job had to be done. There was no need to ask me or force me into it as a leader, saying, "Come on, get them organized!" I was always hiding, I never strove to be out in front, I didn't need it; on the contrary, I always pretended to be a quiet grey mouse, but I knew I could wear everyone down by attrition. Not by giving orders, but by approaching someone and saying, "Sasha, please help me. Sashulka, pretty please"—I'd drop dead before giving up, but Sasha would eventually do exactly what was needed, because he'd realize it was better to just do it and be left alone. It has always been like that in my life. Even when I was little, I got my way, but I would achieve it not by aggressive pressure, but by finding a connection with the person. No matter what kind of person they were, a drunkard or a troublemaker, I would still persuade them to do exactly what I needed. I’ve had that since childhood.

Some people want to be first all the time, but I never wanted that; I never needed the responsibility. If the child has no strength left—I'm already tired, but I still have to fulfill this duty—it terrified me.

In childhood, it was the same, but I could also pull a stunt like this: naptime, the teacher is away, I got up, and we started playing doctor—I fed everyone Purgen [a laxative], and everyone ended up sitting on their potties. We were playing hospital, and I was the doctor. I was fully capable of organizing something like that. I am a good organizer. A child like this needs to be given the chance to show their organizational skills.

I remember I was about six years old, my parents weren't home, I put on a beautiful satin robe, stepped into high heels, and sang into a microphone—I put on a whole theater show. I could gather an audience with my performances.

Retaliation Without Malice: A Taste of Their Own Medicine

If people judge me, I will bide my time and do something back to them—not out of revenge, but just to give them a taste of their own medicine. Take today what you did to me yesterday. Tomorrow, I’ll drag your face across the asphalt the exact same way. I don’t have a sense of vengeful malice, but I can submerge someone in it or make them feel it: you did this—it hurt me, and you didn't even realize it hurt. Whether it’s a year, two years, or a day later—I will still make you go through the exact same situation when the time comes.

Cutting Ties: When People Cease to Exist

I used to hold onto grudges for a very long time. Now I understand that you need to let things go. For New Year's, my mom gave me a beautiful folding toy crib with all the accessories—a gorgeous satin blanket, everything was Japanese. I was friends with this one girl. I went to her house, and she showed me my crib and all the bedding, saying, "Look what my mom bought me." She had stolen it from me and was now showing it to my face. I couldn't forget that for a very, very long time. And when I told her mother that she had taken it from me, her mother replied, "That's impossible. This is ours!" When I told my mom, she said, "God be with her, just forget it. But now you know you shouldn't let her into the house anymore."

That was how my mom taught me; she didn't go to prove to anyone that her daughter had been robbed, the way some do, and she didn't go out to shame anyone, shouting, "Oh, look at you over there!" or pulling her hair. No, she always told me, "God be with her, it's on her conscience." I couldn't bring myself to stop greeting that girl, but inside, I threw her away—she ceased to exist for me. I still interacted and talked with her, but I knew she was dishonest. We were in the fourth grade back then.

Sometimes something else would happen: people would come over, play, and later I’d see my toys at someone else's house. I’d say, "But those are my toys!"—"No, they aren't yours." I wouldn't snatch them back. I would always work myself up and say, "I don't love this person, they don't exist for me." And that's how I've gone through life.

Pace, Precision, and Systemized Work

I am the kind of person who finds it hard to switch quickly from one thing to another or to initiate doing something on my own. If they tell me point-blank, "Come tomorrow!"—I will move, but otherwise, I might just sit and daydream...

<...> By nature, I am very slow-paced. I do everything slowly but meticulously. If I saw someone doing things carelessly and sloppily, I couldn't stand it. I always wanted to redo it and make it right. My mom was fast-paced: "Oh, you haven't washed the dishes yet?" But I had only just been given the task of making the bed; I hadn't had enough time because I needed to smooth out every single wrinkle. I couldn't stand her sudden outbursts; I would start to dig my heels in, say, "I'm not friends with you anymore," and withdraw into myself.

I suffered a lot because of this, because my mom didn't understand me. She needed to wait until I finished one thing before asking me to do another. If a pile of tasks was dumped on me all at once, I couldn’t figure out what to grab first; it made me nervous and miserable. There was no sequence to her requests, and I desperately needed that.

By nature, I'm not fast, I am precise—I need to smooth everything out perfectly, without rushing. I can't stand frantic rushing. Why does a child start rushing frantically? Because parents are highly inconsistent in their requests or in how they express what they want to teach them. A mom goes: "Oh, you still haven't...!" That's it, the child freezes up and doesn't know what to take on.

I always gravitated toward doing things in order. I can handle multiple tasks at once, but only if I finish each one completely. I need variety in my tasks, but when I am rushed, I can't do it—it throws me out of my own system of rationality. I determine my own pace of work.

Attention to Appearance, Designing Clothes

As a child, I loved arranging the house like a designer. I love to sew and dress up. <...> My first perception of a person was based on "beautiful or unbeautiful." If it was unbeautiful, I wanted no part of it. Aesthetic beauty always came first.

<...> I always paid attention to clothes and appearance; I loved dressing up. I started sewing and following fashion early on. I never competed with anyone. On one hand, I had complexes: Oh, I'm ugly, I have a long nose, my figure isn't right... But on the other hand, I was always confident that I was well-dressed. I knew how to dress and present myself at any age.

When I was in primary school, I knew exactly how long my dress should be. My mom would say, "Let's sew it with room to grow so it lasts for years." "No, I won't wear it! No way! It's ugly!" I would get my way no matter what. If she bought something without consulting me and tried to force it on me, she wouldn't succeed. I needed everything to fit perfectly.

<...> An ESI child is dreamy. I used to picture everything mentally, design everything; I loved creating clothing styles. Everyone at school told me I should become a fashion designer. But I am a person of moods and instability. Today I want to create, but tomorrow, when clients "take you by the throat" and say, "Deliver it right now"—if I don't have the creative inspiration, I don't want to do it. I liked being in control of my own time, so that nothing was hanging over me. I didn't like doing homework. The moment I crossed the threshold of the house, I just wanted to do some sewing. What I wanted was always paramount. If I want to, I do it. I hated doing things I didn't like.

<...> When my mom forced me to embroider every day, I grew to hate it. Then she would hide the sewing machine from me and wouldn't let me sew. So I cut everything up, redesigned everything. I desperately wanted to sew clothes for myself. She was stunned and would ask, "Who taught you?" But I had some kind of intuition. Even at six years old, I already knew how to make an armhole for a doll.

Source: How to Raise a Child Without Complexes by O. Mikhevnina