Galina T. (LSI) - Beneath the Rigid Shield

The Challenge of Connection

In my teenage years, it was crucial for someone to help me learn how to communicate. I had a very deep, introverted ("living inside myself") relationship with myself, though this wasn’t an issue in early childhood. Back then, it was just hard to meet new people. But parents shouldn’t just introduce a child to a new social circle themselves to oversimplify things; on the contrary, they need to create these situations for them more often.

A Tale of Two Cities: Paradise Lost

An event occurred in my life that split my childhood into two distinct periods. Until the age of ten, I lived in Krasnodar; after ten, we moved to Nizhny Novgorod.

If you look at these two periods, they have completely different emotional colors. My Krasnodar childhood was essentially paradise. Moving to Nizhny Novgorod felt like being ripped out of that paradise, and the rest of my childhood passed in a kind of melancholy. I carried this feeling of contrasting spaces through my entire adult life. As it turned out, I thought about it very often.

Not long ago, I visited the places of my childhood and realized what had held me there: it was cozier, the air was different, the temperature, the energy of the space. In Nizhny Novgorod, I desperately missed all of that.

Overcoming the Cold

In Nizhny Novgorod, they put this poor girl on skis and forced her to run distances. A total nightmare began. In Krasnodar, it only snowed twice. The boys would pull out felt boots, strap ice skates to them, and it was fun and exotic.

Now, I feel comfortable here. Maybe I just got used to it. Or maybe, with age, physical comfort becomes less vital—I’ve learned to overcome things.

The Yard as an Escape from "Must"

In childhood, there was always a lingering sadness. Someone was always pressuring me, and I constantly wanted to escape that state. I would run out into the yard. In the yard, we felt truly free.

My mother was quite strict. There were so many prohibitions; it was suffocating. The word "must" was always present. You must do this, you must do that. You must wear this hat. I still remember a situation when I was about five: they bought me a hat with a pom-pom that was barely smaller than my head. I dug my heels in: "I won't wear this hat, and that's final!" We sat in the hallway, arguing and bickering—I absolutely refused to put it on. In the end, I won.

The Scarf That Broke Something Inside

I remember in high school, my mother forced me to wear a headscarf to a school clean-up day (subbotnik), and it looked absolutely hideous on me. I feel like that moment broke something inside me, breeding a kind of apathy toward my appearance—now, for instance, I can easily go out dressed quite plainly.

For someone like me, it's interesting to design clothes for others, but not so much for myself. If a person manages to fulfill themselves in this profession (as a fashion designer), they can afford to pay less attention to their own look.

The Childhood Wardrobe and Flawed Identity

Yet, as a child, I cared deeply about what I wore. Being the younger sister in a family that wasn't very wealthy, I was constantly wearing my sister’s hand-me-downs, always feeling that she was dressed better. It left me with a sense of being flawed, incomplete. This caused me a lot of grief and melancholy.

A child like that needs to be dressed beautifully, in a way they actually like. People often tried to force me into things I hated, and it was a catastrophe. It didn't even matter if the item was good or not; what mattered was how I felt in it.

Sculpting Taste and Forms

Parents really need to pay attention to clothes; it matters to a child. The most important thing is to cultivate taste. My own taste developed somewhat independently. I watched people on the street. Vibrant impressions of beautiful, grown-up young women stuck with me. Even much later, when designing clothes, I would replicate things I had perceived around the age of six.

I was always fascinated by beautifully dressed women, even though I realized even then that there weren't many of them. It was rare to see a woman who truly captivated me. I perceived clothing structurally, like a sculpture. To this day, I remember one piece: it had drapery that gave the impression of a sharply constructed, sculptural form. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

The Backyard Kingdom

During my Krasnodar childhood, I desperately wanted to socialize. I would just walk out into the yard: "Well, who do we have here today?" We had a whole life of our own in that yard. We gathered in groups, learning to dance the twist, which was fashionable at the time. We played dress-up, tried to invent hairstyles. It was lively and fun, but more of a game.

Our yard spanned two apartment entrances—very cozy, enclosed, and packed with children. The building was populated by young specialists. We had an absolutely wonderful crew there; we talked and played non-stop. There were active games and quiet games, in the sandbox and on the asphalt, complete with all the usual scraped knees and green antiseptic stains. We ran a lot, constantly climbing fences.

The Backyard Musketeers and the Flowerbed

We even had a yard club where they showed movies; they loved screening the old French film The Three Musketeers. That became our main game. There were two teams in our yard. My older sister was D'Artagnan in one team, and I was D'Artagnan in the other. The romance of those relationships truly captured our imagination. Our entire life happened outdoors.

