Scapegoat

I had an epiphany yesterday. It was a bit awkward though, as a little old man in Starbucks said "Don't look so sad, it can't be that bad" and I started to cry. In public. I never cry and certainly not in public, so I practically ran to my car. No kleenex anywhere, not in my purse, my coat, the glove compartment. Thank God for shirt sleeves.

The night before Elizabeth had commented to me in passing that her dad and I still talked about one another the same way, were still so bitter. When I started to tell her I wasn't bitter, she snapped "You're not bitter, I get it. I get it," and walked away. Pondering this I couldn't help but wonder if I was still bitter.

The next morning in Starbucks, I was sitting and contemplating how frustrating it is to be thought to have said or done things that you didn't. How hurtful to have someone you care about accuse you of saying things you didn't say.

The breakup of my marriage was a horrible thing. Steph accused her father of sexual abuse, and social services removed him from the home. It took about that long for them to do it too. I heard later from my neighbour that he was telling everyone that Steph and I concocted the scheme in order to get him out of the house. His jump in logic was that because I was sexually abused I'd coached her on what to say to make the accusation stick. Six years later, and that still hurts. Deeply. Painfully. The result of this kind of branding is to try to encase my heart in ice. It was easier to appear bitter and angry than to hurt that much.

I've been a "victim" in the past. Been there, done that, burnt the t-shirt. So here it is, happening again in my life from yet another source. OMG, stop with trying to make me a scapegoat. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a couple of t-shirts I need to go burn.