Dmitry A. (SLE) - On avoiding unjustified risk

A SLE doesn’t get scared for no reason. I never got scared for no reason. I always clearly assessed my strength. Always.

When I bought my first car, an “eight,” I raced, took ninety-degree turns at huge speeds, practically on two wheels. Everyone told me, “You’re going to crash like that someday.” I told everyone, “I never take unjustified risks.” I always control the car. When I stop controlling it, I slow down; I never drive like a maniac. From the outside it looks like I’m reckless, but I have full control.

I fought at school, but only when I knew I was stronger. I never finished anyone off, never hit the face, even though they hit me in the face in return. I knew that if I hit the face, there’d be blood and I’d have to answer for it. I always hit the chest. It’s very hard to knock an opponent down that way, even if he’s weaker than you but standing fairly solidly. But I did it, consciously—I deliberately chose the harder path.

<...> You can’t tell an SLE, “No, it won’t work, there are so many dangers.” Yes, if I didn’t know there were dangers... I assess the degree of risk perfectly. I will never take unjustified risks. I worry about any pain in my life. Fights are fights, but I don’t like pain. I’m afraid of dental treatment, for example. So I assess any risk. If I find it acceptable, it means I’ve already thought it through.

You only start thinking that something might be dangerous, and I’ve already thought about it ten times and realized it won’t hurt me. And if it won’t hurt, then we’ll get through it. This is a very important point, because all sorts of women love to dramatize: “Oh, there are bandits there, they’ll cut your head off...” Clucking away. I already know there are bandits and that heads get cut off. If I know that, it means I’ve taken some safety measures—I’m not a complete idiot. I never take unjustified risks. Never.

I’ve never had the desire to do something on a dare: “Come on, let’s go!” First I assess my capabilities: “Go or not go.” If I feel that I can do it—even if it’s at the extreme end of my abilities—but I understand that I still have some margin left, only then will I go.

I’ve taken turns at high speed, practically on two wheels. Everyone who saw it thought, “That’s it, he’s flipped.” But I was controlling the situation. I like effects like that. Yes, I like showing that what you weaklings can’t do, I can.

I have a good sense of my own body position—how I’m sitting, whether I can get hurt. If there’s going to be a blow, I feel where I need to move away from it, to the right or left. Those moments before impact are fractions of a second, but it turns out I think through a lot in them.

<...> Once I was afraid to slide down a hill into a river. For my parents the river was shallower than knee-deep, but for me it was practically up to my head. I was scared, very scared. I understood that it was an unjustified risk. I didn’t want to take it: I’d just fall into the water and not reach the bottom with my feet. For them it was fine—they step in and it’s only knee-deep, but I could drown. I really didn’t want to go down that hill. But my parents pushed me. I was a boy, a future soldier; I had to do it, everyone could... I remember who “everyone” was—those kids were three or four years older than me, seven- or eight-year-old Przewalski horses sliding down that hill, while I was about five. Adults said, “Come on, slide down! What are you afraid of, are you a sissy?”

What do you mean, a sissy?! I remember how hurt I was when they accused me of being a coward.

What was I afraid of? I was afraid of unjustified risk. And it was said out loud, for the whole beach to hear; it felt awful. My parents should have tried to understand what I was afraid of. At least ask. Find out why I didn’t want to go there. But it wasn’t fear of the height of the hill at all. It was the depth. But since in the eyes of adults I was a future soldier, it seemed to me there was no chance they’d understand me.

A similar situation happened with a horse when I was seven or eight—a little green kid. My mother and I went to Karelia in winter. There were huge snowdrifts; we were skiing, and a horse with a foal was roaming around. We needed to ski past it. My mother said, “Go ahead!” And I saw that the horse was furious—ears pinned back, baring its teeth, full-on aggression. I read that well. And I imagined that if the horse charged at me, I wouldn’t be able to run away with my little legs. No chance at all. The snow was deep, skis sank in, there was only one track, and trying to run through loose snow on skis is nonsense. You’d have to take the skis off and run, because that would be faster—but the snow was deep, the horse would catch up anyway, and I’d get beaten up regardless. I flat-out refused, and my mother said, “No, go! Go on! What are you, a coward?”

What kind of coward? If it had been something within my abilities... Rusha was a year older than me, and I didn’t chicken out of punching him in the teeth. I did it—nothing happened, even though I could have gotten it from the older kid. I wasn’t afraid because it was within my strength. But I couldn’t handle a horse; I couldn’t outrun it.

I realized there was aggression from my mother and aggression from the horse, and I needed to take measures. I took off my skis and ran in the opposite direction from the horse. I ran into the forest, went a long way through it. I ran home—and at home I paid for it in front of my mother’s acquaintances. Not only did she yell at me, she also beat me in the face with pants. Everyone saw it. It didn’t hurt, it wasn’t scary—it was unbearably hurtful that nobody understood me at all, and on top of that I was so badly humiliated.

That’s real humiliation. You don’t forget it. And when you tell it, you feel aggression: “Why did they treat me like that?” Would they dare beat me in the face with pants now, when I could at least dodge, at most hit back with those same pants? Now nobody would dare do that to me; now it’s kind of scary to mess with me. But back then, for some reason, they thought it was acceptable. That’s wrong.

Parents really need to understand the reason for a child’s fear in any given situation.