One of My Favorite Things

Once upon a time, I stumbled onto this gem of an essay by Kevin Keck. Entiteld "Lost In Translation," it is one of the best essays I've ever read about the connections (and misunderstandings) of a family.

Each year I spend away from the home where I grew up, I get a greater understanding of what this essay is really about. Right now, much of my life is un-translatable to my parents. We first reached this point when I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I was in a situation -- a bunch of situations, and they were all shitty -- where my parents could offer no guidance. I was suddenly out of the realm of their experiences. We were lost together. And though we both ended up finding our ways to deal with those new things, we still can't effectively find a way of translating that to each other. It was scary to be a daughter with fucked up feelings, who'd almost trashed the best things she'd had in life for those feelings. It was scary to have a daughter who'd always seemed to capable and high achieving, with a solid life and a sweet fiance, turn into a tornado of emotional destruction. We were both scared, but unable to translate that fear into comfort with each other. Even now, as I can intellectually describe what that time must have been like for them (terrifying, disorienting, helpless), I will not be understand what it likes to fear for my child until I have a child. Keck's assertion that we will never quite speak the same language is such a spot-on observation. And a hard thing to admit. There will always be things between us that we don't understand.

My favorite part, the point that brings it home:

Thinking of all this, I am filled with remorse — a beautiful word that comes from old French which literally means to be bitten again. And I am bitten continually. When I see my parents with my children, I feel trapped as a thought between two languages, with no adequate word in either tongue to express what I am feeling.

The idea of being bitten continually -- by heart-wrenching love, guilt, fear -- is such an apt one. And the exposition of the word "remorse" as being bitten again -- by these things, and others -- is one that follows me often. This phrase is forever in my head. Because the emotion I most often feel with respect to that time in my life (which was, coincidentally, smack-dab in Thanksgiving 2006, easily the craziest I've ever been) is remorse. I am sad that I waited too long to get help. I am bitten by love for my family and friends who supported me. I am bitten by guilt that they had to do it, for me, in the first place. I am bitten by fear that they will someday have to do it again. I am bitten by hope -- blind beautiful hope -- that I don't have to worry about that fear. I am bitten by so many things. And, I think, partially due to this essay, I am able to recognize how often I am bitten, and how lucky I am. How lucky we are, as family, to have each other. And how family -- beyond blood -- is about trying our best to translate. Even if we fail miserably. And we do. We often do. But we keep trying.

(Note on the author -- Last year after I posted this here, Kevin Keck sent me the nicest email saying he had read what I had written about the essay. I love it when an author reaches out to his or her readers to make a connection. He seems like a truly stand-up guy. Also, everything I've ever read by him has been equal parts hilarious, thoughtful, and touching. This, I've discovered, takes much skill. Take some time and check him out.)