Exposure by Annie Jocoby Page A

to leave their home again. It really becomes a vicious cycle, as their recurrence causes them to not be able to seek professional help again. Sometimes it takes the patient years to be able to get to the point where they can try for remission again.”
    “In other words, if you cure me, I have to keep seeing you.”
    “For a period of time at least. Think of it as a maintenance period.”
    A maintenance period. It disheartened me to know that I might never be rid of this menace. Even if I thought, somehow, that I was safe. There might come a time when I would be tripped right back into my rabbit hole by something I see. I supposed that PTSD was like that – there were all kinds of cues in the world that might send me spinning back into what happened that day. Triggers.
    I started to feel hopeless that I could ever be cured.
    But I at least had to try.
    “Okay, then, let’s try going through some coping mechanisms first,” Dr. Valence was saying. “There are ways to not only quell your negative thoughts with cognitive retraining, but you can also adopt strategies that will help you when you see, smell and hear things that might be triggers. Smells are especially powerful for triggering memories.”
    So, for the rest of the afternoon, Dr. Valence and I carefully went through strategies for me. We went through ways to retrain my thoughts and ways for me to retrain my brain so that, when smells, sights or sounds triggered me, I wouldn’t necessarily be spun back into panic.
    By the end of the day, I was feeling confident that I could at least try to go outside without feeling like the world was about to collapse onto me. For that I was grateful to Dr. Valence.
    And I was especially grateful to Asher.

9
    A fter Dr. Valence left , I immediately went to check my emails and text messages, and found that there was nothing from Asher. Then it occurred to me why this was – he didn’t actually have my phone number or my email address. I didn’t give these things to him, and he didn’t ask.
    So, when I checked my emails later on that day, just because that was what I did all day – checked emails, scouted message boards, and binge-watched series on Netflix – I was more than surprised to see that there was one from him.
    “CJ,” the email read. “I hope that Dr. Valence was able to help you.”
    I was startled, but I immediately answered back. “She did. Thank you very much for sending her to me. I don’t know how I can repay you. PS – how did you get my email address?”
    He emailed me back not a minute later. “I have my ways, CJ. I’ll see you soon. I’ll buzz you when I get to your place.”
    My heart started racing with excitement. And terror. True, Dr. Valence did help me feel more confident that I could leave my apartment without totally freaking out, but I wasn’t sure.
    But that sense of terror was overrode by the sense of excitement I felt in seeing him again. I assumed that I wouldn’t ever see him again. After all, he didn’t ask for my phone number or anything else when he dropped me off at my apartment. Yet, here he was, messaging me, and apparently wanting to come over.
    I wrote back. “You’re coming over?”
    “I am. See you in about five minutes.”
    Five minutes? He obviously was messaging me from his limo. “Okay. I hope that I can come out to meet you.”
    “You will. I’ll be expecting you.”
    And, five minutes later, I heard a buzzing. I answered the intercom tentatively. “Hello?”
    “CJ, it’s Asher. I’m down in the lobby. Come down to my limo, which is parked out on the street. I’d like for you to come down and meet me in my limo by yourself, but if you need an escort, I’ll be happy to come up and walk you down.”
    “No, no, I’ll be okay,” I said. “I’ll be right down.”
    As I rode my elevator down to my lobby, and then walked tentatively out into the street, I tried to use the strategies that Dr. Valence had taught me about feeling in control. There were