I still remember the flowerbed behind the house, overflowing with all kinds of flowers. Ever since, whenever I see those flowers—especially when visiting the South—the feeling of childhood and pure happiness rushes back. I can still physically feel some of those flowers: their color, their shape.

Living for the Audience

My mother was afraid of looking bad to outsiders, so she always conditioned us to be perfect in our interactions and relationships. All the attention in our household was directed not at us, but at guests and outsiders. We were a secondary link. We were expected to do the "right" things: clean up, bring things to people, come home from school on time.

Unjust Punishments and Arbitrary Rules

What truly stressed me out was that I was often punished without any explanation. Sometimes my mother's reasons were completely illogical, which crushed me. It started when I was tiny, around three years old: I came home and sang a song, and I got spanked very harshly. I was so utterly confused as to why that I don't even hold a grudge today. It was a lovely song; we all used to sing it together in the yard.

It happened so often—being punished without understanding the reason. Sometimes someone else was to blame; for example, my friends would come over and scatter things, adults would catch us in the middle of the mess, and naturally, I was the one who caught hell. Physical punishment was rare, though.

The Cold Longing for Ice Cream

I still remember one particular hurt. The snow had fallen. We were sitting on sleds, and the space around us felt infinite, all covered in white. It felt so exotic. I said to my friend, "Hey, let's pretend this is ice cream and eat it." So we started eating the snow.

Who could have guessed that my mother would walk by right at that moment? She took a belt and thrashed me. It hit my leg, and it hurt for a long time. That resentment lingered for years and years.

Learning, Independence, and the Hurdle of Language

I would catch heat in the heat of the moment for bad grades, too. No one helped me study; I did it all on my own. If only someone had helped me a little bit in my early childhood, in elementary school, just explained things slightly...

I know myself. If a child like me is given just a tiny bit of help at a stage where they are struggling, you won't be able to stop them later—I can succeed in virtually any activity. In the beginning, I need a little push, then I run on my own. But later, I get bored; once I realize I've extracted everything interesting for myself, I can just drop the subject—it no longer interests me. But to some extent, it was probably a good thing that I was put in conditions where I learned to overcome this initial threshold independently.

Sometimes, things just wouldn't work out—like writing those little cursive hooks and loops. It just wouldn't click... A little demonstration, and off I went. Or they would tell me, "Why do you write such long sentences? You need to keep them shorter." The clever kids wrote short ones, but I always felt the need to twist things into complex structures... Russian language class was tough. It bored me to death, even though the teachers instilled a decent writing culture. I used to get C's in Russian. I hated writing essays. Today, I can articulate my thoughts on paper beautifully.

The Rule of Coldness

I never turned to my parents for help; the thought didn't even cross my mind. My grandmother was quite cold, and my grandfather didn't pay much attention to us. My sister found it easier to ask for help. For me, asking for help is incredibly difficult, virtually impossible. If the idea had occurred to me, maybe I would have used it, but it never entered my head.

My mother had read an idea in some parenting magazine stating that you should treat your own children worse than others so as not to spoil them. This concept felt so inherently aligned with her worldview that our entire childhood was lived against this backdrop.

Fleeting Warmth and the Search for Sanctuary

Occasionally, a relative from Volgograd would visit us; she radiated a pleasant warmth and treated us very cordially. It felt wonderful. My parents, in principle, never did that. There was no real warmth from either the grandmothers or the grandfathers. Everything was quite rigid and detached... We didn't obsess over it too much; we just ran out into the yard and thoroughly enjoyed socializing there. I desperately needed that connection—connection with my peers.

As a very little girl, I used to visit a small cabin in the village. A woman lived there who made wreaths out of artificial flowers. I loved going to see her, and she loved welcoming me. Once she even baked a little kolobok (a small loaf of bread) for me; it was all very romantic. I went to her place without any invitation; I was one of her own there. She would serve me tea, it was incredibly cozy, and the main thing for me was her kindness. That place was like honey to me.

A Mother's True Core

I remember the feeling when we were brought to our grandmother's village: I missed my mother, and at some point, I desperately wanted her to come.

Later, I began to realize that my mother was actually quite gentle at her core. Everyone loved her and remembers her with extraordinary warmth. Fundamentally, she was a deeply kind, soulful woman.

Retreating Into the Shell

It’s possible that I had an internal need to systematically retreat into a shell, into myself—to crawl inside and hide out for a bit. Throughout my life, I’ve always needed to go away, lock myself down, and sit tight for a very short while, only to inevitably return to socializing. I retreat when there is too much communication, when too many people want something from me and drag me into interactions that don't really interest me. I need to hide away and be with myself; moreover, while sitting in my shell, I am actually preparing myself to go out into the world. I constantly remember those left "on the outside"—essentially, I am trying to fulfill myself, do something, and then head right back out to them.

