Tatiana N. (SLE) — Command, Courage, and Unyielding Will

A Mother Who Truly Listened

I was extremely lucky with my mother. Lucky in the sense that she was always ready to compromise and always understood me.

I had a simply radiant childhood, and all thanks to my mom. The main thing she provided was listening. Yes, the primary thing I needed was for her to listen to me and my impressions of the day. I would be running around somewhere, doing something, and then I’d burst into the house—not wanting to eat or drink, but immediately launching into a non-stop chatter, pouring out all my emotions and impressions onto her.

It was vital for me to be heard—my emotions, my thoughts about the day. It was as if I were dumping a whole bag of my experiences right in front of her. She would remain completely silent. I would talk and share for two or three hours straight. Later, over time, I realized that she wasn’t listening attentively to every single word, but she knew she had to stay quiet and let that stream pour out so I could free myself from my feelings.

Through this flow, she knew what was happening in my life; she didn't need to interrogate or control me. Evidently, this was her way of gathering information—making sure that everything was peaceful with me and that I wasn't up to anything bad.

Freedom, Trust, and the Inner Compass

Second, and perhaps even more importantly, my mom didn’t restrict my freedom. As a child I was mostly outside in the yard all the time; I didn’t have any kind of “cage,” so to speak. In general, there was freedom.

It’s also important to say that you have to trust a child like that. This factor is very important. If I went somewhere, my mom fully trusted that I wouldn’t be doing anything bad: if it was a five-to-seven-year-old child, I wouldn’t leave the yard or get lost; if it was, say, a high-school student, that I wouldn’t start drinking, smoking, or staying out all night; if it was a working young woman, then I would work, and so on.

You shouldn’t give any rigid instructions to such a child at all. There’s an expression I once liked: “Barsik [a cat] doesn’t like being stroked against the grain.”

The main thing is to allow me to be who I am—not to restrain me, not to limit me, not to give nagging recommendations, not to make harsh remarks. Of course, in childhood there probably were some recommendations. In general, in some ways I was obedient—in the sense of coming home on time, leaving a note about where I’d gone. That’s actually the most important thing for me: control inside myself when my mom isn’t around. I left home at seventeen; my mom wasn’t nearby, but I couldn’t do something my mom wouldn’t approve of. I had certain moral principles. She never forbade me anything. She would say, for example, “If you’re going to be late, call.” That’s just how things were done in our family.

Even now, when I’m visiting my mom, if she goes to the store and I go somewhere else, I leave a note: “Went there, will be back at such-and-such a time.” That information really pleases her.

Adulthood and Overprotection Friction

I left to study at seventeen, and since then my mom and I have lived separately. When we meet, we have conflicts, because despite the fact that I’m forty-seven years old, my mom still has the urge to take care of me. For example: “Put on a scarf, fasten your jacket, it’s windy. There’s cottage cheese in the fridge, eat some berries.” Overprotection drives me crazy, and I say: “Mom, I know everything that’s in the fridge, I’ll take it when I want. I’ve lived separately for many years. I know what the weather is like. I survived all these years, didn’t I?” We’ve lived separately for thirty years—I left home at seventeen.

A couple of years ago we came to the point where I wrote my wishes down on a piece of paper. And then I come to visit my mom. She read these wishes: don’t make remarks, don’t repeat things twice, don’t burden me with unnecessary explanations. And the thing is, these wishes were the same last year, the year before, and ten years ago. All of this drives me crazy, as if it ties my wings, restricts my freedom, doesn’t let me be independent. In those moments I feel that my mom doesn’t trust me, doubts that I’m sane and capable—this is exactly how I perceive it. Although in general it’s probably care, but it’s on this ground that we have conflicts.

The Need for Structure and Written Tasks

My mom loves to endlessly talk through household chores. For instance, in the morning: “Okay, we need to make a grocery list right now, we need to go get some cottage cheese, don't forget to buy kefir,” and so on. That is what I call “overloading me.” There is no need to overload me.

Or, for example, a thought about health comes to her mind. She says that something is good for the blood vessels and starts reading it aloud from a book. I tell her: “Don't overload me right now. Let’s sit down, set aside specific time for this, and you can tell me point by point what’s needed for veins, what’s for the head, or for whatever else. Whatever comes to your mind, just write it down somewhere for now.”

Or if she has some tasks around the house: I arrive, and she comes to me saying, “Please do this and that, paint over there, buy stuff over here.” It irritates me a lot when she says this on different days and at random moments. I tell her: “Write it down. Write down everything that comes to mind—what needs fixing, what needs to be brought somewhere.” Later, I look at the list, plan my route, and organize it: here’s the store, here’s the hairdresser, here’s this task—and I sweep through everything at once. In three hours, I get all the tasks done in one go. That’s how I like to work.

