Family Scapegoat: What’s Worse, Betrayal or Abuse?

Estimated reading time: 12 minutes

*Trigger warning: this blog post about a family scapegoat contains sensitive content.*

When speaking to my badass therapist, Trisha, a realization dawned on me that had me writing in my journal at 2.0 speed. A question arose, “As the family scapegoat, what’s worse? The abuse? Or the betrayal when speaking up about the abuse?”

Bingo! 

It wasn’t necessarily the physical and sexual abuse I’d endured as a kid that was still majorly affecting me in adulthood, it was the response, the betrayal, the scapegoating I experienced (and still experience) by the people who should have protected me from it. Abused as a child, I told my family, my family betrayed me by protecting the abuser and making me the family scapegoat. Sound familiar?

What is a Family Scapegoat?

The term “Scapegoat” is thrown around a lot these days, so let’s dive into it together. Picture this: a family or group systematically pinning the blame on one individual for all their problems. Yeah, that’s scapegoating for you. It’s like a messed-up game where everyone else gets to dodge responsibility while that one person takes all the hits. Kinda sucks, right?

It’s like a messed-up game where everyone else gets to dodge responsibility . . .

Now, let’s get super warm and cozy here. I’m not just talking textbook definitions; I’m giving you the lowdown from the heart. The Scapegoat? That’s often the truthteller, the one with a bit more emotional sanity in the room. But when they muster up the courage to speak out against the dysfunction, what do they get? Gaslighting. Yep, someone else gets to rewrite history and the victim is stuck feeling crazy, like nothing makes sense. 

Oh, and by the way, you’re damned right “Scapegoat” gets the capital treatment. Because hey, every one of us deserves at least that respect, right? Can I get an amen?

It takes a butt-load of near-impossible courage to speak up. It’s like tiptoeing through a minefield, hoping you won’t get blown to bits. Especially when the person committing the abuse is a person of authority, a family member everyone loves, and someone the victim has to rely upon to survive. 

And They’ll Say . . .

“Are you sure it happened that way?”

“That doesn’t sound like something _______ would do.”

“_________ has been having a hard time. Just let it rest, already.”

“You’re still talking about this? Can’t you just be the bigger person?”

Behold . . . all parroted sentences victims will hear when broaching the subject of abuse or dysfunction, all from page 12 of the ‘Dysfunctional Family Playbook’. (Glad that little heirloom never made it into my hands.)

Rarely discussed is how the abuse, neglect, or traumatic event is often just the tippy-top of the iceberg when it comes to the suffering the victim endures as the family scapegoat. Speaking for myself, and hearing horrific stories of friends who’ve suffered the like, what is most often worse in a toxic system is the reaction (or non-action) by those in authority when the victim finally gathers the courage to speak up and tell their truth. 

My Story as the Family Scapegoat

Let me share a bit of my story with you. Picture me, fresh-faced at 13, attending my friend Michelle’s birthday slumber party. There were several of us girls there and after playing games, gossiping about cute boys, and generally being a pain in the ass to her family (with the giggling, rapping, screeching, and carrying on), we managed to circle around in her bedroom, stumbling into a fantastical round of Fucked Up Story Time. (No, kids, this was not the actual name of a game in the late 1980s/early 90s. But if I could go back in a magical time machine, I’d definitely give this official title to whatever it was we did that night; it was pretty fucked up, indeed.)

Starting with Alicia, every girl shared details of being sexually abused. My heart was beating out of my chest–I was sure they could hear it or at least feel the vibrations in the carpet–and my whole body was hot and beet red from head to toe. I hadn’t started wearing deodorant yet and I stank. Stunk. Stinked. Whatever. It was BAD, ya’ll. Not only because the stories were scary and sad and horrific, but I was straight-up quaking in my jam-jams because I hadn’t even shared my own story yet. Ever. To anyone. 

Let’s Rewind

Rewind to those dreaded summer breaks at Aunt Chris and Uncle David’s place. Begging and pleading with my mum not to send me there was like talking to a brick wall. And boy, did I learn that monsters don’t just lurk under the bed; sometimes they are on the bed, and sometimes they’re right there livin’ it up in the family tree.

