Strange way to get there

The thought that is bothering me this morning is not novel. It has been lurking at the back fo my mind for a while, but I haven´t really let it emerge in its full clarity. It is this: I have always been expelled from places.
First, I was kicked out of the boarding school where my parents had placed me in order to deal with the inconvenience which I was. Perhaps that action on the part of the institution was justified. I don´t know. I was cought in the school yard smoking a Popeye style corn pipe which I myself had carved with a pocket knife. The priest who cought me was famous for the way he hit students with the back of his right hand. He had been given the nickname " The crow" because of his black clothes, and he was feared. He told me to throw away the pipe. But we were surrounded by many of my peers, some of whom ( I was thirteen years old) I wanted to impress, so instead of doing what he told me I told him to go to hell. When he raised his hand to hit me I punched him in the face. All the other students cheered. I was full of myself. But the result was that I was thrown out of the institution with a warning to other such establishments taht I was a troubled and perhaps dangerous young man. I wasn´t of course. Never before or after have I resorted to any kind of violence. But the dismissal was to affect me for the rest of my life.
Later, when I was going to high school in Long island, New York, something happened which confirmed my destiny as a pariah: there was a mail strike in the state if New York and I did not receive the formI was supposed to fill out in order to extend my visa on time. I was told by the judge who kicked me out of the country that it was just a mere technicality. All I had to do was to go back to Torornto for a week and then return to the USA. I did go to Canada, but stayed there. It was really ironic, I thought, that just before the deportation I had won a short story writing contest which would have won me a scholarship in the land of HP Lovecraft, Rhode Island( it was a horror story that had won the writing contest). So once again I had been place outside of things by fate.
Since then, I have gone through tree marriages, all of which ended up with me being told to get out. Invariably, by the time that happened there was nothing I wanted more than to get out. It took me so many years to realise that marriage is a result of conditioning and and the total loss of personal freedom, and the very death of love. But I am going through a separation right now. This time is a little different, because I have fallen ill and I am on dialysis. Also, I have had a child with the woman I am separating from, and I love that child more than anything in the universe. I am therefore tryin to understand what exactly hasn´t worked out. Her justification for asking me to leave the house is that when there is an argument I tend to raise my voice, which in her opinion constitutes some form of mental abuse( considering that other people get kicked out of thier marriage because they have cheated, or are violent, or drink too much, the measure seems a bit disproportionate). I accept that, and let her know in teturn of what I think she does that is not acceptable either. But she does not recognise anything other than my faults, and there is nothing doing. So for the good of all, I, I, not she, have to leave the apartment where we have been living for so long. Again I find myself walking around the streets pondering why I have been rejected, and in my horrible self pity I tell myself that I would never kick my wife out of the house if she was going through something like dialysis.
Three years ago I had decided to change my life and brought all my family from Canada to Spain, my mother´s country. I was fed up with the bussines character of Toronto and my paintings weren´t really getting me anywhere, since, typically, I had had a disagreement with my agent and he, in retaliation for something I had done against his already puny ego, decided to cut me out of the gallery. I felt that everything about that city, Toronto, was detrimental to the artistic mind. I had seen so may talented people be ignored to death, literally, so many wonderful creators fall into depression and self destruction, that I decided it was time to go. So I moved to Nothern Spain. I gor a job which I did with some sense of responsibility for two years, we had a child, I was painting, and then... KIDNEY FAILURE.
Once again, in the worst way possible, I was being expelled from the world of the normal.
Now I am living alone in an apartment. I take care of my child four days a week, while my wife works, and I have just bought a canvas on which plan to paint a couple of cherry trees in bloom I saw last night while taking a walk on a pathway that cuts across the fields in the periphery of the
town where I live. It was cold, but the spring is pushing in already nonetheless. Over the cherry trees, whose myriad little petals looked like pink flames agaist the ultramarine sky, there was a striking array of stars glowing coldly, like ice crystals. An hey, this may sound wird, but I thing i´m happy.