Call Me Cockroach

by Leigh Byrne

You begin to think you’re crazy when everyone around you pretends something never happened when you know damn well it did. Makes you think you’re viewing life through a dirty window. You question yourself—your memory, your sanity. Did it actually happen?

Why, when I did the same thing, did it seem much worse? The reality—my reality—was because of what happened to me as a child, I didn’t have the luxury of behaving like other mothers, because my actions would always be scrutinized, if not by others, then by me.

I could now see that what you want at twenty is not necessarily what you will need when you’re thirty.

I saw blotchy skin, still prone to regular breakouts, stringy, blond hair and a nose noticeably crooked from being broken more than once. I saw a mouth that simply refused to smile without considerable effort, which sometimes gave my face a forlorn haggard appearance. Stepping back, I twisted my hair into a bun at my crown, did a quarter turn of my head, and faked a smile. I knew there was no possible way a man like Colin could be interested in the woman I saw in the mirror.

I learned through further research that the family scapegoat is usually the most sensitive and most vulnerable of all the children, and often the one who reminds the abusive parent of something within herself she cannot accept. I, being a girl, was more sensitive and vulnerable

I was a scapegoat child, born of my mother’s need to blame something outside herself for all the awful things that had happened to her, chosen to take on her guilt, shame, and feelings of inadequacy. This was my answer, my truth—or as close as I was ever going to get.

Children—and perhaps the elderly—are the only true victims of abuse. As adults, we are only victims when we allow ourselves to be. The instant we make the decision to strike back, we become warriors. When the fight is over, we will have either won or lost, but one thing is for sure, we will not have been victims.