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Meet Cate

Page 17

by Fiona Barnes


  Cate had noticed beautifully decorated Christmas trees showing up in living rooms earlier every year. Each season, Al and Cate would both watch for the first lit tree, the understood beginning of their much anticipated, favorite time of year. Nic would only groan loudly, teasing his sister about the tradition.

  "It's too early," he'd moan. "Wasn't Halloween yesterday?"

  Al would stick her pretty tongue out, her arm moving to swat him. Nic would laugh and dance effortlessly out of her way.

  Cate walked past the well-worn brick of her storefront, under vintage gas station lights that lit the words Cate's Place. Inside, she could see all the way through to the porch, happy couples and families at almost every table.

  Parking was offered on two sides of her building. It was almost full tonight, she noticed. In the left lot, the shore curved inward toward itself, offering a view of the open ocean on the horizon, while the right lot offered a spectacular view of the marina and the bridge beyond. The sidewalk was extra wide past her building, allowing for plenty of foot traffic. There was a wide cement staircase that rose to meet the sidewalk from the parking area below. Along the walk sat a brick wall, almost matching the restaurant facade, but brighter. The walk curved to match the swell of the historic road.

  And leaning casually against the wall stood a lone figure. His coat was pulled tight against the chilly air. Faded jeans held back the cold. As she walked closer, he stood, his boots leaving footprints in the soft snow that had begun to fall. A long scarf covered a rugged face that dipped low into his collar, in an attempt to breed more warmth. Only his eyes showed above the knitted pile.

  They were warm, beautiful eyes, Cate noted. Her face alight with bright happiness, Cate moved toward him. Her own smile lit a thousand nights, matching what she saw reflected in his familiar eyes.

  Dear Reader,

  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a serious disease, but one that can be managed. With the help of a trained professional, life can grow easier.

  If you've experienced a trauma and are having trouble handling it (either because you've found yourself unable to deal with the thought of what you've seen, or because the thought of what's happened to you won't leave you alone), please ask questions of a trusted medical professional.

  You do not have to be alone in your battle. There is hope.

  If you find yourself in a position of support to a brave survivor of PTSD, please do not forget to take exceptionally good care of you. You are very important. You are so worth it.

  I haven't found a survivor yet who doesn't appreciate our support, although they can't always show it. If you care for yourself daily, you're not only supporting your survivor (you'll find yourself with more to offer), you're setting a good example for him/her and anyone else watching (your children, for example).

  If my support feels good to you, I encourage you to check in on Facebook (at Facebook.com/BeachChristmasLife) where we're devoted to supporting you, the partner. If you feel alone in your journey as a partner, my first book (The Survivor's Guide to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder: A Love Story, by Fiona Barnes, Amazon, 2014) may remind you you're not alone. In it, Paul (my former husband, a firefighter with PTSD) answers questions that will almost certainly help you and/or your survivor. You can read an excerpt on Amazon.com.

  Thank you for the work you're doing. It's good.

  Yours,

  Fiona

  About The Author

  Fiona Barnes is a mother, and now, an author. In her spare time, she encourages women of all ages to write. She and her children live on the shore in Connecticut, with their pup (a serious black lab, whose daily exploits include a pursuit of all things fun).

  Her first book, The Survivor's Guide to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, is available on Amazon.com.

  For more information about the author (or her fun) please visit BeachChristmasLife.com.

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  Thank you for your support.

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