Sometimes I just need to be alone: I read books or occupy myself with something. Perhaps I also withdraw when people try to pull me into tasks, intrigues, or some sort of game where I feel absolutely disconnected. I simply walk away from those situations.

The Joy of the Collective

I absolutely love shared endeavors when they truly captivate me. In the past, I couldn’t even fathom working outside of a team. I loved working in a collective immensely. Feeling like a small gear in a massive process brought me great joy. I loved entering a workplace where people were so diverse, with so many different dynamics. With some, you could gossip about a third person; with others, you could just sit in silence because both of you already understood exactly what was being left unsaid. I loved working in a team—though the type of team mattered greatly.

The Hunger for Intellectual Growth

I absolutely need people to possess a certain level of personal and intellectual development. Once, I happened to work at a factory, and while sitting in the cafeteria, I physically felt that I could not exist in the company of the people I worked with there. I just couldn't—I had absolutely nothing to do there. The people there were at a very specific stage of development.

I experience the same thing now as an adult: sometimes I feel physically ill around someone if they lack intellectual development. For me, it is a form of suffering. When I was applying to college, there was this incredibly beautiful girl. But the moment she opened her mouth, I realized I had to flee immediately; I felt like I was suffocating.

Intrigued by Minds, Suffocated by Dullness

I am completely unfazed by people who are capable of betrayal or who plot intrigues. Internally, I will form a certain judgment, but I never feel as bad around schemers as I do around those who are simply dull. If a person can only discuss a single topic, it becomes unbearable. I am constantly searching for someone who is genuinely interesting to talk to.

It was exactly the same in my childhood. A person’s sheer knowledge is less important to me than their level of culture. Someone might not read any books at all—for instance, I used to sit with wise elderly women, listening to them open-mouthed for hours. At the same time, I know people who have read tons of smart books, yet I can sense nothing but a void inside them.

The Need for Dialogue and the Thought Jam

I need a person to be able to logically develop a topic that interests me. If I have that kind of outlet, if that one person exists, then that's it—I can easily communicate with everyone else. But if that person isn't around, interacting with the rest becomes uninteresting.

I am interested in dialogue because so many thoughts accumulate inside me—they literally swarm—and I need to pass them on to someone. I start talking to one person, they don’t get it; another doesn't get it either. And then, finally, I find someone who does... and we can talk for hours, non-stop. I need a mutual exchange of ideas so those thoughts can evolve further and perhaps turn into something serious.

Many thoughts arise frequently, and if they aren't spoken aloud to anyone, it creates a sense of a traffic jam in my mind, even though the thoughts themselves can be highly valuable. I carry them around like a prized possession... My brain is working constantly, thinking all the time. Often these thoughts are idle—a thought flashes by and vanishes, completely useless to anyone. But sometimes they are the kind that absolutely must be realized and conveyed to someone.

My logic was stifled back in elementary school. Later on, I realized I was actually strong in logic, but school simply demanded neatness. Because I thought rapidly, I naturally made mistakes and arrived at the wrong results, but the structure of my problem-solving was always sound.

Lost Potential

What I really needed from my parents was help in exploring different directions. If they had found where I could excel, in what field of activity, I would have tasted success early on. That is exactly what I lacked. Looking back, I realize I needed it, but it wasn't there. Parents should always look for a child's potential: I drew a little, I danced a little. I really wished my parents had helped me fulfill myself and found my strengths. If only they had simply taken an interest: what is this girl capable of? You need to look closer—what if I am not like the others?

In reality, I was the black sheep at home because everyone else behaved in a socially proper way, while I found it utterly boring. I wanted to read books or sit and draw while everyone else was watching a soccer match. I had potential inside me, but nobody saw it. For a child like that, the most important thing is for adults to take an interest in them and see what they can do.

The Quiet Leader and the Comfort of Second-in-Command

On one hand, I was a deep introvert; on the other hand, I socialized a lot—I needed it like oxygen. I always led the pack, but somehow very unconsciously. I remember one episode: we were in someone else's yard with an unfamiliar group of kids. Suddenly, I caught a spark of courage: I began directing the game, lining everyone up, and everyone was having fun. We had a wonderful time playing, but afterward, I felt a lingering sense of discomfort. I had crossed some kind of line. I felt awkward that I was leading and they were all subordinate to me.

