I am the black sheep. I am excluded from family events. Birthdays, weddings, holidays. I am talked poorly about. A teenage mother. College drop out. I am forgotten at birthdays. No card. No text or call. I am unclaimed. Not his daughter. Not her daughter. I am the black sheep. Generally, the black sheep of the family is the weird uncle who was convicted of child molestation. The cousin who is addicted to drugs - the one who never seeks help and disappears. The father who is an alcoholic and takes his anger out on his wife. The mother who cheated on her husband and got pregnant. Not the daughter who grew up, realized her trauma and is freely speaking about it. Not the niece who set a healthy boundary and left when the lines were crossed. Not the sister who moved her sibling in, when they had nowhere else to go. Not the daughter who dropped everything on the dime, to drive 259 miles in an "emergency". Funny how that works, isn't it? You're always the antagonist in the story, while they are the victim. All because you recognized the signs of a narcissist. You realized their patterns of abuse. You were conscious of their motives and their actions. They are always quick to tell others what you did wrong. Yet they can't take responsibility for their own actions. And so, you will forever be the antagonist. The unwanted. The black sheep. I'll be the first of them to admit that I've made mistakes. I'm flawed, just like any other human being to walk the face of this planet. The reason I can admit that is simple. I tried, they didn't. I went to counseling, I did the work, I forgave things I shouldn't have forgiven. Now I'm the black sheep for walking away; for bettering my life. I am the black sheep. For giving my children a better childhood than I ever had. For not allowing negativity into my life. For putting my children first. For setting healthy boundaries and enforcing them. For growing as a person, attending counseling and healing from my trauma. For telling the truth. For speaking out about my childhood. For connecting with others who've experienced similar things. For not forcing my children to be in the lives of people who talk poorly of me around them. The list goes on and on and on. I'm the black sheep for speaking my truth and telling my story. In the beginning I'll admit I was terrified. Then I realized that they are still out there proving my point today. My "mother" still a drug addicted, alcoholic nut case. My "father" still a narcissistic, ego driven asshole. I have nothing to be afraid of. I refuse to let them shame me for healing, telling my truth, and living my best life. Because I am the black sheep... and I'm proud. Sometimes the black sheep, is the only one telling the truth.

I laid there, wrapped in the soft embrace of my blankets. Pitch black darkness filled every corner of my vision, and my sense of self slowly melted away as I sunk deeper. I don't know how long I was there for, as time did not exist in that secluded space. All I remember is one moment I was asleep, and the next, I was awake. The layers and layers of coverings each peeled off, as I emerged from my lair. My eyes, adjusting to the light, travelled across my room, to the desk piled high with books I've never read, and to my plate of half-eaten pizza, until they slowly settled on the pair of dumbbells sitting innocently on the floor. These details combined and culminated into a monstrous emotion that wriggled deep inside me. Unproductivity. It had been weeks since the quarantine began, and my previous life of constant work seemed like if it had been a distant dream. And so as if to greet this foreign feeling, the fiery hot flames of motivation engulfed my entire being. My resolve was hard as iron, and I set myself towards changing my laziness. During my preparations, the image of the dumbbells flashed through my mind, and I grinned, for I had found the first step in my path towards salvation. It was morning, 6 AM. I had to decided to set a strict schedule for myself the night before, but instead of feeling the sharp blade of discipline, I instead felt the squishy bean bag of grogginess. Nevertheless, it was time for work. The morning air assaulted my senses as I stepped out, and yet the feeling of harsh cold needling my skin felt somewhat refreshing. Slipping into a pair of running shoes, I steeled myself for the upcoming journey. My feet bounced off the firm pavement, as my legs pumped in tandem. This was the first bit of exercise that I had done in a long time, and so accordingly, my body was dying. My view set straight on the ground, I played a game to distract myself from the pain. "You have to avoid the cracks, if you step on the cracks, the world will end." My suffering merely worsened, as the fate of the world was now added onto my burden. It continued for an unimaginable length of time, as my surroundings blurred into an unrecognizable mess. I had to stop or I would explode. Hands on my knees, I came to a crawl, and checked my timer through my muddled vision. 10 minutes. The eternity I experienced was summed down into 10 minutes. 600 seconds. The time it takes for a hot shower. The duration of a toilet trip. My perpetuity was equal to a toilet trip. My memory blanks after that, but somehow, I had gotten back to my door. According to my schedule, it was now time for some weight-lifting. However, as I started walking towards my dumbbells, with every movement my muscles groaned and my lungs screamed in protest. Clearly, any more exercise would turn my body into paste. The previously scorching motivation was reduced to a weak ember, flickering from the howls of my lungs. My resolve which seemed so impenetrable now seemed like a buttery caricature of Spongebob, with its many openings. What was I doing, and why was I doing it? "What's the issue with resting a little?" I asked myself, starting to gravitate towards my bed. I began to pull blankets over me as my motivation completely disappeared, "I'm just going to relax a bit." Familiar darkness wrapped itself around me, and I once again began my slumber.

