Accessory Not Supported
KII
When her grandparents passed, her tears did the same a few days after when she booked a flight to Paris. The $56k inheritance they left her was debited into the account by her family trust before the bodies had even been laid to rest.
Aspirations of owning land or real estate had become more realistic for her, but she felt bad rejoicing in the death of her nan.
When my grandparents passed, I lugged myself halfway across the world on a hospo wage to see the people that raised me. Limited to spend $150 on the whole trip and rely on family wasn’t on my agenda, but I had to see their faces one more time. Even though I didn’t recognise the faces anymore, I knew who they were. My tears left when my plane departed en route for Auckland.
We were not the same. I wasn’t better than her, but it was clear to us both that we were different to one another.
I missed meals with my family, while she was missing from meals with her family. We scraped the plate differently. My compost bin was much more of a dog bowl than a means to save the planet. She saved for the future that was never promised, and I spent for the time we had now.
Our connection was never the strongest.
We were that apple charger you gotta bend to make it work. Left by your bedside, hanging off the edge, held together by duct tape and a blind hope that it would work. Sometimes we charged. Sometimes we woke up and the phone was dead.
Connection, or acceptance, is something we chase all the way to the grave. Whether we join a cult or a political party, humans are craving acceptance like the next meal. Scraping for that spark that will one day blossom into a reliable connection, filled with memories, passions, and landmarks on the journey.
From infancy we attempt to trust objects, environments, and people around us. From certain doors to the faces of family, a lot of trust and mistrust is developed. Through our young adulthood, we aim to answer the question of intimacy or isolation. Asking yourself the pivotal question, “Do I have time for close relationships and intimacy, or is isolation comforting?”.
My journey for connection has fluctuated between the Wi-Fi connection and the Bluetooth speaker two floors down at a flat party. Unlike my phone, I don’t have a wireless adapter installed inside of me, and searching for a good connection isn’t as easy as entering ‘1234’ as the passcode.
My phone lets me know when this is a bad connection, but my brain does not. I have folded and bent through nooks and crannies with people, just to find out there was nothing there. Finding people who accepted me, but we had nothing in common. People who took advantage of my energy and left with more of me than I had to give. Our motives, journeys, and lives were different, and over time the bond faded. Some of these ended in manipulation, and in rare circumstances, abuse. Thankfully, some ended in loneliness and isolation, which is an unfortunate solace.
Often I would end up in faulty sockets. Walking through red flags like static, making my neck hairs stand. I’d wake up to a glaring message that read, “This accessory is not supported by this device”. I’d start the search all over again—searching for a form of acceptance, no matter what morals or values I cast away. Like I was trying to plug in a refrigerator with a Macbook charger, and I was going to make it work if it killed me.
What would the boys say if I told them I walked to Wadestown just to feel a connection with someone I could talk to openly about things? It’s easier telling them I was out for coffee the whole day. I’m embarrassed to disclose my search for connection because of its imperfections. I’d rather let my phone die than ask for a charger at your house, in the same way I would fake being content in avoidance of looking lonely.
Good relations allowed me to feel accepted beyond barriers. Through walls and cities, the connection never faded. I had MSN Messenger friends at a young age that turned into Facebook friends and my Top 16 on Bebo. My parents never understood it was my generation’s idea of a pen pal, but they learned to love it. My first feeling of intimacy was through a computer screen, and I could never judge on facial features or political beliefs.
Some of those people I lost touch with, and others I still talk to today. It’s no longer a wireless DELL Keyboard I type to them on, it’s a touch keyboard on a cracked iPhone 7.
I wonder if that makes me sound any different.
This wasn’t a tick on a box or a tattoo of their name on my left calf. It was a light at the end of a tunnel that didn’t end. Good and bad connections came and went, and my battery went dry as time went on.
I’m convinced the perfect connection doesn’t exist, and I’ve stopped searching for it. Beyond love, intimacy, and good friendships, sometimes your battery is drained by the bad bonds you have. Our iPhones have the ability to charge, but I can’t always regain my energy.
She grieved in a villa in San Vittore, and I grieved in a church. Still, our connection was enough for me to feel accepted for who I really was. There was no grace said before her meal and the money in her savings account is triple mine. I could have grown to detest this person for their privilege, and their different journey. I could have resisted their words and made light of their situation, but I craved acceptance so much I gave up a part of myself.