Confessions of a Scapegoat
2001-08-12 - 12:20 a.m.

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Confessions of a Scapegoat

My Parents Visit

pt 1: The ride home from the airport


In family systems theory, a family functions much like a living organisim. Every member has a part they play, and their actions all influence the actions of the other parts.

Some families will have the attention seekers, the sulky middly child. The oldest child, the paragon. The parents may be dominant and subordinate, manipulators, the melodramatic experts, a host of roles may or may not be evidenced, and all may take up only parts of such roles, and there are many, amny more.   All the relationships and interactions affect each others behavior and mental health. Slight cues and subtle conflicts will resonate within the entire family. Even eye contact will speak volumes and volumes.

And you have the scape goat.

The scape goat bears the sins of the family like a sacrificial lamb. Many of the scape goat's behavioral problems and lack of mental well being can be traced back to dysfunction within the family dynamic. As much as the family will see the scapegoat as "the problem" the problem may actually lie deeper within the family, protected from scrutiny, kept hidden like a festering sore. Most families have a scapegoat, and you can judge the overall health of the dymanic by the health of the scapegoat.

Some families survive. Some collapse. The scapegoat will tell you what you need to know about that family.

Subtle conflicts and disagreements between the parents about even such things as bedtimes can evidence itself as maladaptive behavior on the scape goat's part.  The scapegoat is the focal point for all the tension within the family.

i.e. Imagine a family trip.  Father wants to go to one destination,  mother someplace else.  They disagree, and perhaps argue, perhaps not.  There is tension in the family dynamic,  likely because of other reasons more related to their relationship, and the scapegoat subconciously doesn't know which "side" with which to agree or listen to, likely shunning both "sides".  Caught in the middle of this tension, the scapegoat evidences behavioral problems that do not allow the family to go on said trip.  The child is blamed, and the underlying causes and stressors are never examined.  This is a nutshell, and a piss-poor once over explanation.

I have been the scapegoat for pretty much my entire life.

I have been trying to shed that role, become the "scapegoat emeritus".

I'm not always successful.

In my view, I try to resolve my own feelings, let go of any angst I may pick up from the rest of the dynamic,
and let the deleterious effects wash away like silt in a river. In retrospect, it can and has manifested itself in my behavior and general health, likely more often than I'd like to admit.

Its been rough going at times.

We headed out to the airport. My brother drove at his usual manical pace.

We were chatty, things were good. Our relationship has greatly improved.

Last time the 'rents visited, we argued and argued up to, through, and after the visit. Even to the point where picking them up was a battle.

We waited by the fountain, past which all travellers must pass to get anywhere. I had put forth to meet them at the gate, and he disagreed. So they waited at the gate, and we waited at the fountain, for over an hour.

This time he listened when I asserted myself about meeting them at the gate, and did not "dig in his heels" so to speak.
We met them at the gate.

Mom came out chatty as hell. If experience is a guide, she had a few toddies on the way out. This is not a surprise.

Not that they are alcoholics. Its not an impairment in their life. 

And I don't mind. It made for a looser household growing up. They're actually pretty hip, for fifty year olds.

Mom waved and gave us both hugs. Dad too. He has become much more expressive as he has grown older.

He and I have had our battles, as many sons will as the become of age. He threw me around a little bit. There were times, as I child, a lot of times, there were many times I was terrified of him. A lot more bark than bite, though.

The last time we actually got into a fight, so to speak (no punches were thrown), was when I was eighteen. The particulars are inconsiquential. He jumped on top of me, and I had become more of an effective fighter at that point. I managed to get him in a headlock and wrestle him to the ground.

He got up, and made viscious, penetrating eye contact with me, the kind that I've seen make people wilt like delicate flowers on a hot dry day.

I didn't blink. One thought kept running through my mind, if he touches me, he's dead. Over and over and over. This was it, and what happened happened, but no one was going to lay their hands on me ever agian, without getting what was coming to them.

