In September 1991, the beginnings of Grade 11. Yes, I am much younger than many of you. Born late in the year I did not as of yet have my Drivers Licence. I was able to start up and drive a Kenworth in a private yard, but no licence to drive to school. I was walking to Port Moody Senior Secondary, reflecting on my choice of schools. From where we lived I had the option - Port Moody, or Centennial Senior High School. My oldest brother felt Centennial was the school for the “better” people. My other brother as always followed suit. For reasons I have not written yet, I chose not to follow.

Reflecting on my life during this walk were things I could not deny to be true. I was an outsider in this family, along with my father. Just like him I was laughed at and put down. We both emotionally hurt together. We both spent a lot of time with each other. Our spending time together began with his attempt to help me many years before. My brothers bullied me. Jim the oldest was always behind the scenes plotting, giggling. Mike was right in my face, a true bully. I should have decked them both, I never did. It’s my fault in a way, I was too weak. My father thought spending time with him would help, unfortunately that just brought me knowledge of his own plight. He used to cry to me about how my mother didn’t love him and how his own kids laughed at him. How ever I don’t regret any of that for a moment. I value every minute I had with him.

By the beginnings of Grade 11, I already had years of hearing my mother tell me that I was going to be just like my father. In the next breath she’d state my father was no good. For me, I concluded since a young age that 2+2 = 4. Therefor I am no good. This would be further reinforced by hearing my oldest brother Jim by grades 8 or 9 sit in the kitchen with her. I could actually hear him manipulate her. He told her that he was better than everyone else. Everyone just followed him and it wasn’t “fair”. He believed he cleared the path for all of us with the teachers, he did all the hard work, thanks to him we had it easy. We just followed his footsteps. She bought it all up, hook line and sinker. He did this to ensure the largest share of resources. Instead of running into the kitchen and confronting them, I let it depress me instead. I didn’t even have the same teachers. He’s five years older.

By Grade 9 and 10, I was doing what I swore I never do in Grade 7. I took up smoking and pot. It somewhat started out as I’ll teach them, I’ll ruin my life and they’ll be sorry. Immature and naïve, yes. I was outcast so I ran with it. I am just lucky there wasn’t anything harder available. The smoking soon locked into an addiction, an addiction just like my father had. Except, I reasoned that smoking was better than alcohol as I kept my mind (not entirely true). The pot became a means to bury my emotions. I was deeply unhappy with myself and I couldn’t get away from it, there was simply more acceptance in that crowd. In Grade 10, Clifford Tutt often teased me laughing… “What’s a matter, your own mother doesn’t love you?” Even he saw it.

I came home high one day, I sat across from mother at the kitchen table. My little sister was there too. I felt guilty, shameful. My mother looked in my eyes and I knew what she was thinking right there. She didn’t know what to do so in the next moment she just abandoned me. She wrote me off and put all of her efforts into my little sister. Her baby girl she always wanted. It was unnerving for me. It deeply troubled me and made my emotional state much worse. Naturally these dynamics played well for the others in a household with minimal dwindling resources. My mother even lied to me about the money she’d spent on others.

Even prior to all of this was my mothers questioning years before roughly at the age of 10. She wanted to know if she divorced my father after his bankruptcy, which parent would I go with? I didn’t really answer, but she openly concluded I would choose my father. I know she deeply resented that and I think I am the only child with that particular answer. My father, like any young boy was my still my hero and he loved me without condition. I felt completely free with him. It was natural. My older brothers laughed at my father. My younger sister, well she’d stay with mommy, mommy’s little girl.

I was quite emotionally mixed up by an early age. I was also notably different with many compounding problems. I wanted out of this house at 8 years old. I wanted out at 14. I could see the damaging effects. By Grade 11, although not always the case, I refused to follow my brothers. I had to walk my own path, perhaps with all the pot at times I would forget this conclusion, but it’s really always been the case.

So back to this walk to school, September 1991, I determined that I was the Black Sheep of the Family. Hence, my recent change of picture. The quote following the picture to these words is not always true. I was too lazy to document every piece of dirt, but most of them stick in my mind. If I was smart, I’d have kept a journal like I knew to.

P.S. I was just told my writings seem jumbled. I think this would take 3 to 5 years to write out in good comprehension. I am already over five weeks behind and I’ve decided the dates over the next few days are important. I likely may edit these at some point in the future.