When I was a child, I was “the good girl.”
My older brother was the wild rebellious teenager, while I got good grades and stayed quiet. I tried not to upset anyone or hurt anybody’s feelings.
Eventually my brother transformed himself from a wild teenager to a highly successful PhD.
And I was proud of him.
However, there I was feeling like the black sheep of the family. I was the fuck up.
Even though I graduated from New York University with a decent GPA.
When I turned 22, something inside me began to change.
Despite my success as a writer, I still felt insignificant. I couldn’t hold a job for more than six months, I had difficulty in romantic relationships, and I had a terrible time managing money.
I was a volcano filled with lava ready to burst.
My 20s were filled with anger and resentment.
I wiled out. I went a little…okay a lot…crazy.
My family didn’t know how to handle my behavior and frankly neither did I.
I was going through the adolescence that I never experienced. I was changing into a woman and I was fighting it all the way.
There I was on the brink of becoming a butterfly, my wings convulsing in fear.
I wasn’t ready or maybe I was.
Maybe I was.
Those 10 years from 22 to 32 were a roller coaster of emotion. I hurt a lot of people including myself.
Now I am 33. It’s the best year of my life, my Jesus year as I’ve heard it called.
I have two beautiful children.
I know who I am.
I am ready to face the world.
Yes, I am a black sheep. I am proud of my black curly fur. It has some tangles and there are tumbleweeds stuck in it, but I’m beautiful.
Here I come.