I would cross my fingers and hope it was a mistake and things would be different this time, maybe it was a really bad recurring dream, or perhaps all along it was really the freaky weird neighbor guy next door doing the deeds, timing it perfectly for when my Uncle was preparing to go to work. Wrong.

Aunt Chris and Uncle David lived in the California desert and the mornings would get very hot in the back of the house where the bedrooms were. They didn’t like the heat so they’d always put me up in the room that would warm up the fastest, the main bedroom which happened to have a full bathroom. That bathroom was the one my Uncle would use to shower in before work, while my Aunt Chris was in the kitchen preparing his coffee and breakfast, and packing his lunch. His work at Edwards Airforce Base was a good 45-minute drive so this was all happening before sunrise. 

The Abuse Begins

Uncle David, the morning routine, the fear . . . it’s all etched into my memory like a scar. He would turn on the shower, approach the bed, and then help himself to me in a way no adult should help himself to any child or anyone or anything that doesn’t consent to it. My “Uncle” would turn into a complete fucking monster, all whilst I tried to pretend to be an ultra-deep sleeper because seeing him do this to me and facing the truth of what was happening was much too much for any child to bear. 

Each night was a battle for survival, a desperate attempt to ward off the unthinkable. But no matter what I tried, the nightmare persisted. I opened my suitcase on one side of the bed and spread all of my toys and stuffed animals on the other side of me, trained myself to sleep on my stomach, and layered my clothes and slept in them. I would leave Legos around the bed hoping he’d step on them–surely a moat of sharp, painful Legos would do the trick! Nope. Nothing worked.

But no matter what I tried, the nightmare persisted. 

I’d been scared to tell anyone because I knew speaking up meant unraveling the family, and who wants to be the one to do that? I was embarrassed to tell, in detail, what he did, because despite all the sex going on around us, speaking of sexual things was not permitted. Topic: off limits. I was also afraid of what he’d do if he found out I’d told on him. (“What if he kills me? Or has me killed?”). So I kept my lips sealed, praying for a miracle that never came.

The Unintentional Exposé

Just as I was telling my horrors to the other girls about what my Uncle had been doing to me all those summer breaks I’d spent in Palmdale, Michelle’s mum peeked her head in the door. I don’t know how long she’d been listening, but it was long enough to feel the need to pull me out of the room and start softly interrogating me, in the most surprisingly loving, motherly way.

“Are you OK? Does your Mom know?”

“No, I haven’t told her yet.”

Moments later Michelle’s mum was dropping me off at my home a few blocks away so my mum and I could talk. I don’t even think I said goodbye to my friends. Just whisked away to a dysfunctional family paradise of darkness and despair. We girls never discussed it again. 

Mum was already three sheets to the wind (that means drunk AF for you youngins) therefore her emotional side was on full display. 

She hugged me (weird) and asked me to tell her what happened. I did, in detail, head hung low, staring at the criss-crossed grain of the kitchen table, face red and hot as those famous New Mexican chilis. Half-suspecting she wouldn’t recall the conversation in the morning, I just let it all out. We cried. Then I awkwardly went to bed, crying into my pillow, shaking yet a tad relieved, while she stayed up watching Saturday Night Live, drunk off her ass. (Though I didn’t hear her usual cackling laughter. Thankfully, because let’s be honest, that would have sucked, big time.)

A week later, surprise! Mum’s best friend and only sister, Aunt Chris, arrived.

The Shitty Family Betrayal

We sat down at that same table, and again, I was asked to repeat the gruesome story and I did, head down, staring at the criss-cross grain of the kitchen table, and this time hot and green as those other famous New Mexican chilis. I wanted to vomit. (Thankfully I didn’t. If there was one thing Mum was good at, it was being a clean freak–no holds barred, zero pukes allowed. Not in this house!) 

“Speak up!” Aunt Chris said. 

I was mumbling.

Mum’s tone did a 180. “You’d better not be lying! This is nothing to joke about! Do you know what this means? You know if we have to go to court you’re going to have to say all of this in front of your Uncle David and in front of a room full of people and a judge. You wanna put your uncle in jail? Is this really what you want?”

At this point, my entire brain, heart, chest, stomach, and both sets of intestines exited through my anus onto the floor. (Thankfully only metaphorically, because, hello, clean freak.) 

