Personal Narrative: Kaitlyn Krystal Ransom

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The name on my birth certificate reads Kaitlyn Krystal Ransom, but when I was born it read Kaitlyn Samantha Burns, and now most people just call me Kai. When you look at me, I am a five foot, four inch ball of fluffy grandpa sweaters and shy smiles. I don't look like the type of person to be considered "mentally ill", except maybe if I had what I like to call the "cute" disorders. "Cute" disorders, for me, are categorized by disorders that people pity or romanticize. Anything that can be "treated" temporarily with soft animals and smiling at strangers and doing anything possible to make oneself feel better is a "cute" disorder. My disorder, though, is far less adorable.
I have post-traumatic stress disorder, which leads to the occasional violent …show more content…

Each time I met someone with PTSD in Colorado, they were always twenty to thirty years older than me, a war veteran, or something along those lines. I felt terribly alone with the whole situation. As I got older things only got worse, especially with puberty. As a very small child, I was sexually abused, and I grew up with knowledge of the incident, but rarely paid it any mind until I was in middle school. That's when the flashbacks started, and I began to criticize every inch of my skin, uncomfortable with every aspect of my being. I didn't tell anyone, assuming it was just how puberty went for everyone, and simply retreated into a shell of a person, going through the motions in school and acted like everything was fine. Even at home, my parents rarely suspected …show more content…

I made it all the way until my sophomore year before the PTSD really tackled me. That was the first time I had ever failed a class, and on top of everything I failed not only one course, but two. That's when I realized I needed to talk to someone. I had given up on therapy long ago, probably around the age of eight because it was so expensive just to go and talk to someone, but I still approached my mom about things. I felt defeated and broken, but my mother - who had adopted me at six and looked after me since I was two - insisted that everything would be all right. My adoptive father was busy working, but he was there every step of the way with my mother, trying to get past the little flaws and kinks in my brain and

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