Who Am I? (1987)

I’m lost. The world seems an alien place, like I don’t belong here. But if not here then where? I’m alone. My mum is busy, my dad absent and my sister building a new life both inside and outside her womb. I’m on strike so my moorings have come loose and I’m floating around without power or purpose. I’ve messed up with my girlfriend. I can’t talk to my mates, it’s too pathetic.

The one thing I have is time, oceans of it. Without the rhythm and structure of work my days are vast and empty. I drift into the day, do nothing, drift out. I start to drink more, bet more, eat more, do less. I’ll never mock the unemployed again; it’s a rootless, soul-destroying existence that I am ill-equipped to handle.

It’s not a mission, and I don’t really know why I’m doing it but I apply for my original birth certificate. A couple of years ago I read that adopted people have two birth certificates. The information passed me by in the busyness of life but obviously lodged because now it’s arrived in my otherwise-empty cognitive in-tray. It’s a paper exercise, but it’s instant and suddenly I’m Stephen John Waters.

I had no idea I had a previous name and the whole thing floors me. Stephen…John…Waters. That can’t be me? I’m Nick Mabey aren’t I, or is even my identity in doubt now? No, I am sure who I am; my family and friends are stable, my home is happy and vibrant, my memories are intact. And yet… Stephen…John…Waters. How can something both disorient me and ground me. I am still lost and now found. I am still isolated and now connected to something. I resolve to look for me. Tell no one and go digging.

I go to the library and read that there is a chance the council handled my adoption. I check with the council and, hey presto, as simple as that yes they handled my adoption, yes they have all my paperwork, yes they will meet me to discuss. It’s all very fast and scary, but at least the days – and my head -are being filled.

Time passes. I’m back at work, moored safely again to the certainty of customer complaints. Life seems to be righting itself and I becoming familiar with Stephen John Waters. My appointment is with a counsellor – of course they are worried about whether I’m equipped to deal with all this – and I’m not allowed a copy of my paperwork. What? The nice young man smiles and says the law won’t allow it. But he can read everything they have to me and I can take notes. Thank the lord I brought paper and pencil!

And then the hurricane comes. So much information I can barely absorb it. Too much emotion so I shut down and just take notes. Nice smiley young man probably thinks I’m at best autistic, at worst psychopathic.

We sift out the bureaucracy of the process and focus on the stuff that matters. Information that slowly forms a picture of Stephen…John…Waters. It was a normal delivery…mother a student nurse…a married man now absent…placed in a foster home. WHAT? – I had no idea that happens A product of an affair in Bristol that ended with the pregnancy…mum and dad approved to adopt me before I was born – who knew? Very ill as a baby...birth grandfather said I was given up for adoption to ‘save my daughter’s embarrassment’…Then it starts to get too much. I hold and read letters written by my birth mother and birth grandfather, both talking about me. Birth mother’s letter is dated the day I was born – how efficient!!

And then a moment. I know something is coming because nice young smiley man has slowed and is wondering whether to bother with the next passage. “What is it?” “It’s something that almost never happens, so I’m not sure whether to mention it”…pause…I’m waiting…silence…he decides to go on “Your mother gave you a present at your birth, normally this is not kept by the adopted parents.”

I freeze I already know what the present is. All my life I’ve had a leather bound, gold-leafed bible near me. No idea where it came from and, as I’m not particularly religious, no idea why it has stayed with me. “It’s a bible” I say, tears flowing. He is as stunned as I am certain. He asks me if there is anything written inside because my birth mother wrote me a message. And now it all makes sense. The first page is blank and made of card. It is an unusual shape because it has a quarter-circle cut out of it. I’ve often wondered why the strange pattern.

We end. Everything else blurs temporarily. As I stagger out of the council offices, all I can think is that I am Stephen…John…Waters; my mother loved me enough to give me a bible and was embarrassed enough to give me away.