Commanding wasn't natural to me in childhood, although as you grow older, you test those waters a few times and it becomes your strength. Today, organizing people comes easily to me. In the social circles I frequent, people know this trait about me. A child like that should be allowed to command, but only up to a certain limit, because they can get carried away playing the leader. If you gave me an army, I would command it, but strictly as second-in-command. I am comfortable in the second role. In the leading role, I am constantly looking back: "Am I going the right way? Maybe I should head in a different direction?" But the second role is when the main, strategic line is already defined and the direction is clear—that’s when I gather everything that needs to be moved into my energetic grasp, so to speak, and begin to act. For instance, if I need to solve a problem, it’s as if I scoop it up in my arms. The feeling is that I have set its boundaries and I know with absolute certainty that I will solve it. I have an internal confidence in that.

It is vital to explain to a child like this that opinions other than their own exist, otherwise they might simply fail to hear anyone else. This was explained to me from early childhood. When such a child has weak defense mechanisms in childhood, there is an immense amount of doubt.

Skipping the Middle and the School of Fear

When I am explaining something to someone, I might start a sentence and finish it while completely omitting the middle. Like, why say it if it's already obvious? I definitely do that.

School was a very harsh environment for me. I experienced constant fear. This fear paralyzed me. Looking back, I realize I could have excelled in school, even earning a gold medal, but fear paralyzed me completely. I couldn't study my lessons properly; I couldn't feel confident. They would call me up to the blackboard, I'd stand in front of the class—and just freeze with fear.

We had one wise physics teacher with whom I felt no fear. She was quite a strict woman, but wise, internally genuine, talented, and possessed a great sense of humor. Youthful and bold, she mocked us just a little bit. I kept a very warm impression of her, and I've appreciated physics ever since. The rest of school was mostly about us being ordered around in every single lesson, which fueled my anxieties. But in physics class, I would go up to the blackboard and solve problems correctly without fear.

Retelling texts from the textbook was incredibly difficult for me. It was always a struggle. I tried to train myself in this regard, but perhaps memory wasn’t my strongest suit. I liked mathematics much better; there was logic in math. I could think things through in math. To this day, it remains the queen of sciences for me. It was wonderful. When things are explained and you grasp the underlying logic of what is happening—that is interesting.

I was afraid of people. In school, I only associated with girls who definitely wouldn't hurt me; I was never part of our crowd of "brilliant" youth. I felt a need for silence and dialogue. I behaved very quietly at school.

The Weight of Perfectionism and Unfair Criticism

A child like that is super-responsible. Whenever I went out to play, I was constantly plagued by the thought: "What if I forgot something? They assigned me a task, and I forgot it?" That was a breeding ground for fears.

If I forgot to do something, a massive row would start at home. I was criticized constantly. Even if you cleaned up, you did it wrong. It was a matter of principle—everything was bad. Because of this, I lived in a state of constant tension, constriction, and perpetual internal readiness. A child like that needs to be praised for their work, but it must be done with absolute sincerity, because I could sense insincerity instantly.

My mother was an absolute authority figure. For me, parents, teachers, and bosses represented an external force you simply couldn't push back against; these people held total authority over me. Later, I watched how girls interacted with professors in college and thought, "Wow, incredible." My position was detached—it was better for me to just slip past and escape the supervision of adults.

The Breaking Point: Micro-Management

The absolute worst thing for me was when someone pointed a finger at a task and told me exactly where and how to do it. For example, when I was forced to mop the floor, and my mother would point out where else to wipe. At that point, I could snap and growl at any age.

A child needs to be allowed to do things when they actually like it, when they are in the right mood. It is best if adults simply set a deadline by which the task must be completed. When I started doing what I wanted—like mopping the floor, and I actually enjoyed mopping the floor—but my mother would walk up and say, "Why did you do it wrong here?"—I was ready to smash that bucket of water against the floor. At moments like that, I wanted to do something malicious out of spite; sometimes my upbringing prevented it, and sometimes it didn't. I just wanted to tear everything down.

The Missing Window of Learning

There was a period when I used to hang around the kitchen while my mother was making soup. I constantly wanted her to teach me. But she never really did.

There is a specific window in childhood when a child is genuinely eager to learn something new. If this window is missed, that's it—you won't be able to teach them later on. Between the ages of five and eight, they can be taught. After that, other, more contradictory personality traits kick in, and the opportunity is gone. It comes down to this: either you have already learned it by then, or you just need to let the person live and fulfill themselves as they are.

The Built-In Conscience and Unresolved Regrets

In my childhood, I was deeply tormented by my conscience. There is absolutely no point in appealing to the conscience of children like this even further; it only breeds low self-esteem, causing them to slowly wither away. A person needs to be an active social unit, and the conscience in such a child is already built-in—it's already tormenting them.