When I visit my mom to rest, my main goal is to be in total relaxation. I always have my own thoughts flowing, certain images, things I’m digesting, and suddenly I get yanked out of it: “Here’s the cottage cheese, here’s what needs repair, don't forget this and that.” No need to chatter around me. For a SLE-child to feel comfortable, tasks need to be drawn up in writing.

A Wild Childhood and Taking Command

Until I was seventeen, I did very little around the house. I would go to the store for bread and milk, while my older brother went for potatoes. When I think back on my childhood, up until about fifteen, I was tearing around the yard all day long, from morning till night. I needed space, a wide field of activity, endless games—sports, lapta, ball games, climbing around construction sites, jumping from tree to tree. I mostly hung out with the boys.

The entire courtyard was under my command, all the boys were under my command—my brother, although he was three years older than me, his friends who were five or six years older than me. I could even fight.

There was a case when I stood up for my brother. I climbed onto a huge guy like a monkey—he was seventeen and I was about nine. I literally grabbed onto him, hung off him: “Leave my brother alone!”

Once someone older took a bicycle away from someone younger. I immediately went up to the one who took the bike and took it back. He even showed me a knife, but I wasn’t scared—I was about twelve then. He said, “You’ll get it.” I said, “Get out of here, don’t touch the younger kids, give the bike back.” I wasn’t afraid. Maybe at seventeen, being a girl, I wouldn’t have gone at someone with a knife.

Fearless Exploration and the Parachute Jump

All through my childhood I was constantly away from home. When I was two, I went out into the yard with my older brother; from the age of six I was already exploring the neighboring courtyards; and by eleven we had a group of friends, including one interesting boy from the yard. Later he became an artist and moved to Moscow. He had lots of interesting books at home and all sorts of things, and he would take us off somewhere—into the nearby forests. This was actually the outskirts of the city, several kilometers out. When I was twelve, we were roaming through the forests; he took us to some cliffs.

Once we were walking along some pipe over a cliff at the height of a fourth floor. There were three boys and me. One of them walked partway along the pipe and sat down on it—he got scared and couldn’t go either forward or back; he ended up sort of hanging over the cliff. I went after him, started talking him into it, and brought him back. I wasn’t scared of the height at all.

Then there was another incident: I was twelve, it was at the Orlyonok camp; they sent me there for social work. We had to jump from a parachute tower. I climbed the tower, reached the top platform, and there you had to unhook a chain before jumping. The tower was twenty-five meters high, and psychologically you’re jumping into nowhere. Jumping with a parachute from a plane is easier than from a tower—there it’s high and there’s a kind of sense of unreality, while here it feels like the ground is right there.

Before me, one or two boys reached the edge and then turned back, started going down the ladder toward me—they saw the ground and couldn’t jump. When you jump, the parachute opens behind you and you fly for a few seconds. Even if it’s just a few seconds, it’s still scary. A few seconds feel like a very long time. I remember one boy walked up in front of me, almost in tears, his face turned pale, and he recoiled and went back. I had a few seconds of the same feeling inside, but I gave myself an order: “Forward!”—and jumped immediately. Then I flew for a few seconds, the lines went taut, and then I started fooling around—kicking my legs, waving my arms. Bang—and the ground came very fast.

The Born Leader and Natural Organizer

For a SLE child it is important to feel that they are not alone but part of some group. What is especially important is to be the one in charge. I always needed some kind of group where I could lead. The second thing that showed up when I was seven years old was that I was an organizer everywhere. Always.

If it was a game in the yard, I was the one who appointed myself as a kind of referee, set the rules, and monitored fairness. For example, I would say, “You’re playing unfairly.” I re-educated everyone in the yard—none of the boys swore. Everyone strictly followed the rules, otherwise I don’t even know what I would have done to them.

In first grade it was like this. There was a problem—I couldn’t sit still and would start walking between the rows. The teacher turned out to be pretty reasonable; she allowed me to do it.

The next episode: right from first grade, I was placed in an after-school care group. The classroom was in the semi-basement floor, and after the program ended, I used to climb out through the window instead of leaving through the door. It was just more comfortable, convenient, and direct for me—no need to go down, walk around, or climb up the stairs.

I like to dream. In my childhood I had a dream: here is my house, and right across from it is the school. My windows would be the entrance to the school. I constantly wanted a ladder—just going “whoosh” right out of my window into the school; that was a very vivid dream of mine. It annoyed me greatly to go downstairs, walk around my house, then turn some corner...

Such a child simply has to be involved in sports, to move—to spend as much time as possible in motion. It was absolutely impossible to make me sit, keep quiet, speak softly; I was very loud.