I was no longer safe.

At 13, I didn’t comprehend betrayal. As an adult who has gone through years of therapy, books, Dr. Ramani’s Youtube videos, 12-step programs, and Trisha, my Lord, savior, and therapist Trisha, I now know this, this putrid hot steaming puddle of liquid diarrhea, was the betrayal of all betrayals. I was no longer safe.

I held to my truth and confirmed I was uncomfortable but willing to face the consequences, whatever they may be–I just didn’t want it to happen again to me or anyone else, especially my little twin cousins. Keeping those two innocent girls away from him (and surviving) was now my priority. 

“They must be in shock,” I thought. Aunt Chris got in her truck and left, not saying goodbye to me which was devastating–we’d always been so close, I thought. I then waited anxiously to hear the breaking news: Aunt Chris divorced his ass and his stank face would rot in prison forever and ever, Amen. 

But, it never happened. 

Little did I know that bucking up and confirming I’d face the consequences meant I’d be the ONLY one who would face the consequences for the crime. Not the crime of abuse, but the crime of exposing an abuser… eventually becoming the family scapegoat.

The Family’s Reaction to the Abuse

Weeks after the near-puke fest, my other Uncle (Mum’s brother) took his twin daughters to stay with Aunt Chris and Uncle David (a.k.a. sick shithole bastard fuck face), if not just to prove a point: That I, his 13-year-old niece, was a big fat liar. She was not to be trusted. “I’m on your side.” And how dare she make up such a terrible, hurtful lie about a man who did so much for her (and works for that secretive nefarious weapons manufacturer for the US government, and is totally comfortable living a double life due to his training and nature of his job). But, you know, “Brandy always lies and makes up stories to get attention, don’t listen to her.”

Today’s Family Scapegoat

Those family gatherings I loved so much as a little one still would (and do) occur, everyone invited but me. I faced, and still face to this very day, isolation and condemnation from relatives unwilling to confront the uncomfortable realities of our history, whether from way back when or even events from more recent times (stay tuned, my friends).

It’s easier for them to say I’m crazy than to face taking responsibility if not for abuse, for complicity in the abuse, a.k.a looking the other way. Because I share my truth, become emotional when discussing how I’ve been hurt or cut out, or even dare express how much I care, I’m a pain in the ass.

Their refusal to acknowledge my trauma when I’ve needed them the most and their continued relationships with abusers has deepened my sense of betrayal and still haunts me to this day. As my warrior woman therapist, Trisha, says, I have a “big whopping betrayal wound”. (I’m working through it . . . HARD . . . again, stay tuned, friendzies.)

After committing several years of my life to heal from, understand, and study in-depth the systemic issues and dynamics of dysfunctional families, I am now aware that I, the truthteller, was and still am the family Scapegoat. I believe starting out as a quiet, sensitive, honest kiddo, my mum’s convincing yet deceptive campaigning to hide the truth, and being the first and oldest of my generation, made me an easy target. Maybe you can relate. 

Family Scapegoat: The Big Question, Answered

For me, it was and still is the betrayal, the non-action, the scapegoating. 

Newsflash: Self-parenting is a wonderful thing, yo.

Consider this: if you endured abuse and had even one family member or authority figure stand up for you, would you be as triggered? What if they pressed charges, put the abuser in jail, and/or removed you from the situation permanently? What if they apologized for not being more aware sooner? Would you still feel the need to over-explain, to over-function, to prove yourself and your integrity so often? To pay thousands upon thousands of dollars in therapy bills? Newsflash: Self-parenting is a wonderful thing, yo. 

But hey, I’m not here to wallow in self-pity. I’m here to share my truth (to those who want to listen), and to shine a light on the darkness that lurks in the shadows of so many families and dysfunctional systems. And if my story can help even one person feel less alone, then it’s all worth it.

So here’s to the family scapegoats, the truthtellers, the ones who refuse to be silenced. We may be few, but we are mighty. And together, we’ll weather the storm and emerge stronger on the other side.

And if you want to dive deeper into the world of Scapegoating, check out Laura K. Connell’s blog here. Trust me, it’s worth the read.

Stay strong, my friends. 

Rise above it. Take back your power. Embrace peace.