Language struggles
One thing about realising after a few years of adulthood that you have a deep-seated mental illness like a personality disorder, is that you in your late realisation start to reevaluate the nature of your shortcomings. Or well, it's at least the case for me. Instead of the old (still present) self-hatred's insistence that any failure is due to my own unique level of being a good-for-nothing, lazy person, it’s possible to more realistically evaluate why some things haven’t worked out. In this case – language learning.
I’m really only fluent in two languages – my native Norwegian and the English fluence gained from its early introduction in school combined with an adolescence spent on the anglophone internet (despite what the offline world seems to think, there are different linguistic spheres to the internet, and so “being online” a lot doesn’t necessarily make you all that good at English). Beyond that, my main foreign languages have been German (at school), with a few abortive attempts at Japanese (weeb that I am) and Russian. Despite various starts over the years, I’ve never managed to systematically and rigorously work on developing proficiency in any of these – or other – languages.
Now, my old self chalked this up to my unique uselessness, and furthermore I was really being a poser – wishing proficiency without the interest to actually learn the language. A time after learning the extent of my mental problems, however, the truth seems to be a bit more pathological in nature (and thus giving hopes for my future ability to learn languages).
I think it’s something like this – learning a language (almost) inevitably entails practicing it with other people, and I think that such a prospect for me is a great horror. My disorder by default makes me think I’m an awful person, an eyesore to others, and so being in their lives is a great crime. No wonder, then, that the idea of not only interacting with someone – usually strangers – but “bothering” them (which I by default think I do) with my sub-par language proficiency, having stilted, awkward conversations, because I want to learn, is so awful a prospect. It’s deeply egoistical and sinister of me.
This doesn’t only make me avoid opportunities to use the language I’m learning, but also makes it more difficult to use when the occasion arises. Turns out that when you’re brimming over with anxiety over being a bother to your interlocutor by your mere presence, it’s actually quite difficult to muster the cognitive capacity to string together a coherent utterance. Imagine that. (Now this patter has also made me think I’m disastrously bad at languages, which I imagine hasn’t added to my conversational confidence, or confidence as a learner.)
In addition, there are my non-conversational failures. Even using textbooks or practicing reading skills (in German, e.g.) has proven quite difficult. That might be a sign of an actual disinterest on my part – but then why have I made so many attempts during my teens and twenties – but it’s perhaps more likely, and more productive to think, that what’s actually going on here is still my mental problems. Writing in a language, even doing reading/writing exercises on my own, implies a future where I do converse for real (language is ultimately social). And in my experience, imagined scenarios are more than enough to paralyze me with fear. Add to that the actually reduced ability to do work when you’re mentally ill (even if you don’t know it yet), and then I guess there’s no real mystery.
So maybe there’s a more multilingual future ahead. Therapy does work, so I am improving my health, albeit slowly. But in a while I might be able to pick up a language again (maybe a new one, to let myself start afresh…?)
***
Now I think I’ve implied – what if I’m not that interested in languages? It’s easy for me to cast doubt on myself, of course, but I don’t think it holds up to scrutiny. I wouldn’t have spent much of my university stint on linguistics and (English) language studies if that was the case, I think. Neither would I have occasional rounds of trying my hand at translation – and very much enjoying it – if I were uninterested in languages. But such facts have a tendency to be ignored when they conflict with the mental illness’ narrative.