Two years after a horrible accident, Kinsley's determined to make it through vet school, but she didn't expect to meet country boy Noel McLean who's just as mysterious as he is charming.
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Kinsley Hastings suffers from PTSD. After surviving a fata...
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Kinsley
Trauma and shame are like cheese and red wine: inseparable.
Trauma and guilt are the same. Guilt is the dark chocolate you indulge in with that same glass of red wine.
But guilt and shame are not the same thing. When you feel shame, you destroy yourself. It is a lack of self-confidence that makes you view yourself as worthless. When you feel guilt, you evaluate action or behaviour. With guilt, you still value yourself. You just judge your actions with ruthless penance.
Neither are welcome, yet once they are present, they're difficult to escape.
That's what people cannot understand. Trauma and PTSD are complex. Sometimes you fall, sometimes you're on top of the world. Days pass where you're just existing. Or when you can't get out of bed.
You're caught in a cycle of despair that can lead to bad or selfish decisions. Misspoken words. Volatile emotions.
You can't just get over it.
Selfish people will tell you that. They will judge your decisions. Tell you you're a bitch. PTSD is especially hard for women. We're put on a pedestal. Nothing we ever do is right and nor will it ever be.
People have dehumanized women. We are considered objects. Our bodies are sexualized. Patriarchy is so deeply embedded into our everyday lifestyle that sometimes women inflict it upon each other. Sometimes, I inflict it upon myself. We're told our minds are more complex, that we can handle such intense emotions and deal with them. Get over them.
That's not true.
As I pick at my sandwich, I wonder how different my experience would've been if I were a man. People would've cradled me, given me time. There would be no nasty comments muttered under their breath. No judgement of my behaviour. Attending counselling wouldn't have been expected of me. By going, by making that decision to repair the damage done inside, I would've been praised.
But no.
I was expected to do all the above. Women are expected to move on. And if we put one foot out of line, we are unworthy. Judged. Told to get over it.
Sighing, I take a bite of my sandwich. It's delicious. Noel added just the right amount of mustard and mayo, giving it a tangy flavour against the sweetness of the pickles.
As I eat, my thought pattern continues on.
In the end, what another person thinks doesn't fucking matter. It shouldn't. With self-love and self-confidence, you're strong enough to survive. To let no one's opinion dictate your self-opinion. When people lack compassion, they're not worth your time.
Yet here I sit, stirring over what Noel will think of the scars decorating my body. Of the story behind them.
