We grew up well. We grew up loved.

 Dear Friends and Family,
 Bear with me as I go through this. I try to be open-minded and respectful of people and their feelings. I like to see all sides of a circumstance and understand the perspectives and feelings of those not my own and hold no judgment in their differences. I know we all have a right to our feelings. Right now, though, I am not interested in seeing the other side. Right now, I want to be angry, happy, sad, scared, frustrated, and hopeful. I am not interested in measuring my feelings. I will, I promise, but in the meantime I may (most certainly will) say, think, and feel things that will hurt someone’s feelings and for that I am truly sorry. But right now, I want to feel what I feel and not have to try to be so fucking understanding about it.

Once upon a time, a long, long ago a man and woman showed up to the place they were told at the time they were given to meet two beautiful children, a brother and sister, who needed a home with loving parents (please-o-please-o-please-o-please let it be the same home). The precocious two and a half-years-old girl burst into the room, wearing next to nothing, and jumped onto the knee of Mister. “Here!” she said as she handed the stranger her dress that she was supposed to be wearing. Running into the room calling after her, “BamBam!” was her much shyer brother.


It was pretty obvious right away to Mister and Missus that these kids were perfect for them. They had been married for a few years and really wanted to have children of their own but found out that it just wasn’t possible. This brother and sister, though, they were something special. (You can not even begin to imagine how adorable the little girl was)


Sometime soon after Mister and Missus became Dad and Mom, the two Lamberts became Koskas, and Bambi became Megan – so many names – but one family.


The jig is up. I was the precocious little girl.  

We lived in a house in San Antonio. The first day we moved into the house I nearly gave Mom and Dad heart attacks by walking the guard rail of the top-bunk of the bed that Dad had built special for us. We had a dog named, Champy. We played hide-and-seek together in the house. We built a snowman that magical day 12-inches of snow fell in San Antonio (and took pictures of a sad little girl as I sat on my melting snowman the next afternoon). Mom had to put bells on my shoes because I’d climb the fence and then run around willy-nilly. We were a family. It was great. I was happy. 


There were dance lessons, band practices, piano lessons, soccer practices, track meets, Boy Scouts, Confirmations, First Holy Communions; and there were mom and dad at recitals, concerts, games, and ceremonies.

There were birthdays and laughter.


There were lots of friends and lots of family: aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, grandmoms, and grandpas.


We were brought up with manners; “Yes sir,” “No ma’am,” “Please,” “Thank you.”


We were brought up knowing that if you worked hard and did your best you would be fine.


We were brought up appreciating working for the money we needed for the things we wanted. 


Sometime after drinking the magical waters of Delaware Mom had a baby girl, then two more, and then a baby boy. We were the big brother (again) and sister.


We grew up well. We grew up loved.   


So what kind of fucked up betrayal is it to be so furious? What right do I have to be so damn angry? 


I am furious, FURIOUS, that my mama was not allowed to raise me now that I know she wanted to. 


I love my parents. I love my little brother and all three of my little sisters. I love my grandma. I was devastated when my Nanny and Pop-pop passed away. I have lived a good life. If mama raised me, I wouldn’t have known them.


I do not think life would have been better. I do not think life would have been worse. I think life would have been different. Do I have the right to be mad that we didn’t have the chance to live that life? Do I betray my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews – all the people who loved me and had a part in my life?   

I have a lot of guilt because I do wish things had been different and I am glad that they were not. 


Does that betray my mama who lost her children and the opportunity to live a life with them? 



About Anonymous Burn

I'm just a girl who has a blog. But I'm kinda groovy, too.

7 thoughts on “We grew up well. We grew up loved.

  1. wildcatnova says:

    I don’t think these thoughts are betrayals. You are allowed to love what you have while mourning what could have been. We all do it, you just have a clearer picture of the “could have been” than most.

    • Thanks. I wouldn’t unknow who I know. My sisters and brothers mean the world to me. The friends I have because of the direction my life moved in – are everything to me. But still, I mourn for the chance at living a life that unfolded organically and as it *should* have.

      • wildcatnova says:

        the thing is, everyone’s life happened the way it happened because of *something*. I’m not sure I believe there IS an “organic” unfolding. I’ll always wonder what it would have been like if the hurricane didn’t happen. Would mama still have left the island as quickly as she could once I graduated? Would I have still fled to the furthest corners of the united states that would fund my college education?

        I think our lives do what they do and don’t give a shit about “should have” – you know?

        I think it’s unfair and wrong that you were taken from your mama (and she from you), but I really think that circumstances take something from every life and push it in the direction it’s meant to go.

        • When I say “organically” I mean living with my natural parents. From the first day I can remember I *knew* that I did not belong where I was. I’m not saying my life would have been perfect but I do know that being taken from my mother put me on a course of self-loathing for 20+ years. Maybe Shirley and I would have an arm-length relationship just like the one I have now, anyway, but I didn’t get a chance to grow up with the mom who loved me from the instant I came into the world. I didn’t grow up with her telling me she loved me every day. I grew up feeling like I owed the people I lived with something to earn their love. That was my baggage and I know that. Always has been, but organically – my baggage would have been different had I never to question the conditionality of the love I received.

        • I could still even be *okay* if the choice had been mama’s. Because that would have “organically” been her choice; her choice for us as our mother…but it wasn’t.

  2. pennypup says:

    I had to play catchup what with the unbelievable busy week I’ve been having. But man, I can feel your emotion though these posts. What a very confusing time.


    • Thanks, Penny (is that even your real name?) It’s been pretty raw emotionally. Trying not to edit myself. It’s been helpful. Hope all is well in our great white northern neighbor.

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