I have a photo from first grade: tousled hair, two pigtails—one ribbon already slipped down and came undone; my bangs are all sweaty, my collar is all crooked. Basically, they just caught me like a little animal, sat me down, and the photographer snapped the picture. There’s a photo from third grade: my eyes are just bulging—again, they caught me.

Uncompromising Energy and Maternal Wisdom

My mother told me that when my older brother was born, they brought her a baby with huge blue eyes—very calm, utterly serene. But when they brought me, the baby had eyes full of demand. “You looked at me and it was straight away: give it to me, give it to me, I want it…,” my mom used to say. And from my earliest childhood she apparently understood that the moment you try to restrict me in any way—that’s it. I’ll go in headfirst, like a battering ram. Apparently this showed up very early, and that’s why the main method of upbringing was that my mom gave me complete independence. That had a very strong effect on me.

To this day, my mother’s word is law for me…

Rapid Advancement and Effortless Responsibility

I remember that adults constantly gave me assignments. After first grade I went to a Pioneer camp for the first time. It was forty kilometers away, and I naturally have a loud voice, low, kind of masculine, and while we were riding on the bus, I was appointed chairperson of the squad council. And it was like that every year: as soon as I opened my mouth, I would suggest singing songs to make the trip more fun, or something else. The counselor would immediately see that I could be relied on, entrusted with things, and would immediately make me chairperson of the squad council. Then I arrived at the camp, and that same day we were gathered for the council of the troop, and I was immediately offered not just the position of squad chairperson but, literally the next day after arrival, chairperson of the troop or the camp, or something else.

In general, from very early childhood I was endlessly appointed, endlessly promoted, and I responded very easily. I think they entrusted things to me because they knew I didn’t need any supervision at all. If they said, “On such-and-such a date at two o’clock gather everyone, there will be some match,” or “prepare amateur performances,” there was no need to supervise—an adult could relax and rest, and everything would be done.

Commanding Will and Career Success

I used inflexible organizational methods with children and resolved issues through pressure, mostly by direct orders. And now, perhaps, at work people simply don’t want to deal with me; they feel that my strength or my energy just punches through them, and they feel weak compared to me. And even if sometimes they don’t want to do something, they’ll do it just to get me off their backs.

All my life I have dictated my will to those around me. If I do something, stubbornness and persistence awaken in me; I will definitely finish everything, bring everything to completion.

When I entered university, I immediately became an organizer there too; everything was entrusted to me right away. After university I went to work at a school. There I was given an endless number of assignments, and literally after a few months I was made head of the methodological association of my fellow teachers. A couple of years later I was offered the position of head of the methodological association for the entire district. From the very first year I got into the trade union committee, then I was quickly made chair of the committee. Then I became the trade union leader of the entire district, the entire territory—about a hundred educational institutions. After that I went to the State Duma in Moscow and completed training at the Moscow Academy of Labor and Social Relations.

There I met secretaries of the Central Committee and education workers’ trade unions at the Moscow level. I almost received an invitation to Moscow structures. Winning was interesting to me, but the actual content of the work was not.

Fearlessness and Classroom Domination

I have absolutely no fear of walking into the office of a boss of any rank. I open any door and walk in like the mistress of the place.

If I need to stand up for someone (for myself—maybe that’s one thing—but for someone else), I’ll tear everything down there, figuratively speaking, until they give something back to that person.

I worked in an elected position, then new elections came, and since it no longer interested me, I didn’t run for another term. I remained an ordinary teacher. Probably school has kept me for so long because there is someone there to dominate. And quite rigidly. A good report card, good grades. On the one hand I love my students, but God forbid someone goes against me… If someone suddenly turns their back while I’m talking, that’s it immediately. That’s why students who study with me for some time behave like this: “I just turned around to get an eraser.” If a child is late: “Here’s a note, I was delayed at the nurse’s office.” And if I don’t believe they were at the nurse’s office, I immediately dial the nurse’s office and ask, “Did you have a student just now…?” And they already know.

Softening the Shield: Respect, Rules, and Affection

I need unquestioning obedience to my demands. The main trick that works with me on the students’ side is when they address me affectionately, as if showing that they are genuinely comfortable with me. Also, if someone discerns my human side, then some kind of friendship develops between us, in the sense that I consult them during breaks, do something else… With such children I am relatively gentle; somewhere I can forgive something.

My main factor in relationships with absolutely anyone is that first I must be shown that I am valued, that I am recognized, and then I relax.

But with my daughter we had very intense conflicts. To somehow protect herself from my terrible arrows and pressure, she invented this phrase: “Everything will be the way you want it!” And I immediately relax. When anger starts boiling inside me because she is not following my instructions, she suddenly quickly says this phrase: “Everything will be the way you want it!” That’s it. At that point you can take me with your bare hands.

Since childhood I’ve had a heightened sense of justice. It’s about making sure no one is hurt, no one is humiliated. In the courtyard this created its own environment, its own rules. Justice matters to me in everything.

