Scapegoat (Guest Post - Tasha)
I don’t write or post much, but Jade needs a break, so tonight I just decided to put this out there. I hope it makes sense. I’m not the blog writer extraordinaire. 😉 Also, I said “I” in most of it but I wasn’t the primary back then. It just makes it easier to read. But even though it wasn’t me, I know what happened. ~Tash
Some days, I think I’m delusional, because I just want acknowledgment that something happened in my growing up years that wasn’t okay. This will never, ever happen, by the way, which is why I KNOW I’m barking up the wrong tree. But it’s like a compulsion that I can’t resist, like an ear worm of a song I can’t stop singing. I just want the family to face facts, and be real: things weren’t healthy between us, and they still aren’t.
I’m not even talking about abuse, let’s just set that aside for a minute. Let’s not even bring that into it. I’m talking about the dysfunctionality we grew up in. I’m talking about the family dynamics that emotionally strangled me as I grew up, and still feel too entangling sometimes even now. I’m talking about the way we became the scapegoat for everything that was wrong in our family; we didn’t have problems, I was the problem. And if they could just fix me, everything we were struggling with as a family would go away.
Dear God, I wish it were that easy.
And also, I wish they would at least admit, these years later, that they might have been wrong. And that there might have been some responsibility they could have or should have taken for the part they played in my struggles.
It’s like I have this fantasy that in a perfect world, a parent would never willingly, knowingly feed their child rotten food day in and day out. But let’s say it happens anyway, accidentally, or at least non-maliciously.
So when the kid inevitably gets super sick, a doctor or an expert in all the types of rot that food can have comes along and says, “Parents, I hate to tell you this, but your child is sick because the food you’ve been feeding her is, in fact, rotten.”
In a perfect world, the parents would be dismayed and disturbed and heartbroken and repentant and would say to the world, to the child, to the doctors, “Oh no! I’m so, so, so, so sorry. I didn’t know the food was rotten. I’ll learn how to distinguish between rotten food and good food and I’ll do my best to never feed you that garbage ever again. I’ll help you get better. I’ll change whatever I need to change in order to keep this from ever happening again.”
In this fantasy, the parents would NOT say: “Are you SURE the food is rotten?”
They would NOT say: “No it’s not, there’s no way the problem is with us or our food.”
They would NOT say: “Maybe she’s just not absorbing it correctly. It hasn’t hurt any of our other kids (friends, spouse, co-workers). It must be HER problem.”
They would NOT say: “She should just be grateful we even GIVE her any food at ALL.”
They would NOT say: “If she doesn’t like it, then maybe she should go get her own food somewhere else and quit being so picky.”
But then again, this is a fantasy. It’s not the real world.
I’ve forgiven, for the most part. But sometimes I get weary of trying to forget. Today is one of those days.