If a situation arises where a child does something wrong, you need to dissect the situation, resolve it, and close the book on it. The worst kind of situation is one that remains open and drags out over time. I will stop worrying about something that happened as long as it no longer weighs heavily on my soul. But if it lingers on and on, I will keep agonizing over it, slowly fading away.

Thank God my family didn't constantly bring up my past missteps. Though I do remember one time we were staying in the village and it was freezing cold. My sister and I were dressed in thin cotton dresses, though I was also wearing a sweater. There was a river nearby, about knee-deep. Something fell into the river, and someone had to wade through the freezing water. My sister said, "I'll go in! Give me your sweater!" I said, "No, I won't!" To this day, that moment haunts my conscience.

The Trap of Self-Flagellation

In my childhood, I suffered from severe self-flagellation. It’s a vicious cycle of remorse: when you do the wrong thing or act incorrectly, you eventually develop a deep-seated feeling that you don't deserve what you want—that you don't deserve the best. Yet happiness is achieving exactly what you want. A child like this lives in a state of constant, subconscious masochism.

The Gorky Archetype: The Power and Fear of Dreams

LSIs must absolutely be given the opportunity to dream; it is their greatest strength. Dreaming about all sorts of things. Dreaming about oneself: today you are a princess like this, tomorrow you are someone else entirely. Dreaming about a certain social status. You read romantic books in childhood, and you need to dream.

Then time passes, and you realize that this dream is actually starting to manifest in reality. Suddenly, you get terrified. You thought it was just a fantasy that would never leave your mind, but what you dreamed of is actually happening. Right then, that psychological masochism kicks in: "This can't be true, because it's simply impossible." You don't believe you are allowed to be happy enough for your dream to come true. You subconsciously forbid yourself from taking that final step, from letting the situation develop.

Only after some time passes do you realize that you actually can do it; you grow accustomed to the thought that you are capable, and you finally do it. You could have achieved it several years earlier, but you held yourself back, doubting and blaming yourself for things. I could have run much further in life. In childhood, I needed to be allowed to dream—a child creates the exact image of the self they want to become. And a person spends their entire life fulfilling themselves with that specific image in mind.

Sculpting the Ideal Self-Image

The childhood of a LSI is rooted in romance; they need romance like oxygen. Perhaps when they retreat into their shell, it is precisely so they can dream there. They absolutely need to create the blueprint of the person they want to mold themselves into, and then life follows, where they actively sculpt that image. But subconsciously, that ideal must already be floating in their mind.

When people come along and tell you that you should be different, you have every right to send them back where they came from. You have your own image, and you are moving forward clearly, creating exactly who you want to be—and that is what makes life interesting.

High Ambitions, Grounded Effort, and Bodily Awareness

Children like this need to be told that they deserve the absolute best and can reach the highest peaks. At the same time, however, it must be explained to them that achieving goals requires real effort. They shouldn't be conditioned to expect handouts or easy victories.

As a child, I was highly in tune with my physical body. I loved running fast and jumping. I absolutely adored those activities. Even now, from deep within, I can feel the fluid grace of classical ballet when I watch ballerinas—it’s a physical sensation, as if my own body is being lifted up.

What I truly feared from my parents wasn't physical punishment, but psychological sadism—constant reproaches that I was somehow wrong or flawed.

The Analytical Mind vs. School Obedience

A child needs to be taught that parents can be displeased with their action, not with them as a person. I, however, was constantly made to feel that they were displeased with me. My strengths were left completely sidelined and uncalled for. It was only much later that I began to understand where my true power lay.

The ultimate strength of children like this is their capacity for analysis. The ability to dissect a problem into its core components, reassemble it, and formulate their own structured opinion. School, however, demands memory, neatness, and obedience; analysis isn't valued there until the upper grades or in very specific subjects.

This analytical capacity needs to be nurtured. When solving problems, for instance, it is highly beneficial to draw diagrams. The brain grasps them instantly. Explaining how to get somewhere is elementary for me: I just grab a piece of paper and sketch a map.

Translating Logic into Speech

The trick is that the capacity for analysis is a deep, internal process that doesn't inherently rely on the formulation of spoken language. It’s as if speech isn’t even necessary; the language of numbers and diagrams is entirely sufficient. Because of this, verbal speech doesn't naturally develop on its own. It is vital to properly teach such a child to articulate their thoughts. It is not an easy task, but it is necessary.

It would be wonderful for a child like this to join a theater studio. After-school activities are absolutely essential because they allow children to start communicating on a wide variety of topics. The child will choose the activity themselves; they just need to be given that option. I was never given that choice. I desperately wanted to do ballet. Instead, they took my sister to ballet, even though I was the one who longed for it. A child should be allowed to try everything so they can choose their own path.

