In the beginning...

I decided to start this blog because if I don't write these things down, I think I very well might have a mental breakdown.  After half a century of being the black sheep, family scapegoat, fall guy -- for no reason except that it was easier to throw me under the bus than to accept responsibility for their own actions or behaviors -- I have broken away from my family.  I want to write this down so there is a record of it, and I can refer back to it easily when my resolve wavers.  I also know there are others out there like me.  This will be a work in progress... 

What is the definition of a scapegoat? 

In biblical terms, a goat was let loose in the wilderness on Yom Kippur after the sins of the people had been laid on it's head.  Lev. 16:8, 10, 26  Basically, it was a way to absolve people of their sins, which in this definition is almost an honorable thing.  But the reality of being the family scapegoat is not honorable.  It is painful, it is traumatic, and it is abusive.   

I was an only child and why I became the black sheep/family scapegoat always baffled me.  My parents had tried to have children for years before I was born, and according to all reports I was a wanted child.  I was a good child.  I did what I was told as a teenager.  I wasn't overly rebellious.  I made good grades.  I studied.  But some of my first memories were being told I wasn't loveable, I wasn't pretty, I wasn't smart.  That I was wierd.  That I was an embarassment. 

Being the scapegoat also made it easier for my parents to justify their abuse.  After all, someone who was fucking up their lives so royally deserved to be smacked, tripped, yelled at, pinched -- and how could anyone fault them for having to deal with me. 

I remember one time when I was in either the third or fourth grade my mother had bought the small lunch size chips for my lunches.  I was so thrilled because I NEVER got treats like this and was very conscientious about only taking one a day.  Well, Dad came home, and he noticed Cheeto crumbs on the refrigerator door.  He called me over and asked me if I had eaten one of the Cheetos as a snack even though I knew they were for lunch only.  I truthfully told him that no I hadn't, but I thought my my mother had.  My mother was on the other side of the room watching  all this happen.  All of a sudden, BAM, I got punched across the face and knocked to the ground as my father screamed at me that I was a fat little liar who didn't deserve any treats and that I was disgusting for having eaten the snack and then trying to blame it on someone else.  He then took the rest of the chips off to another room, sent me to my room with no supper, and grounded me for lying.  I was almost 100 percent sure my mother had eaten them.  I was an only child, and she was the only one that would have gone into the refrigerator in the evening to make supper.  I sat in my room shaking from the trauma, physical pain and emotional pain.  A short time later, before bedrime, my mother came into the room and gave me a candy bar.  I asked her why she didn't defend me and admit she ate the chips.  Her response...  "well, you are so naughty all the time anyway, so you can just accept this punishment for something you have done in which you didn't get caught." 

So, for them, my role as the "bad one" in the family was important and allowed them to not take responsbility for their own actions.