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I’m sorry to keep wallowing back on this subject again, friends. My last post about my family situation has shaken me harder than I’d like to admit. The long holiday weekend passed with much time for introspection, since my boys came down with a cold and we cancelled our plans. I had a lot of time to roll this nonsense around in my brain.

Part of me wants to curl up in a ball and cry. Woe is me, another betrayal, wahburgers and french cries! But the time for pity parties has long passed in my life. Sure, every once in a while I can go for a hit of the classics, but I think it’s a strong indication of my healing by how little interest I have in self pity.

Another part of me (the devious part that’s been reading too much Game of Thrones) wants to draft a letter to my aunt as though I knew nothing of the betrayal. I’d write her a note about how sorry I am that things are the way they are, how much I appreciate her keeping my information private and how grateful I am to have real family. But those notes are too sour for me, and I feel like sending something like that out into the universe is begging for bad karma.

But the last part of me screams to do something, anything, because silence will only be more suspicious. My brother and his girlfriend put themselves at risk to inform me of what had happened. To cut off all contact would tip the hand that they were feeding me information. And, I think it goes without saying, that I’m paranoid about them too, simply because I’m learning I can’t fucking trust anyone. I hate to be suspicious. I hate feeling paranoid. I hate dissecting others’ behavior to figure out if they’ve got ulterior motives.

I wish I knew what the answer was. I’m hoping to find the path under the brush, leading to the final quiet, peaceful existence where my family can thrive without intrusion. Maybe that’s a pipe dream too. But it’s all I’ve got left to hope for.