I lacked a means of self-expression; inside me, there was a kind of chaos. Having your own territory is also incredibly important. I shared a room with my sister. While having my own space would have been less "fun," it was necessary.

The Silent Sufferer: Learning to Prioritize Oneself

A child must be taught to look out for their own interests. I only managed to look out for mine by escaping into solitude. I spent my life subordinating my own desires to the demands of school and family. As a result, I spent a whole period of my life living entirely for others, but not for myself. In childhood, my core interest was fulfilled through socialization; I needed passionate, non-stop communication, and I had it.

A little LSI will not talk about their problems; they don't know how. Parents have to deduce what's wrong—they must observe the child, noticing where their eyes light up with joy and where their face goes completely blank. Some children will openly say, "I need this and that," or "I'm uncomfortable here." This child, however, will remain completely silent, simply enduring and suffering.

You can ask them, "Do you like it?" But you must ask in a way that isn't just a formality. Otherwise, they might just say, "Yes, I like it..." when in reality, they couldn't care less.

The Sarcasm That Closes the Door Forever

There was an episode in my life when I was graduating from high school. My mother asked me, "Who do you want to be?" I hadn't thought about it seriously yet. I didn't want to tell her because our relationship lacked openness, but eventually, I confessed that I wanted to be an archaeologist.

To which she replied: "Are you serious? With your slouched back, where do you think you're going into archaeology?" The hurt from that moment lingers to this day. Right then, I swore a silent oath to myself that I would never tell my mother anything ever again.

When a child opens up, you must never treat them with sarcasm. If you feel a child is being genuinely vulnerable, you cannot throw stones or mock them under any circumstances. If you do, that's it. The child closes up forever.

The Danger of Ambiguity and Hurtful Words

Once, in the heat of an argument, my mother snapped at me: "Oh, look at you! What a piece of work you are!" To this day, I cannot fully comprehend why that single phrase hit me so hard. It felt like my entire world turned upside down. It left me wondering how people could possibly enjoy life or smile at all. The world felt terrifying, unimaginably cruel—knowing that any person could utter a phrase like that at any moment. It only happened once, but I still don't understand why it cut so deep.

To someone else, it might be a completely meaningless phrase, but to a child like this, everything needs to be clearly explained. Leaving them in total ambiguity and uncertainty is dangerous; it breeds too much internal anguish. I cannot stand hints; I need concrete clarity.

They need to be told: "I am upset that you did this, that you acted this way... It's not that you are bad, but your action was bad." It is easy for me when concrete grievances are presented. It is far worse when people pay me compliments that I don't feel I've earned—to me, that just feels like insincerity. Or sometimes, people will say nothing at all, but I can feel their disapproval; in those moments, I completely lose my bearings and have no idea what to do. If I can convince myself that those people are just envious or harboring hidden motives, only then do I calm down.

The Soft Soul Behind a Rigid Shield

At their core, a LSI is soft, gentle, and sensitive. But after having a few stones thrown into their garden, they shut down and spend the rest of their life looking rigid and stern. This harshness and severity is nothing more than a defense mechanism—and it is a very easy way to get through life.

A child like this is unimaginably sensitive, sentimental, and romantic—until they are beaten down by the harsh realities of life. The psyche gradually builds up defense mechanisms, and they turn into a hardened little soldier.

A LSI is capable of giving away their last shirt. However, if someone starts demanding that they give it away, they will tell them exactly where to go, without hesitation.

Spontaneity vs. The Anxiety of Waiting

I absolutely adored reading novels, projecting myself onto characters, imagining relationships and love stories.

When it comes to situations where someone unexpectedly alters my plans, I usually handle it quite calmly. The only exceptions are when I am deeply passionate about something or desperately want to go do an activity, and someone tries to force me into a task they think is important, but which completely bores me. In those moments, I push back rigidly, as far as my upbringing allows.

I used to love unexpected guests. I enjoy it when one thing is planned, but then—boom—something entirely different happens. For me, that is completely natural. I remember going to the dentist, and if the doctor looked at my tooth and said, "We need to pull this one," and immediately took me by the hand to the next room, it was easy for me. I'd just go and get it pulled right then and there. But if they scheduled the extraction for Wednesday, I would spend the entire intervening time overthinking and worrying about how it would go. I need things done immediately.

I absolutely despise hanging, unresolved situations that do not depend on me. When I am capable of doing everything myself, I see the situation through to the very end. But when it is out of my hands, my patient nature takes over, so I endure it for a long time—though it puts me in a very depressive state.

