My Twin’s Death
In the early hours of October 13, 2000, my world irrevocably changed. A police officer of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department, driving 68 mph in a 35-mph zone without sirens or lights, slammed into the side of the car carrying my friend and roommate, Duy, and my twin sister, Sara. They were turning onto our street. The impact was devastating. Sara was killed instantly. Duy's leg was broken. The police officer was not responding to a call.
Two hours later, at approximately 2:00 AM, the knock came. Two officers stood at my door, their faces grim. Duy had sent them from the hospital. The words they spoke were a hammer blow: Sara was gone. A wave of surreal numbness washed over me, a defense mechanism against the unthinkable. Disbelief, confusion, a desperate attempt to cling to normalcy – I even offered them a drink. It was the first of countless acts of deflection, a subconscious refusal to accept the reality of my worst nightmare.
My older sister, Heather, lived just two doors down. Together, we had to deliver the news to her, and then to our mother. The police drove us, the fear in the back of the car as thick as the silence. Arriving at our mother’s house, we found our brother, Carey, his face a question mark. We broke the news, then woke our mother. The weight of those words, the devastation they carried, is a burden no one should ever have to bear.
The days and weeks that followed were a blur of activity, a whirlwind of shock and grief. But beneath it all, time stood still for me. My emotional processing, my ability to grieve, was frozen. Trauma dissociation took hold, erasing memories of Sara, turning her image into a cartoonish caricature. Even in dreams, she remained distant, evasive, a phantom I could never reach. I'd chase her, desperate for answers, only to wake with a sharp, hollow ache.
Initially, there was a surge of support, a flurry of distractions. People, parties, an eight-month adrenaline rush that kept me afloat. A month later, I started a job at an architectural firm, initially thriving on the momentum. But the crash came, the adrenaline faded, and my performance faltered, leading to my dismissal.
Attempts at grief were fragmented. Heather and I attended a support group, and I joined an online forum for twinless twins. It initially offered a sense of shared experience, but I lacked the guidance to truly heal. I was surrounded by people, some drawn to the drama, their presence a temporary distraction. As their interest waned, the well-meaning but hollow platitudes began: "It's time to move on." I felt abandoned, insecure, as if I were somehow responsible for driving everyone away.
The legal battle against the City of Charlotte for the police officer’s careless acts that killed my sister consumed us. I remained numb, detached, unable to fully grasp the finality of Sara’s absence. The constant media attention, the repeated retelling of the trauma, the focus on police misconduct – it was a daily dose of pain. The police officer was charged with a misdemeanor and was asked to resign from the force. I felt nothing, not even anger. My parents settled out of court, a decision that finally allowed us to move forward, at least legally.
Sara's loss shifted the landscape of my family relationships in profound ways. My mother, understandably, was enveloped in her own immense grief, a grief that was impossible for me to fully grasp. As the surviving twin, I found myself navigating a complex emotional terrain where my own needs often took a backseat. It was a time of immense sorrow, and we each sought ways to cope with the overwhelming pain.
My mother, in her own process, seemed to carry Sara's memory with her in a way that sometimes overshadowed my own presence. Birthdays, for example, became poignant reminders of Sara's absence, with gifts that served as tributes to her, rather than celebrations of my own life.
Each member of our family sought their own path to healing. My brother, Carey, stationed in the Navy, found a necessary distance. Heather turned to her faith and community for support. My father, often traveling for work, sought solace in his personal life.
As time passed, we all carried our wounds differently. My mother, like me, turned to alcohol as a way to cope, creating a shared, though ultimately unhealthy, connection. We drifted further apart, and a sense of unspoken resentment grew. My own struggle with alcohol intensified, fueled by a codependent marriage that eventually ended in divorce. In retrospect, I so wish my mother and I could have found a way to share our grief and be there for each other. My heart still breaks for the pain that she went through.
My mother's terminal illness and subsequent death brought a new wave of grief, shattering the fragile balance we had managed to maintain. The weight of unresolved trauma, the challenges of my relationships, and the isolation of the pandemic all contributed to a period of intense personal struggle. I reached a point of profound emotional exhaustion.
Then, I made a choice. I chose to start healing. I chose to confront my demons. Therapy, neurofeedback, hypnosis, and the support of the online community from "This Naked Mind" became my lifeline. On February 22, 2021, I stopped drinking.
In my healing, I finally began to grieve. I realized the extent to which I had suppressed Sara’s death, allowing it to fester and poison my life. The focus shifted from external factors to the profound impact of losing my twin. I began to actively remember her, to reclaim her memory, to feel her presence in my life.
Exploring the experiences of other twinless twins, I found a shared narrative of loneliness, invisibility, and a lack of understanding. I am so thankful that support groups like Twinless Twin International and the Lone Twin Network offer community. Although we are fortunate to have these communities, the mental health field remains largely unprepared to address this unique form of grief.
The most significant lesson I've learned from my experience is the importance of allowing yourself to feel all your emotions early on. It's crucial to grieve and fully experience the pain, and then work through it. The sooner you do this, the sooner you can begin to integrate your loved one's legacy into your own life. This process helps you heal and ultimately live a happier life in their honor and enjoy time with your loved ones.
Through the loss, grief, pain, confusion, sadness and anger, I have found a place of solace and peace. In many ways, my journey is just starting, and I have so much to learn. Forgiveness, gratitude, and acceptance have been the biggest gifts I have given myself. I will continue to seek ways to support and guide people through their time of difficulty and help them give these gifts to themselves.
Love to all!