Scapegoat or GOAT - usually the same

An Open Letter from the Family Scapegoat

I grew up different. My brain has always worked differently. Instead of trying to understand that, you decided it meant something was wrong with me.

To you, I wasn’t different. I was difficult. I was the problem.

If something went wrong, was broken, or went missing, I was the first person blamed. It didn’t matter if I had anything to do with it or not. I was the easiest person to point at.

I’m in my mid-30s now. You would think by this point something would have changed. That maybe someone would have looked back and realized how unfair that was.

But nothing has changed.

I’m still talked about.

Still judged.

Still the subject of conversations I’m not part of.

Still the person discussed in group chats and side conversations behind my back.

That’s the role of the family scapegoat. Someone has to carry the blame so everyone else can feel comfortable.

You treat me like I’m an addict even though I’m sober. Harm reduction and plant medicine do not cancel out sobriety. But instead of trying to understand that, you exaggerate and twist it into something ugly.

You talk about “paraphernalia” in my house when you’ve been here once in the last two years.

You speak about my home like it’s unsafe, like it’s filled with the kind of things you’d see in a drug house. Needles. Meth. Hoarding.

None of that is true, and you know it.

You talk about the way I raise my children.

You talk about my mental health.

You talk about my decisions.

But none of you have ever once offered to help.

You accuse me of using my traumatic brain injury as an excuse. As if I’m using it to avoid responsibility.

Living with a brain injury is not an excuse. It’s something I live with every single day. It is exhausting and frustrating and painful, and it is something I would never wish on anyone, including you.

When I was in a car accident, instead of asking if I was okay, our parents sent someone to check on me to make sure I wasn’t lying.

That is what being the scapegoat looks like. Even when something bad happens to you, people assume you’re doing something wrong.

You say my house isn’t safe.

You told me I’m not welcome in your home, but my children are.

Let me be clear about something. You will never see my children without me. I will not allow people who openly disrespect me and speak about me with this level of hostility to have access to my kids.

You judge the fact that I homeschool my children.

None of you have raised a Black child. None of you have faced the decisions or realities that I have had to navigate. I made the choices I did because I believed they were best for my children.

You may think you could do better. That’s easy to say when you’re not the one responsible.

You treat me like I’m a burden. Like I’m a leech. Like I’m the family problem.

But when you need something, I’m the first person you call.

If a house needs to be cleaned.

If Christmas decorations need to go up.

If a check needs to be dropped somewhere.

If a dog needs to be let out.

You call me.

You won’t bring your kids to my house, but you’re quick to ask me to show up for yours.

There is a heaviness that comes with being the most disliked person in your own family.

There is a heaviness in being told to “just take it” because that’s the price of having family.

And there is a heaviness in realizing that no matter what you do, no matter how much you help, no matter how much you try to show up…

You will never be enough for the people who already decided who you were.

But what I’m starting to understand is this:

Being the scapegoat doesn’t mean I am the problem.

Sometimes it just means I was the easiest person to blame.