Dear Reader,

August 11, 2026

Since my mental health has been weaponized against me, including in the court system, maybe it’s time I stop being afraid to talk about it.

Actually, no. I’m done being afraid to talk about it.

People love to throw around someone’s mental health when it benefits them. They use it to discredit you, humiliate you, question your reality, call you unstable, or convince other people that somehow you are the problem. And there is something incredibly painful about watching people who contributed to your trauma turn around and point at the effects of that trauma as proof that something is wrong with you.

So if we’re going to talk about my mental health, let’s talk about it. All of it. Not just the diagnosis. Not just the medication. Not just the moments when I didn’t respond perfectly. Not just the screenshots of my reactions without everything that happened before them. Not just the parts that can be pulled out of context and used to make me look unstable while the behavior surrounding those reactions is conveniently left out.

Let’s talk about how I got here.

Let’s get uncomfortable. Let’s be honest. Let’s be raw.

I have PTSD.

I’m not ashamed of saying that anymore. I’m not ashamed that I’ve needed therapy. I’m not ashamed that I’ve needed medication. I’m not ashamed that there are things that trigger me, things I struggle with, and parts of myself I am still trying to heal.

And before anyone tries to say I’m lying or that people “make up” abuse or manipulate others into believing their experiences—let’s be very clear: PTSD is not something you invent. It is a professional diagnosis that comes from years of real, documented trauma. I have been in therapy for years, more intensely in the last year, working through what I lived through. I have also been prescribed medication because the trauma is that deep. My PTSD shows up in constant hypervigilance—always feeling like I need to protect myself, always feeling like situations aren’t safe—because the people I chose to love were the same people who hurt me instead of protecting me.

What I am tired of is watching people point at the aftermath while refusing to acknowledge what happened before it. Some of the same people connected to some of the most traumatic experiences of my life are also the people who have called me manipulative, accused me of making things up, or tried to make my mental health the problem. Because sometimes acknowledging someone’s trauma would require acknowledging behavior people would rather deny.

People are so quick to ask, “What’s wrong with her?” before anybody stops to ask, “What happened to her?”

Something happened to me. More than once.

I spent years learning unhealthy things about love—not only during my childhood, but throughout my entire 20s. Enough said. If you know me, you know where and whom I learned these things from.

And now I have to unlearn it all.

I have to unlearn believing that love means begging someone to care while I’m crying. I have to unlearn chasing someone who emotionally abandons me. I have to unlearn believing that if I can just explain my pain one more time, maybe this time they’ll finally understand and stop hurting me.

But more than anything, I have to learn that there are things I should have never had to beg for in the first place.

I should never have had to beg someone not to put their hands around my throat while I was carrying their child.

I should never have had to beg someone to be faithful.

I should never have had to beg someone to stay beside me when I was sick.

I should never have had to beg someone not to get drunk.

I should never have had to beg someone not to use drugs.

I should never have had to beg someone to speak to me without degrading me, bashing me, or calling me names.

I should never have had to beg someone to care that I was hurting.

And I should never have had to beg another parent to show up for their responsibilities, or be shamed, attacked, or made to feel like less of a person simply for asking.

Do you understand what years of all of this can do to a person?

Those things change you.

And for me, the physical abuse isn’t even what stayed the loudest.

It’s the emotional and psychological damage.

Bruises disappear. Fear doesn’t always disappear with them. Your body remembers. Your mind remembers. You start anticipating abandonment before it happens. You become terrified of losing people. You overexplain because you’re desperate to finally be understood. Sometimes you react from wounds you haven’t finished healing.

And yes, I have reacted.

I’ve cried. I’ve begged. I’ve chased conversations that should have ended. I’ve gotten angry. I’ve said things out of hurt that I wish I hadn’t said.

I’m not going to pretend I’m perfect just so my story will be easier for somebody else to believe.

I am responsible for my reactions, and I’m working on them.

But my reaction does not erase what happened before it.

I can take accountability for how I responded without taking responsibility for what somebody else did to me.

Both things can be true.

Sometimes I was triggered.

Sometimes I was simply hurt because somebody was hurting me.

Sometimes I felt abandoned because somebody actually abandoned me.

Sometimes I wasn’t “too sensitive.” Something was cruel.

Sometimes my tears weren’t manipulation. I was in pain.

And having PTSD doesn’t mean somebody gets to rewrite every painful experience I’ve ever had as a symptom of my mental health.

You cannot help create a wound and then mock someone for bleeding.

You cannot point at someone’s trauma response while refusing to acknowledge the trauma.

And you don’t get to use someone’s mental health to silence them because their story makes you uncomfortable.

That’s why I’m talking now.

Not because I’m perfectly healed. I’m not.

Not because I’ve handled every situation perfectly. I haven’t.

I’m talking because I’m tired of believing I have to become a perfect victim before I’m allowed to say I was hurt.

I’m talking because there are women reading this who know exactly what it feels like to love someone who hurts them. Women who stayed. Women who left and went back. Women who begged someone to choose them. Women who begged someone to get sober. Women who begged someone to show up. Women who have walked away feeling like they were the problem simply because they finally spoke up.

Women who were called crazy after being pushed beyond what they knew how to handle.

Women whose mental health became evidence against them instead of anybody asking what happened to them.

I see you because I am YOU.

And I’m still learning too.

I’m learning that love shouldn’t require begging. I’m learning that someone’s silence doesn’t determine my worth. I’m learning that abandonment doesn’t mean I’m unlovable. I’m learning that another person’s responsibility isn’t something I should have to apologize for asking them to carry. I’m learning that just because something feels familiar doesn’t mean it’s healthy.

And I’m learning that I don’t have to destroy myself trying to make somebody understand the pain they caused me.

Most importantly, I’m learning that healing doesn’t require me to pretend the abuse never happened.

So yes, talk about my PTSD. Talk about my therapy. Talk about my medication. Talk about my reactions. Talk about the mistakes I’ve made while trying to survive things I didn’t yet know how to process.

I’m willing to talk about all of it.

But then we’re going to talk about the trauma too. We’re going to talk about the abuse. We’re going to talk about the emotional neglect. We’re going to talk about the infidelity. We’re going to talk about addiction. We’re going to talk about what happened before the breakdown. We’re going to talk about the years I spent learning that love and pain belonged in the same sentence.

Because I will not carry shame for seeking help for wounds I didn’t wake up one morning and choose to have.

I have PTSD. But PTSD isn’t who I am.

I’m a woman trying to unlearn years of what I thought love was.

I’m a woman learning that I never should have had to beg another human being to make me feel safe, to be faithful, to stay when I was sick, to choose sobriety, to speak to me with basic respect, or to show up.

I’m a woman taking accountability for the things I need to change without carrying responsibility for what other people chose to do.

And maybe that’s what healing actually looks like.

Not pretending it didn’t happen. Not pretending you’re perfect. Not staying silent so everybody else can stay comfortable.

Just finally deciding that what happened to you will not be the thing that gets to decide who you become.

Love always,

Kelsey