Being The Black Sheep
How this non-expert let go of self-loathing and found his authentic self again.
A moment ago I was sipping on my first morning coffee, wondering what I’ll do with my day. Then as I thought of what the day has in store my mind slipped into a larger chasm of contemplation, about the course and state of my life. What I saw as I pondered the then and now was interesting; hence, why I’m now here typing.
Growing up, I always felt a little off kilter. I was a nice looking blonde blue- eyed boy; normal looking enough on the outside, but not enough to keep bullies and negging little girls away. I used to go home with bruises, scrapes, and torn clothes a lot as I recall. All I ever wanted from day to day was to play with my handful of close friends, do my school work and be left alone; but, others had other plans. Being a quiet and reserved poor kid that dressed nice in a small town was like having a target on my forehead. In reality, I was very bashful and intelligent. I cared more for music than I did sports, and I had a vivid imagination. I had a curiosity about life in my youth that was/is unique. It seems that most children rarely consider things beyond their immediate environment; but, I was fascinated with nature and the stars. Young children can be vicious when it comes to things that don’t fit, or that they don’t understand; but, they never seem to comprehend the consequences of the persecution they deal to those that are unique. The more I reminisce “The Lord of The Flies” by William Golding seems less like fiction and more like an eye witness account of kid life.
Over time, feeling like a pariah became my normal. I started to wear the wool of the black sheep and lost sight of who I was; my authentic self. Suddenly, fitting in became an adaptive behavior as a means of survival; but, the marauding and social policing by my contemporaries didn’t end. So, I became the socially awkward smart kid with a great left-hook. I grew up fighting for my peace. My mother never understood my transformation, because her younger brother was a handsome varsity football player and excelled in the Navy. My father on the other hand, knew. He grew up with an older brother that would knock him around for an extra piece of toast. It’s no wonder that dad only grew to be 5’10 and 150lbs by the time this was happening, and uncle Travis was 6’4 250lbs when he died, after decades of heavy drug use.
One day, while seemingly holding back tears, dad initiated a teaching moment. We were in our old ’86 Subaru hatchback headed up the road to the store, I think it was a rainy day. My father turned to me as I sat silently staring out the passenger window watching houses go by and said “Ryan, I don’t know if this is the right thing to tell you; but, if those boys mess with you again, you tell ’em, if ya do it again I’m gonna hit ya. Then, you do what you say you’re gonna do.” My father had a very tumultuous upbringing that now in hindsight, explains why he was so tortured by seeing his young son be bullied, and torn and gnawed at by ravenous preteens, simply for being unique. So, dad’s advice became my doctrine.
From then on until my late 20’s, those that stole my peace or that appeared to be threatening, suffered my wrath without warning. During this time of my life I discovered alcohol, and I knocked a lot of young men unconscious or beat them down. I took a few blows myself during this period. By 30 I had broken two fingers, permanent scar tissue in the knuckles of both hands, a broken nose, and scars on my face; all, from fighting for my peace.
The adaptive survival behavior had become maladaptive and was no longer serving me. Alcohol, was my elixir for soothing the physical and emotional pain of fighting for something I didn’t even know anymore, me. I lost myself and never found my way back to me until after a decade of reckless, criminal, self-destructive behavior. An assault charge against my own father, two roll over accidents, countless fist fights, and two DUI’s. Two decades of wearing the wool inside out. I finally turned it around one day, by using the ceiling of a jail cell as a mirror. I looked up into the void with tears in my eyes and said to the demons in the aether and myself, “No more, never again.” My whole life until that point, I had believed the lie; That self-defeating internal monologue that echoed the unkind sentiments of my past perpetrators. I had never accepted me for who I am.
The writing was on the wall, or the ceiling rather. No matter what I had said or done, my life was not what I wanted it to be. I had been stuck in a state of non-existence. When I was young I gave up on being me and gave in to social pressures to fit in and drift into the crowd, but no more. I stopped drinking and entered into a recovery program and therapy. I began to deal with the harsh reality that I was the arbiter of my own life and accepted it. Then I began to repair my life and my relationships and grow back outward into a man that those I love and care for can recognize. I’ve found myself again in the process. I’ve turned out the wool, I am the black sheep, and it’s good because it’s me. Being a tattooed, blonde-headed, blue-eyed blog writer, forklift operator, college student, and amateur musician that enjoys fishing, hiking and theatre and still has a solid left hook if he needs it, is just fine and dandy.
I found out a couple things along the way that are important and that might help more than me:
- What’s lost is never gone, and it’s not over.
- There’s been a lot of life in my days, and I know how to steer better than I thought I did.
The key to keeping the me I’ve rediscovered is putting myself first; my self care. Now, I look to the future, I set positive goals and I engineer every situation in life in a way that will help me reach my goals, and get the thing that I want most, my peace. I made a deal with myself; I traded this last year of my life and dedicated it to doing the painful arduous work of dealing with the wreckage I created with the way I was living, in exchange for my peace and the rest of my life…
