I came into this world defiantly self-willed. In my teens I was labeled the black sheep of the family, then ended up being the scapegoat for everything that was broken there. A common outcome for a sensitive, outspoken truthteller that refuses to look content or stay silent in an unbearable atmosphere.
That stigma doesn't just end because you're grown. Nope. Over the years, my family made a practice of accusing me of an array of inaccuracies for simply following my truth. I found that any attempt to defend myself from these misconceptions or gain some type of understanding only fueled the flame.
So I stopped defending; stopped trying to reason and simply walked away. That also added fuel to the martyrous fire, but it was no longer my burning.
Today, I can't even express how beholden I am that this was my journey and I rebelled my way through it. It taught me a lot.
I learned that blood is not necessarily thicker than water; that when things go to hell, it's the people that stand by you without flinching that are your true family. I learned that it's hard being real when people can't handle the directness; when they prefer to shove things under the rug rather than face their own pain.
And I learned to let them blame me; to let them misunderstand me. It no longer mattered because it became obvious they never really knew me. I mean, their first mistake was thinking I was a sheep.
A hearty salute to all my fellow black sheep rebels out there! 🫡