Grasping For Connection (2011)
I’m sitting at my computer when the world grinds to a temporary halt. I stare at the screen trying to make sense of it with a scrambled brain and pounding heart. Linked In, of all things, has been the cause of this suspension of reality. It seems like hours but is probably less than a minute. The rest of the screen reduces to pixels as the message throbs at me. My mouth has turned dry and everywhere else is sweating. I’ve had contact from someone who is probably my half-sister.
Who? How? Why? I reach for understanding and the gears start to grind into place. Late at night the previous year, while organising a school reunion, I had tentatively made contact on Friends Reunited with someone sharing the same name and childhood location as my birth father’s only (other) child. And then I had completely forgotten I had done it. A few days ago I had agreed to be connected with the same person on linked In – but this time the name had not even registered.
And now here she is, asking why I am contacting her? (I had not given a reason for the approach – just asked to confirm if the name of her father matched the name I had). Explaining that she was not a regular user of Friends Reunited and guessed I wasn’t too; leading to her search for me on linked In.
We switch to direct e-mail contact and I tell my story. It’s a page of myself that I never expected to write. My hands shake as I type and it feels like I’m crying but there’s no tears.. I read it several times, trying to perfect the words that explain why I believe she is my sister. I’m afraid to press send…but I do.
I walk away from the computer, pace around. Afraid she’ll never reply, or will reply and prove me wrong. Or report me to the stalker police. I keep pacing, make tea, try to do some work. Keep fearing, keep hoping.
It only takes an hour and it’s huge and it’s welcome and I feel a wave of belonging wash over me. Yes she is my sister. Her story matches what I know, which is not very much but enough. She didn’t know of my existence but is not surprised I do exist.
I reply back, hungry for more and we begin a rapid exchange of a lifetime’s stories. I learn so much so quickly that it’s too much to take in. And then I get beaten of the head with a shovel. My birth father is dead. A car crash. 35 years ago when I was 13. I step away, head spinning.
Within a week I make the 400-mile journey to see her. The moment of contact is breathtaking. I’m a small child again, wracked with nerves and excitement. She is a magnificent, elegant women. My big sister. I’ve never felt like this. I’m trying too hard. I’m yearning for our relationship to match our age.
We spend the day together sharing photos and stories. I’m like her. She’s like me. I found out that our father let his wife and daughter the year I was born. We guess that the letter about me from the Social Services was the straw that broke the camel’s back – he was a chancer, a drinker, womaniser, gambler, a charismatic manipulator – I don’t know whether to love him or hate him.
My existence broke up their family. This thought haunts me. My sister is skilled at recognising this and puts my mind at ease. Hers was not a family that would have made it anyway. I love her for saying that.
I don’t know how to have a complete stranger for a sister. We’ve speed dialled our way throught two lifetimes of stories but the person I’m with is still unknown to me. There is no bond. I grasp for something that is not there.