The Lost Child generally comes from the middle of the birth order, surrounded by older and younger siblings. This role is defined by the absence of a distinct role within the family system. Lost children avoid bringing attention to themselves, preferring to stay below the family radar. They often isolate, withdrawing from family and social activities to escape, and tend to distance themselves emotionally through immersion in television, computers, video games, or reading. Family members tend not to worry much about this child because he or she is quiet and appears content. As a result, it’s not unusual for family members not to notice that the child isn’t participating and seems withdrawn or even depressed.
The Mascot is almost always one of the youngest children in the family, and most frequently is the youngest. The Mascot’s function is to be cute and humorous. By being cute, adorable, and/or funny they protect themselves from negative attention and distract others from the stress and dysfunction in the family. Since the Mascot tends to be the youngest, the family usually views the child with that role as the most fragile and vulnerable, and tends to be especially protective toward him or her.
The Scapegoat role is usually adopted by a middle child, often the second oldest. The Scapegoat is the antithesis of the Hero; the designated black sheep of the family. Who did it (whatever “it” is)? Chances are, it was the family Scapegoat. And chances are even better that the Scapegoat will be blamed for it, even if he or she didn’t do it. The Scapegoat’s role is to divert attention away from family’s systemic dysfunction by acting out in ways that draw significant negative attention to him or her individually. In doing so, the Scapegoat unconsciously concretizes the family’s problems and accepts the blame for them, while simultaneously giving expression to the family’s frustration and upset.
The Scapegoat’s acting out can take manifold forms, such as marked oppositionalism and rebelliousness against authority at home, in school, and/or in the community; poor academic performance; aggressive or violent behavior; and involvement in thrill-seeking or other high-risk and potentially self-destructive activities. Not surprisingly, the Scapegoat is the child most likely to have problems related to truancy, school suspensions or expulsions, arrests, sexual promiscuity, teen pregnancy, and substance use/abuse. Usually, the Scapegoat’s angry, defiant, “Fuck you, I don’t give a shit” outward appearance masks considerable pain. This child is frequently the most emotional and sensitive, though he or she has learned to fend off inadequacy, hurt, and rejection by employing defense mechanisms that keep these feelings of vulnerability at a safer distance.
There was never any competition for the role of Scapegoat in my family—I monopolized that designation. I was the “bad” kid. The two literal messages from my parents that resonated the loudest throughout my childhood were, “You’re not living up to your potential,” and “It’s your responsibility to be a good role model for your brother and sisters.” On their face, these messages were neither problematic nor unhealthy. They reflected my parents’ concern and sincere desire for me to excel and to be the best person I could be. But they also reinforced the pressure of certain unrelenting expectations and the assessment that I was failing to meet them.
The impact of words is always influenced by the accompanying nonverbal cues of facial expression, tone of voice, and body language. The emotional tone with which such messages are communicated makes a massive difference in the meanings they convey. The emotional tone of the above messages to me was sometimes of frustration or anger, but always of disappointment. The effect was shaming, and the embedded meanings I internalized were that I wasn’t good enough and that I wasn’t enough.
From an early age, I exhibited a hyper-sensitivity to emotions. I experienced feelings such as hurt, sadness, guilt, shame, and anger with heightened acuity, seemingly more rapidly and deeply than most other people. This set off a tuning-fork-like reactivity and a long-term affair with anger. Anger was like an ever-present low-lying fog limiting my visibility. From the time I began to experience that the world sometimes ignored my desires and perceived needs, anger was always there for me—convincing me that I was getting screwed, fueling my self-righteous emotional escalation and acting out. During my MSW program I would learn that in children and adolescents, pervasive anger is often a symptom of depression.
In sixth grade CYO basketball (though Jewish, I played in a Catholic Youth Organization league because that’s where the best competition was), my coach put into words something that I already knew well: “The best defense is a good offense; if we have the ball, they cannot score!” This described the essence of my approach, not only to basketball and other sports, but also to coping with all manner of uncomfortable emotions and situations. In terms of emotions and their expression, anger is the most potent embodiment of “the best defense is a good offense.”
In the vast majority of circumstances, anger is a secondary emotion, forming almost immediately and automatically in response to someone or something that brings up feelings of hurt, fear, shame, and inadequacy or of not being good-enough. These primary emotions made me feel weak and vulnerable—self-perceptions that were intolerable to me as a child. I used anger as a defense against them, a shield that deflected them and gave me power. Anger like this serves two important psychological purposes: it provides a sense of control when one is desperately needed, and it directs our focus outward, providing identifiable, external others, indeed, scapegoats, to blame.
Displacement is a defense mechanism that unconsciously transfers unacceptable thoughts, feelings, or desires from a psychologically unsafe object to a more acceptable, less threatening substitute. A classic example is the man who is angry at his boss and cannot express it directly so he comes home and kicks the family dog or yells at his wife and kids. When we cannot confront the real sources of our anger, hurt, fear, and pain because they hold power over us, we tend to take it out on someone who is weaker and effectively “safer.” Children engage in displacement when it is too anxiety-provoking to consciously acknowledge and express upset at parents and other caregivers they are dependent upon for their survival needs. Instead, they tease the cat, bully someone at school, or lash out at younger siblings.
Although there were many times when we had fun and played together, my brother and sisters were safe objects onto which my anger was regularly displaced. I treated them so badly. I could be mean to the point of cruelty. I’d call them names and put them down verbally. Occasionally I’d hit them, usually in the big muscles of the biceps and thighs, giving them “dead” arms and legs. While the physical abuse I perpetrated was sporadic, to them the implied threat of it was constant, and the emotional abuse ongoing. I’ve come to learn that when we were left alone at home they consistently felt unsafe, because of me. It wasn’t unusual for them to lock themselves behind closed doors, hoping I wouldn’t find a way to break in, though often I did.
My anger was generalized and free-floating, always searching for concrete targets to latch onto. Most of the time I wasn’t consciously aware of how angry I was, or even what it was that I was angry about. And during our formative years, my siblings bore the brunt of it as I terrorized them. A vicious circle ensued wherein my parents would get angry at my behavior and punish me, and I’d feel that much more rejected and angry, taking it out on my brother and sisters, which only elicited more anger from my parents. As absorbed as I was in acting out my anger, there was no space left for me to appreciate that my siblings were being traumatized.
I lied like a rug, though sometimes it was blended with degrees of denial and a child’s magical thinking that if I didn’t admit to it, the reality would just go away. I shaded the truth and told half-lies or lies of omission, and sometimes I was straight up dishonest. I lied to make myself look better. I lied to try to feel better about myself. At times I lied for reasons outside my conscious awareness. Most often I lied to evade the consequences of my behavior. I became so used to lying that I lied even when it would have been just as easy to tell the truth.
I lied so frequently that I lost credibility for telling the truth and became like the boy who cried wolf. My parents were so accustomed to me lying that they assumed I was, even when I was telling the truth. Of course, this only exacerbated my feelings of rejection and emotional abandonment, and provided another source for my anger. My younger brother (the family Hero) learned that he could do something wrong and lie about it, confident