One day I set my yellow bike by the steps, and scrambled into the house. Momma gave me a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich pie, the kind that she made by cutting off the crust with the peanut-butter jar lid. It was a sweet-smelling summer afternoon, and the heat was softened by a gentle breeze. I straddled a kitchen chair as I ate my sandwich pie, and gazed lazily out the window. Suddenly, without much warning at all, the skies seemed to completely fall out with pouring sheets of rain--and the sun still shone! The sun caught and twinkled in the rain, it peeked through the curtains of rushing droplets, winking and blinking; and it glistened on my bike. In my lazy trance, I found myself completely mesmerized with the rain on my bike. Tiny rivulets ran about the tilting handle bars. Balanced sideways as it was against the steps, my bike jiggled slightly with the slapping impact of the fat raindrops. And then, just as I had found myself hoping, the back wheel spun ever so slightly, almost reluctantly, like a mill wheel, with wet little drops half-heartedly fluttering off to the side. Then the wheel spun slowly back and rested, as if its work was done. And it was done, because just as soon as the rain had come, it was gone.

Hello, my name is Peter Lawryniuk. I'm 42 years old. I have a brain injury that I got when I was 7 years old. I was hit by a car while riding my bicycle and in a coma for 11 days. When I awoke, I needed to relearn everything over again. How to walk, talk, eat and use all my muscles again. I had a lot of different therapies, speech, physio therapy, etc. I went back to school. I was in a small classroom and I had a special ed teacher that would work one on one with me at times. When I was 12 years old, another tragedy happened. My father passed away of a heart attack. That left my mother to raise three children on her own, with me being the youngest and with a brain injury, it was tough. Going through my teenage years was tough. I had some anger issues as a teenager, but for different reasons. One, my father passed away and two, I have a brain jury. I didn't know how to deal with certain situations. I was sent away a few times to get some help. First a rehabilitation Center in London. I was there for a year and then came back to Cambridge. I went to high school and then a few years later, I was sent to another rehabilitation Center in Hamilton to get more help. I was there for a year. I came back to Cambridge and finished my high school in Cambridge. It took me a bit longer but I did it. I graduated. Fast forward to when I was 26 years old, I moved out of my mothers house and into an apartment on my own. A year later, I started volunteering at a daycare called Peekaboo, one day a week for a few hours in the morning. Well, that one day a week turned to 2 days a week and then three days a week. Then I did two things in September of that year. 1, I got my G1 license. The second thing I did was, I signed up for early childhood education apprenticeship at Conestoga college. Going through college, I had my ups and downs the first 5 years as I needed to repeat some classes again because with my brain injury, it takes me longer to understand some things. Then another tradegy happened. First, my mothers dog passed away and then three days later, my mother passed away from complications after her surgery that she had. It was a very difficult time as now both of my parents were gone. I took a little break from college. I wrote, sang, recorded, videoed and put on YouTube three songs. Miracles which is about my accident and hospital stay. Life is like a storm which is about a storm that's coming and how my life was like a storm growing up with a brain injury. Olivia which is about my Goddaughter Olivia. She's in the video to. My supervisor at the daycare told me I had to take a food handling course, because I help in the kitchen with the grocery shopping, etc. So, I did. I ended up passing that class as I studied long and hard. I passed and wanted to go back and finish what I started in the Early childhood education and apprenticeship program. Apparently, l found out that I only needed two more classes. I took them both, one after another. I worked hard, had a great teacher, same one for both classes and I passed. I graduated college. I now volunteer and work in a day care called Bright Path Childcare, which used to be called Peekaboo Childcare. I help out in the classrooms and in the kitchen. I bring my guitar there and play and sing to the children there. I volunteer on Saturday mornings at the YMCA, stay and play. I also bring my guitar and play it and sing to the children there. I volunteer at a place called Michael Fleming Center and as well volunteer in my church. I work one day a week at a place called open space, which is a place with people of different disabilities can go and socialize, play games etc. It's part of the extend a family. Some things I learned growing up is: Never give up, look forward in life, not backwards, think positive, not negative, take one day at a time and you can do anything you put your mind to.

