I Was A Scapegoat Child

By JS Evans

This is a story of a kindhearted and very forgiving girl who was born and raised in the Philippines. She writes a touching account of her hardships at the hands of both family and friends.

At a young age, she knew that something was wrong, and she was not treated like others. Little did she realize that the family she thought she could trust and would not take advantage of her would be the ones who were the biggest offenders and that faith would play a larger role than she could have imagined.

She overcame betrayal, cheating, abuse, homelessness, and a host of other hardships and managed to survive despite the odds. It is the author's true story of survival and overcoming the odds; she relied on her faith to get through when it seemed all was lost and hopeless, fighting for her children and a life she believes she deserves. This is a must-read for anyone who has experienced abuse and betrayal at the hands of family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawes & Jenkins Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781637840269

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I Was A Scapegoat Child

JS Evans

ISBN 978-1-63784-027-6 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63784-026-9 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by JS Evans

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Hawes & Jenkins Publishing

16427 N Scottsdale Road Suite 410

Scottsdale, AZ 85254

www.hawesjenkins.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Where It All Began

Designated Scapegoat

Narcissistic Mother

Growing Older

Her Absolute Power

Misery Loves Company

Lost Girl

A Different Hell

Rise to the Occasion

God Was Silent

Betrayal

Destined People

Disrupted Lives

When Life Gives You Lemons

Reunion

Down the Road

The Test of Time

Beyond Repair

The Favorite

Broken Bond

Reclaiming My Life

To my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I am not perfect, but I did my best to be a good person and, most of all, a good mother. I battled life-and-death situations, but because I love you, I chose life and survived it all. This is my story, and I pray that you learn from it.

Acknowledgments

I was inspired by my husband, Jeffrey, to write my story to help me heal, and each time I cried when reliving each painful moment, he put his arms around me and cried with me.

Special thanks to Judy (my editor) and for her kind words:

I can't even express how much it means to me that you entrusted me with editing your story. It is an honor, and I feel blessed. This is a story that could be so helpful to many people who have been abused, used, and demoralized. It is a story of resilience, strength, and courage. It will be so encouraging to those who read it because it shows how, sometimes, just putting one foot in front of the other can move you out of the mire that life has become.

Your story is well written, and your voice comes through and makes the reader feel like they are there in that situation with you. By being willing to share your very personal details, you have made it real, relatable, and believable. Nothing sounds like fiction. It is all very real. Even though it may be shocking, it is real.

Introduction

For sixty-five years, I have been marginalized, seeking insight and trying to make sense of physically and mentally damaging abuse. The heavy load that I was lifting while trying to place others' feelings first made it difficult to break away. In hopes of healing, I started writing down every memory I could to connect the dots and find the answers to these lifelong questions: Why did my mother resent me and continue to undermine me? Why did she treat me differently from my other siblings?

Family is not about blood but is defined by commitment and love. When a child is born, the family is supposed to provide a safe haven where it can be nurtured. As a child, I didn't understand why my parents acted the way they did. A demanding mother made me responsible for her feelings and frustrations and punished me for it. It left an emotional scar that lasted well into my adulthood. I do not deserve to live as a scapegoat for a mother who does not acknowledge or cannot be responsible for her own issues. All through my life, my family caused me pain, put me through hell, betrayed me, took advantage of my vulnerability, and led me astray when I was broken.

It is considered taboo to say something bad about your parents or family. At a young age, I started telling my grandmother and my aunt about the abuse. But they avoided talking about it, and it made me feel guilty. Was it plain denial that the abuse was happening, or did they even recognize it as such? The guilt and blame that I suffered by being estranged from my mother/family was motivation enough to cause me to be quiet and suffer in silence. The abuse and uncertainties transformed me into becoming a stranger to myself. For others to think this was her disciplinary methodology instead of abuse does not justify the hostility fed to us children like poison.

It is complicated, getting to the root of my mother's abuse and how it affected my whole life. I have always wanted a relationship with my mother, longing for love and attention. It seemed I had to pay for it with whatever would be pleasing to her or risk a cold or upsetting response. Was totally sacrificing my well-being for a mother who constantly tore me apart doing the right thing? I sat with my hopes of a real relationship long enough for her to set it right. Forgiving my family made me more vulnerable until I learned enough to walk away from the people who threatened my peace of mind, self-respect, and self-worth.

Where It All Began

My father's family moved to one of the provinces of Central Luzon in the Philippines, and my grandfather worked at a private refinery that housed the employees. But my grandfather preferred to live outside the company housing. When the Japanese invaded the Philippines, my father's family went into hiding in the mountains and also changed their Spanish-sounding name from Fajardo to Acosta to avoid persecution. After the war, my father also got a job at the same refinery.

My mother's family lived in one of the neighboring provinces of Central Luzon. My maternal grandfather was of Spanish descent, grew up in the Philippines, and married my Filipina grandmother. When the Japanese came, my grandfather instructed my grandmother and children that he was leaving and told them that if he did not come back, they would have to leave as well. When he never returned, it prompted the family to leave, and they ended up in the area close to where my father lived.

My father was a gentleman who loved to dance, and he met my beautiful mother at a dancing party during one of the traditional annual fiesta celebrations.

In 1955, they were married, and I was born in 1956 to parents very much opposite in personality. I had one surviving beloved grandmother on my mother's side.

We lived inside the company housing, which contained amenities such as a cooperative store, a church, a hospital, and a public school. The refinery was a privately owned property. Transportation entering the area was limited. Buses were on a time schedule, but later, the jeepneys (public ride) were added, which helped the residents. Very few people could afford private vehicles.

The city where we could get most of the things we needed was about an hour away. The cooperative store only had limited items to sell, but the residents found ways to be innovative and self-reliant. Residents were allowed to put up talipapa (wet market) and sari-sari stores (convenience store) in front of their houses.

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We did not have our own toilet. We had two public squat-style toilets that separated the men/boys from the women/girls. It was inconvenient, but we found ways to improvise.

Decades-old acacia trees surrounded the community, shading the houses. The two-story, fourplex Spanish housing units sheltered four families divided by plywood walls. You could actually hear your neighbors talk like they were in the same house. The upper portions of the walls were railings about two feet in height. Some naughty kids would climb up and look through it. Some made peeping holes to see through, and they could see what was being served on the table and everything happening in the house. Obviously, there was little privacy. Windows were huge and wide, and all sorts of unwanted insects like ants, flies, and mosquitos became members of the household. We slept inside a mosquito net big enough to accommodate the whole family or one each for the parents and children.

My