I needed both my mother and intelligent teachers to do everything to recognize some inner world of mine, to respect me, to take me into account. Generally speaking, I have a very deep inner attitude: there is some line of people standing in formation, and I stand apart. It is important for me that other people understand that I am neither Masha nor Sveta nor Olya—I am unique, the only one of my kind in the world and on planet Earth. It is important to me that people recognize me as such. Respectful treatment toward me is very important.

Let them not understand my inner world, let there be other things—what matters is that they listen to me, that things are done my way, literally in everything. It is important that a person demonstrate readiness for dialogue, readiness to coordinate certain issues. We must work out shared rules, and my voice must be taken into account. If a person yields to me, shows respect, agrees to reckon with me, then afterward I can yield significantly myself and, to a very large extent, step on the throat of my own song for that person—do something for them, quite a lot, even sacrifice something, even control myself in some ways, perhaps give up some of my habits.

I am happy when I live for others, when I feel needed, when people follow my advice, when they adopt some of my experience for themselves.

Moral Support and Unshakable Optimism

I am ready to step in and help when someone needs a shoulder to lean on—mostly morally, specifically morally, because I won't give money. I can offer moral support, encourage them. That comes from my cheerful nature, my inexhaustible zest for life. I will share this if someone is sad today, if a person is in a crisis—I’ll say, “Everything will be fine; you will get up, you will walk again, you will succeed.” I will provide moral support; I am a shoulder to cry on.

I remember my childhood as generally radiant. My mom, smart teachers—everything was always forgiven to me, I was always pampered. Everyone understood that my misdeeds were not out of malice, but from a lack of experience.

Childhood Trauma: The Loss of Fatherly Energy

The only trauma I had was quite severe in my childhood—I was seven years old when my parents divorced. My mother raised my brother and me alone. There was a critical lack of male energy in the house, and I missed my father terribly. Apparently, to some extent, I had a real connection with him.

Once a year my father would come to visit me on my birthday. We saw each other annually, and my mom never badmouthed him. Respect for him was preserved in our eyes, but I lacked a father very much. That was probably a traumatic factor since childhood.

My grandfather replaced my father in a moral and psychological sense—he showed me a model of a man, a model of relationships with a man—but the lack of a male component in my life has remained with me to this day. When my father passed away, even though I hadn't lived with him since I was seven, I had a physical sensation of being left with only one wing—the second wing was gone. I grieved deeply, even though we lived in entirely different cities.

The Struggle with Femininity and "One of the Guys" Identity

The second bad factor appeared when I was thirteen. It was connected to the fact that I had always hung out with boys, and at thirteen I needed to somehow start being a girl, but I didn't know how to wear bows, skirts, or makeup—nothing at all. And my character was such that if I bumped into someone with my shoulder, they'd fall... I had these difficulties. But when I got married, had a child, and lived in marriage for a long time, my former teacher said, “Tanya has softened; she’s become different...”

I think a girl needs to be guided more along the feminine path. The downside was that I walked around in shorts with a short haircut, climbed things, bossed the boys around, which is kind of bad for building a relationship with a husband. To this day I haven't compensated for this—meaning, to this day I haven't fully become a woman. I’m still kind of “one of the guys,” a buddy. That’s the model I use to build relationships with men. Femininity needs to be cultivated in a girl.

My grandmother used to tell my mom, “Tanechka needs bows tied, Tanechka needs dresses put on her—why do you keep passing all her older brother’s things down to her?” My brother outgrew them, so we dress Tanya in them. But I was very happy—all I cared about was running around in clothes that were comfortable for playing football, hockey, and standing in goal. I was just a child, I didn't understand any of this yet, and my mom was pulling two kids along all by herself. Financially, things weren't great. Now my mom blames herself to some degree.

Strategizing Relationships and Intellectual Connection

When I was courted, there was quite a lot of attention. Maybe some people like a strong woman. Five men even proposed to me, three on the very same day. One of them became my husband, and there was quite a fight for me, so to speak, though none of them really satisfied me. Oh well, I agreed anyway, thinking, “Alright, I’ll give it a try with this one.”

I build all my relationships with my head.

I even have a method for communicating with men. If he isn't interesting to me—first and foremost for conversation, of course—or if he starts acting too aggressively/energetically, I won't even get involved and will end such a relationship very quickly.

However, if he is interesting, I will act like a general. I will devise a plan, start spinning a web, and setting traps. And there hasn't been a single one who didn't fall into my net. For example, if I want to go to the movies, I want a male companion. I find it boring with women because they start whining, discussing household problems, clothes, rings... But with men it's interesting to me—first and foremost, intellectually interesting. In general, for me, the main thing in a man is intelligence, so that it's engaging to talk with him about interesting things.

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