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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Noel
Counselling is difficult. There are so many questions and too few answers. I'm always second-guessing myself, questioning the events that play out in my head, wondering what I can do to fix everything I've ruined.
It's chaos, and these past three weeks have been worse than difficult. Dr. Munson wants me to talk as much as I can, whether the topics be related to my experiences or the weather, aspirations or fears. Anything. He continues to tell me that talking is good for the soul and that he doesn't approve of silence or resistance. We've gotten into several arguments about the tactics that are being applied to these counselling sessions. I've stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind me like a child. Sat on the couch and cried with words caught in my throat.
Every time I sit on this fucking couch, I fear it'll never get easier. Because, despite all the resistance my body is riddled with, I know shoving everything down and hiding it from the world won't work anymore. Additionally, Dr. Munson is a trained professional. He knows what he's doing and how to pick apart his patients. Whenever there's a significant pause in his train of thought, I think I've fooled him into thinking I'm a lost cause. But then he'll find a new question. A new statement. Every time, he manages to upend me and bring my inner turmoil forth.
Plus, I promised Cole I would try.
Even if I don't think I can do it. Even if I don't believe Gramps can get sober while he's in British Columbia at a treatment centre. What's keeping me afloat are the weekly conversations with Cole. He believes he'll be able to coparent with Daisy because of the counselling they're participating in. If Cole thinks it'll help... then I guess I have to try.
And then there's the issue with Kinsley. Speaking to her again will be a result of self-improvement. If I want self-improvement, I have to commit to counselling.
But it's hard. When Dr. Munson isn't pissing me off... Okay, that's lie. He brings up facts and questions that make me feel pissed at myself. Almost ashamed. Prior to these counselling sessions, I was too ignorant to realize my toxic behaviour. Which doesn't make me any better than my father. I should've known better, but I also have to cut myself some slack. I was part of a situation I never asked for.
Running a hand through my hair, I glance around the office. It feels small, but it's far from reminding me of a walk-in clinic area even though I sometimes get that vibe. The far wall is lined with a pine-green bookshelf. The books range from mental health to dystopian to even some romance novels. It makes me feel more at ease because it shows some of his character. Even if I'm not his biggest fan.
The flooring is weathered oak and the walls are a light grey. Adjacent to the bookshelf is a large window that has a stellar view of the forest. Every so often, the sun will shine through, warming my face and easing some of the effects of the lingering trauma. The couch I'm sitting on is leather, worn and smelling vaguely of cedar and vanilla. Between me and Dr. Munson is a coffee table. There are two glasses of water sitting on top, along with a bowl of hard candies, each wrapped individually.
