The black sheep

I was the black sheep.  Not because I loved any less, but because I loved too much. I would have done anything for my family. If they said jump, I jumped. If making myself the joke meant hearing them laugh, then I’d laugh at myself first. I defended them with everything I had, only to be told off for defending them at all. Somehow, no matter what happened, the blame always found its way back to me. I don’t remember when childhood ended because I don’t think I was ever allowed one. By seven years old, I wasn’t just a child. I was a shield. I stood between my little brother and the shouting. I tried to carry my mom when she was too exhausted to carry herself. I chased my dad out because she couldn’t. I became the shoulder everyone cried on before I was even old enough to understand why they were crying. When I couldn’t protect them from everything, I carried the guilt anyway. I was blamed for my grandad’s death when cancer was the cause. I lost my him, my aunt, Ray, my nan, and every single time my own grief had to wait. In fact I still haven’t. There was always someone else’s pain to hold first. Someone else needed comforting. Someone else mattered more. No one ever asked if I was okay. Once they’d taken everything they needed from me the comfort, the strength, the reassurance I was left behind. Alone again. The person everyone leaned on, but no one thought to catch when I finally fell. I spent my life trying to become enough for people who had already decided I never would be. The child who spent her whole life protecting everyone else grew into an adult still wondering why nobody ever protected her.