Broken Bonds and New Spaces

I experienced incredibly painful situations in my childhood—for example, when a friend moved away. My best friend lived in our yard, and she moved away forever. It was an absolute tragedy for me. Ties were formed, and then they were abruptly severed.

Relationships are complex things to navigate for a LSI. It takes immense effort just to find a true friend and settle into a dynamic. When that bond shatters, the grief is overwhelming.

At the age of ten, I left Krasnodar, where my childhood had unfolded, where I loved everything, and where I felt pure happiness. Suddenly, we moved to a completely different place. In our new home, my sister and I didn't socialize with anyone for a very long time, not even with the kids in our own yard. It was pure stress—an entirely different, unfamiliar space. And I didn't have even the slightest desire to explore that unknown territory.

The Illusion of Happiness and the Ideal Prince

In my childhood, I had a persistent feeling that I simply wasn’t born for happiness. Life just dragged on. Some people were happy, others were miserable, and I existed somewhere in the middle. As I grew up, I told myself that once I became an adult, relationships would be completely different.

But deep down, I didn’t really believe it. Perhaps because relationships hadn't been properly modeled in my childhood, I lacked the fundamental experience of what it actually meant to be happy.

Happiness seemed like something deeply romantic. I imagined a man—a prince—who would find me, someone absolutely perfect (perfect in my own imagination). Relationships were supposed to be flawless, but this was so heavily idealized that even I couldn't believe it. I used to retreat from reality into my own mind.

Searching for a Tribe of Status and Intellect

I used to think that if I just fixed myself up a little bit—improved my appearance, became more successful, made myself socially more interesting to those around me—then happiness would finally arrive, people would be drawn to me, and that very prince would appear.

I wanted to be surrounded by people who genuinely desired my company, people who found me interesting. To me, that would be true happiness. And not just random people, mind you, but those who met my standards, people I found intriguing. I wanted to become just like them: successful, smart, and energetic. I longed for close, engaging relationships with respected individuals who held a certain social status.

Discovering "My People" and Unlocking Creative Depths

Once, in my youth, I went to a lakeside tourist camp. By today’s standards, the living conditions were atrocious, but the experience itself was extraordinary. The people there were amazing; they welcomed me with open arms, and we talked endlessly. I am still in touch with some of them to this day. It was incredible! They would drop by unexpectedly, dragging me off to cafés, to go swimming, walking, and talking. The level of intellectual exchange was top-tier.

Later, I had a period where I socialized with actors and poets. It was deeply fascinating—something I had been entirely deprived of in childhood. Hanging out with them made me realize: "This is where I belong!" They were just so naturally talented.

Recently, I’ve realized that I really enjoy interacting with philologists. I used to prefer the exact sciences and was terrified of Russian class and literature. Over time, I came to see that this creative side is truly mine; I just never had the chance to uncover it during childhood. Though back then, I always had a quiet feeling that I was capable of writing poetry.

The Breaking Point: Infinite Patience, Sudden Explosions

People frequently tell me that I am a harsh, rigid person. To be honest, it always catches me off guard because inside, I am completely different. I see people who look all soft and gentle on the outside, yet possess far more internal severity than I ever will.

Granted, if I don't want something—like interacting with a certain person or doing something I am being forced to do—I can build an incredibly rigid wall. I allow myself to do this now; in the past, I was too afraid. Today, I will endure something for a very, very long time. My conversational partner relaxes, thinking they can get away with anything, but the moment they dump that "one final straw" on me, I explode, completely shattering the relationship.

What crosses the line for me in a relationship? Anything, really: nasty remarks aimed at me, constant nagging, forcing me to do things I hate, or dragging me places. I absolutely detest "sorting out" relationships through confrontation. For me, having to sit down and explicitly hash things out is the equivalent of pulling a trigger to my own head. I don't know how to do it, and I hate it.

To me, relationships should exist entirely on a level of subtle undertones. Everything is already obvious. You can read it in a person's eyes or facial expressions: whether they are pleased or displeased, whether they want something or not. I genuinely do not understand why people feel the need to sit down and verbally dissect a relationship. Because of this, I tolerate things for a long, long time. But if people push their luck, thinking, "Oh, she'll swallow anything," a sudden storm erupts. It leaves the other person utterly shell-shocked because they never saw it coming.

Screaming in the Silence

I am capable of physically grabbing someone and shaking them, shouting, "You told me...!" And the thing is, I won't even explain why I'm angry; to me, it feels like it should already be completely obvious.

If a guy keeps hovering around me, bringing me flowers, but he can clearly see I want no part of it, I won't sit him down and gently say, "Look, you need to understand that what you're doing is inappropriate." Instead, I will simply pretend for a long time that nothing is happening, constantly evading the situation. Then, at a certain point, I will just start screaming, slam the door in his face, and cut him off completely. Remarkably, these people often forgive me and try to return to my life after some time.

