That Asshole

When I have to be “that asshole”  — the person who lives in the minds of my parents to be blamed for mistakes and then who has to clean them up — it makes me crazy.

I didn’t think that I would be hitting myself in the head while they were away, but my mother can’t use her cell phone — Why didn’t I make it easier? — and my father screwed up filing his taxes — Why did I let him do that instead of demanding he check with me before sealing the envelopes? (He had to unseal his federal anyway.) — and I am in the bum seat, without the power to change or challenge, but with the obligation to fix it, now.   The other issues –like dealing with the other fellows insurance on his messy accident where his story was so unclear the cops got it wrong, or plumbing in a drier to his cockamamie hidden vents, well, they just weigh on me without being immediately present.

I know that I am being scapegoated, but I also know I have ALWAYS been the scapegoat in this family, and my skin burns from it, which makes it hard to focus on being powerful, integrated, actualized and empowered.

It hurts, it physically hurts me with tension and pain when I have to be “that asshole.”

But they can’t seem to imagine our relationship any other way.

I am just “stupid,” that asshole.   Oy.