Not a word was spoken.  The seconds seemed like an eternity.  He gritted his jaw, seeming frustrated that he couldn't make me blanche.

Then he laughed. He actually laughed. I think that's what he was looking for, all along.  After all, life would throw much more wicked curves at me, than this and I think on some subtle level, this was what he was preparing me for:  life.

This wasn't the end of our period of conflict, but I think it was a turning point, of some sort.

And even before we really spoke, Mom introduced us to the guy she'd sat next to on the flight.  He was polite and looked at us in an odd, evaluative manner.

guy:"Your mom likes to talk!"

me:(dripping with sarcasm) "Really, her?"

Brother:(sarcasm)"No kidding?"

guy:"Yeah, she dusted off my brain cells, and made sure they were still working, boy."

We chatted breifly.  As he walked away, mom leaned over and said, "Boy, he likes to talk.  I couldn't even read my book."

We made our way to the baggage claim.  They were ebullient, happy to see us.  My brother walked with his fiance' and I carried my mom's rather large and heavy carry-on.  Dad walked well, which is to say the treatment he's received for his MS seems to have halted the progression, or at least slowed it a whole lot, which is a good thing. 

At the baggage claim, I saw one of the prettiest girls I've seen in a long time.  Tall, long striaght blonde hair, killer body, short, short, short skirt.

Me (to dad):"If you ever wonder why I moved out here..."

dad:(breezily)"To get away from your mother and me?"

me:"No, the scenery."

dad (dismissive)"Already been there."

And he questioned my evaluation.  "A tall girl like that?"

Hmmm.  Everyone I know still likes the girl I lost.  Friends, family.  All.  Me included.  Foolish pride is a killer, and I take the part of the blame that is due me. 

We got the luggage and had some beers in an airport bar.

On the ride home, I asked about a baby sitter we had when I was a small boy.

In the last phone conversation I'd had with mother, I had brought this up, and somehow the conversation got switched to Grandma' and something that happened.  At the death of her mother, she had exhorted the grandchildren to "give your great-grandma' a kiss goodbye."

I think I did, although this may have happened at my granfather's mother's funeral.  I believe she did it again.  My memory is hazy.  I didn't mention the second time on the phone, as the first time kinda' rocked her.  Nor will I ever.

I do remember the feel of cold dead skin.  Horrible.  That's something that has stuck with me.

They don't believe me.  Of course.

I don't really care.  I'm pretty sure Grandma' did do this, at least once.

Anyway, I tried to piece together the babysitter's name, and find out what she was up to, ambivalent curiosity.

Mother began to press me as to why I would want to know, and what I specifically remembered about this babysitter.

And I had to exit and merge, with cars swarming around me, making things difficult.

Me:(exhasperated) "I don't know.  I was four.  How am I supposed to remember?"

And this is when father pounced.

dad:(sternly)"So I suppose, then, that we can assume some of the other things you recall from that time of your life would be inaccurate, as well."

Waited until the perfect point, with my mind going six ways at once to press his personal agenda, which is to deny this happened.

Fuck.  What do I care?  If that's what you want to believe, fine by me.  It changes nothing in my perspective.

But it did happen.  If not then, then the other time.

Its irritating in the respect that my brother will do the same thing.  Try and tell me what did or did not happen to me.

As in:  "Oh, that didn't happen."  WTF?

But, as I have taken the tack of not letting these things get to me, more power to you.

I don't blame them, or anyone really.  What good is that?  If I recall correctly, grandma' was watching us for a moment while mom went to the bathroom.  Or, more likely, for a ciggarette.

Believe what you want to believe, Dad. 

I'm just trying to let go of the feeling of the cold, makeup-y, soft and wrinkly dead skin of your dead grandma on my lips.

me: (irritated):"Yeah, whatever."

I felt, and still feel no point in discussing it with anyone, let alone family.  No good can come of it.  I just want to let it go.  Resolved.  No one can be there for you every single time.

We checked them into the hotel, and called it a night.