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I was born aboard a roaring C130 over the airspace of the Caspian Sea. This was pre-9/11, so modern air travel rules on pregnancy didn't apply. My mother, petite and unassuming, escaped scrutiny with her tent-like dress. For some reason, the Air Force allowed her to accompany my father on assignment. Perhaps it was our Italian-sounding surname. Somehow, it was a passport to inaccessible areas. My mother's screams at childbirth upstaged the din of the C130's engines. This, together with my caterwauling, formed the backdrop of my entry into existence. Perhaps this was why I despised any sound above a certain decibel. Whenever I complained of loudness, regardless of the source, my mother would remind me of how I came into the world: “From noise you came, and to noise you will return.” Thus did I return. A life-altering event prompted me to revisit the land of my parents. I thought I'd stay a month, just long enough to tie up loose ends. Alas, offshoots materialized, forcing me to stay. Initially, I was happy to be here, having reconnected with friends and extended family. Now that I'm stuck here, I've ceased discovering pleasant things and have instead focused on annoyances. What I can't understand is the residents' affinity with noise. It's all-encompassing, yet no one seems to notice. Maybe you think I'm inflexible or used to living in fancy, quiet ‘First World' cocoons. But I've visited developing countries. This is, by far, one of the noisiest. Fortunately, my host lives in the suburbs—where I ensconce myself. I knew what this area was like 20 years ago. But it turned into a city. With this new status came progress—along with shopping malls, people, traffic, crime, and pollution. You would expect the noise to proliferate just in the primary city, not in ‘ex-burbs'. But it seemed the generators of noise got tired of subjugating the capital to its malevolence, and turned its sights instead to the formerly peaceful spot where I'm forced to park my hide. It starts with roosters crowing in the morning, followed by dogs barking, people talking/arguing, motorcycle engines rumbling. Late morning brings in blasts of music from amplifiers owned by neighbors dissatisfied with ordinary speakers; they MUST have turbo. Equally virulent is the venom of the traveling boombox in a tricycle. The driver, enamored with his favorite ditty, would crank up the volume for everyone to hear. Thankfully, midday provides a lull in the cacophony. Naptime for noise-mongers. I schedule my most important activities during this period. My rooster friends, however, manage to cackle in. I thought they only crowed at dawn or early mornings. Here, they squawk and scream at all hours. Is there a pattern? Nope. It could be 4 am, noon, or midnight. That blasted crowing would pierce into the darkness or the heat of the sun. Utter disregard for the clock. Why do the locals love roosters so much? Back home, there are zoning laws. You can't raise farm animals in residential areas. They're confined to the countryside and appropriate businesses. I searched for an explanation. Apparently, cockfighting is legal here. Roosters aren't just pets. They're worth a lot of money if successful in the ring. In the evening, reverberation from a microphone would signal in the most vexatious noise of all: karaoke time. Most singers are out of tune. Singing would go on until dawn. Later, the country's leader issued a no-karaoke rule after 10 pm. My sigh of relief was short-lived. People just ignored the law. Friend #1 had a karaoke bar for a neighbor. Singing went beyond curfew. One day, she couldn't take it anymore. Time to see if the law upholds. She called the municipality anonymously, citing the neighbor. The next day, the bar was closed down. Triumph! After listening to one of my tirades, Friend #2 remarked, “Maybe you should live in a cemetery.” She was being mean, of course, but I actually considered living in a mausoleum—a result of attempts to escape the noise. Alas, during my visit to the country's most prestigious memorial park, my ears were assaulted by sounds from lawnmowers, digging machines, and construction. This is one place you won't rest in peace. I thought of moving to the countryside. “Huh-uh. More chickens,” Friend #3 advised. “Why not try a monastery?” So I begged a priest-friend to take me in, offering rent. But he said, in order to live with the religious, you have to join them. Permanently. Yikes! Perhaps it was poverty. Making noise was a way to drive out demons, forget problems. For most of the populace, this was probably true. But these neighbors aren't poor. Theirs is a middle-class enclave. Maybe some people are just inconsiderate. Silence is golden. I still believe that. But I decided to make the ultimate sacrifice: give up the fight. You see, the event that led me here was the death of my mother and brother. Now alone, Father refuses to budge. His enemy is silence, not noise. For him, I will embrace my adversary.