Toska: (Russian, coined by Vladimir Nabokov) No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.
It always happens at a moment I least expect it, and I can never pinpoint when it started. Except I think I believe now that I could have been born with it, thanks to a 2-year-old. But it's good to know there's a word out there to help dispel it-- or at least describe it. In that completely indescribable sort of way.
Born with it? Because of this: sometimes very respectable and rational human beings ask me-- even pay me!-- to watch over their children. They do so with the understanding that I now have influence over these kids' lives. Willingly. But that's not the only unbelievable part. I "have" this 2-year-old two to four times a week that is precious and charming and blue-eyed and probably everything I wasn't as a 2-year-old. She's ideal. Except when I first started nannying her, she would occasionally have these strange bursts-- maybe every other week-- also known as "The Rage."
"The Rage" isn't a particularly good way to describe it either, though. Sometimes there are fists, but mostly it's just a scream/cry-- a weird desperation that is not remedied by any amount of soothing words or lollipops. I started asking her questions during these moments, hoping to get to the root of the problem. And then one day, together, we finally saw each other eye-to-eye.
We were driving to go pick up her older brother. I had reached my darkest moments earlier that afternoon in true artist form and continued to my job in true needing-to-still-comply-with-social-norms-and-the-rules-of-getting-and-keeping-a-regular-income form. The little one was completely fine-- as fine as bubbles and Cheerios. But as we proceeded to our next destination, The Rage started. It was sudden, loud, and terrifying. So I started asking questions:
"Helen*, are you thirsty?!"
"No!"
"Helen, are you hurt?!"
"No!
"Helen, do you miss your mom?!"
"No!"
Me, exasperated, needing someone to relate: "Helen, is the sadness of the world just too great for us?"
"Yes, Miss Mallory, it is!"
Ah. Toska. Helen and I have seen things much clearer since then. And The Rage hasn't occurred since. Sometimes just a quiet murmur in the backseat while we're driving up the interstate.
And I say, "Toska."
And she answers quietly, "Okay."
We got this one.
*name has been changed for the usual reasons and also so I can stay employed.
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