As a child, I used to tolerate things for a terribly long time as well, before exploding in the exact same way: "Leave me alone!" I had more patience back then. At some point in my life, I finally gave myself explicit permission to have these outbursts.

If a friend comes over and keeps spouting nonsense, I will endure it, endure it, and then snap: "Why do you keep telling me this utter stupidity?!"

Confronting the Office Tyrant: "Ostap Was Carried Away"

I remember starting a new job where there was a person terrorizing the entire department. I would hand her an assignment, and our friction would immediately begin. She’d say, "This can't be done!" I’d respond, "What do you mean it can't be done? It goes like this." She’d snap back, "No!"

I tolerated this for a long time. Eventually, I started talking to the rest of the staff: "Why do you all just take this?" They replied, "Yeah, she drives everyone crazy..." Everyone else endured it, so I did too, even though she technically worked under my supervision.

But the next time I said, "Please do this," and she shot back, "Why don't you go do it yourself?"—that was it. As the Russian saying goes, "Ostap was carried away"—I completely lost it. I stood in the middle of the room and screamed so loudly that I felt like everyone sitting there practically melted into the walls. I couldn't even hear my own voice over my own yelling.

My daughter often "mirrors" me now; she refuses to let me speak to her in a commanding tone. Because of that, I’ve learned to put people in their place gently and immediately, which is honestly much more practical. But by nature, my default setting is still to endure and tolerate for a very, very long time.

Socionics, Tact, and Subtle Signals

A child like this needs to be explicitly taught that people often don't realize they are acting wrongly. I used to look at those people and simply think, "Fools." No other thought even crossed my mind. They would do incredibly bizarre things—like wanting to hang out with me, yet simultaneously taking passive-aggressive jabs at me. It made zero sense to me. I couldn't explain it to them, and frankly, it felt like there was no point in trying.

A child needs to understand that everyone is genuinely wired differently, and that Socionics is a brilliant science that explains these exact differences. I used to look at people assuming everyone was fundamentally the same, just divided into "fools" and "not fools."

Now, I have to delicately explain to my friends exactly where they are wrong. In short, tact is deeply important to a LSI. I consider myself a tactful person. First and foremost, I need to feel out the other person and establish the ground rules: "You don't hurt me, and I won't hurt you." It is deeply improper to tell someone things that will obviously upset them. If you walk into a room and sense you aren't welcome—just leave. Sense that you've arrived at a bad time.

Some Japanese acquaintances once told me about a beautiful custom of theirs: if a guest arrives at an inconvenient time, the hostess will quietly go and place a broom upside down, bristles up. It is a subtle sign that the visit is poorly timed. They don't insult the person to their face; they convey it through a symbol. And according to their etiquette, the guest is obligated to read the sign and understand.

Meaningful Encounters and Long-Form Narratives

How exhilarating life was during my college years! People could show up at my place at two in the morning, and it was pure fun. If a person comes to me and explains that they have an idea or a project far more fascinating than whatever I was planning to do, by all means, I will welcome them with open arms. But if someone drops by simply because they have nothing better to do, because they are bored, while I am right in the middle of tasks that are deeply important to me—it infuriates me beyond measure.

In childhood, I always preferred games with continuity, games where the plot actually developed over time. Once in the village, we started playing a game of "house" with a complex, unfolding storyline. Suddenly, the other girls said, "We're bored, let's dump this game and run off." I snapped, "Fine, then I won't hang out with you at all!" I needed a game with a continuation—a long, sprawling novel of a game.

The Soul Bruised by Vastness: Poetry and Patriotism

I never imagined in my childhood that I would one day start writing poetry, but when it finally hit me, it came in such a massive rush that I couldn't stop.

I hold a deep, aching concern for my homeland. I can physically feel how deeply people are tied to the physical space where they grew up. Russia, first and foremost, is its people. I feel a profound connection to the words of the educator Ushinsky: "The Russian soul is bruised by vastness." It is embedded in our genetics. We are born already feeling that our territory is boundless.

That is one side of the coin; on the other side, I simply find Russian people far more intriguing than any others. It’s a quiet, deeply principled kind of patriotism: our cinema, our films, our culture.

Yet, in my childhood, it was incredibly difficult for me to deliver speeches or explain things thoroughly and articulately. This often landed me in downright comical situations because people just couldn't grasp what I was trying to say. To this day, I find it frustratingly difficult to explain concepts to a conversational partner if I already view those concepts as self-evident, fundamental norms of common sense.

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