On the Black Sheep of the Family and Telling the Truth

Fourteen and in high school, I am disappointed. High school doesn’t live up to the hype. I rarely see my mother. She becomes involved with a woman, then lies to me about the nature of their relationship.

Jonah calls and writes me often. This is the highlight of my life.

I visit with my father one or two weekends a month. He continues to molest me, though he does not do so as often now.

I get into some trouble over marijuana. I meet a few men on my walks to and from the bus stop. I lose my virginity, and I don’t know where to find it again. I lose my dog, too.

One weekend I ask my mother for birth control and counseling. She says yes to one of these.

I start running away from home. I am grounded more than once.

I experience my first mental break down. I am hospitalized in a mental health ward for the first time. Once released, I make my first suicide attempt. I am hospitalized again.

I make plans to run away for good.

I am ambushed at a psychiatry appointment. I make another attempt at my life, which leads to another hospitalization.

When I am released from the hospital, it is time for finals at school. Then I am told that I am being sent to live with my father again.

It is my belief that if one child, the sensitive child, of the family starts to act out, there is a problem (or problems) with the family, not just with that child.

Show me a black sheep, and I will show you a flock of white sheep pouring black paint all over her.

I felt an affinity with one of my uncles growing up, Timothy. He was the black sheep of my mom’s side of the family, and I looked to him as to how to handle that role.

My whole family should have been in counseling, not just me. We should have been seen separately and together. Maybe then I would have had the strength to tell them all about what my father was doing to me. Maybe then I could have told the whole truth about myself.

When I first started counseling, I tested the waters. I dipped only my great toe in to check the temperature. I told the truth, but not all of it. I wanted to be sure that my counselor was a safe person to which I could tell all my truths. Then, before I could tell all, he was ripped away from me. I was really starting to trust him, too. I didn’t trust his replacement one little bit.

And so, I had all of this knowledge inside myself, swirling around in one giant soup of despair. Everything I did after a point was toward one singular goal: to escape by any means necessary. I ran away. I tried to kill myself, the ultimate way to run. I don’t think I realized the finality of the act of suicide, that I couldn’t be helped if I was dead. But there was no one around to help me that I could see, so what did it matter if I was dead? At least then I could have some peace. At least then I wouldn’t be trapped on all sides, clawing for a way to get out of the trap. I would have gnawed off my own leg if I thought it would help.

Running away removed me from the loneliness and danger of life at home, but it was yet one more place that I endured more abuse. I didn’t look at it that way, however. I looked at it like: here a man that I like is paying attention to me and I am not alone. Here I am not trapped. Here I am making the choice to be. Here I have some measure of peace inside myself, even though it seems somehow more than a little out of reach. At least here I can see the peace and feel the edges of it.

What truths do black sheep hold for the rest of their families? Only they can bleat out the truth. If they are given many chances by people or professionals that they trust, maybe they will share those truths with the rest of us. And once the truths have seen the light of day, the healing can begin for them and their whole family.