I had a dentist appointment this morning. Routine, but overdue, I’d had to reschedule it several times over the last three months.

My hygienist was at the reception desk when I arrived, and cheerfully brought me back right away. I like my hygienist. She’s attentive and not pushy or annoying, and makes a point of explaining things to me before they happen. I know I mentioned to her once, early on in my time as a patient there, that this is very helpful to me when combatting PTSD symptoms during appointments, but I don’t know if she does it because she remembers that, or if that’s just her way. I don’t ask.

She told me I was due for some panoramic x-rays that they do every few years. Told me what to expect from the machine and assured it would be quick. She laid the heavy protective bib around my neck and shoulders, and asked if I was comfortable. I told her I was fine.

I didn’t tell her that having anything tight around my neck feels threatening.

Back in the exam room, she took more x-rays, the wing/bite style kind. One time, it pushed too far back and I gagged, tears springing to my eyes. She apologized and assured it would be done quickly. I told her I was fine.

I didn’t tell her that my tears weren’t from physical discomfort, that gagging from having an object forced to the back of my throat is not a good sensation for me because it brings up memories I try to crush into a fine powder.

We proceeded with cleaning my teeth, which she warned will be a little more time and work than usual since I’m overdue. I assured her I understood. In between the scraping and spitting, we talked about how the summer is going, what my upcoming school year will look like. At one point, I asked to sit up for a minute (it often takes awhile for me to remember I can do that, that I can ask for breaks, but when I remember and ask, it does help). I told her it was acid reflux, which was only half a lie.

I didn’t tell her how stiff I was getting from clenching all of my muscles tightly, in order to hide the fact that my body just wanted to shake like a leaf. I didn’t tell her about the painful memories swirling inside my head while laying there so far backward I almost felt upside down. I didn’t tell her that in trying to push away memories of my ex holding me down in this position and raping me day and night for months straight, I was instead assaulted by memories of a harrowed night in the hospital enduring a rape kit procedure. Of my friend telling me he could hear my screams from the hallway and wishing he could barge in to help somehow. Of how similarly the dentist’s chair felt to that hospital bed just at this moment. Of how my mind was devolving into a cyclone of pain I couldn’t find shelter from.

Instead I told her about how my reflux has improved a lot since getting one of those adjustable beds where I can sleep in a more elevated position. Instead we made small talk about how my elderly dog is having a real hard time jumping onto the bed anymore, and how before her dog died, she’d brought an old mattress into her living room for them to snuggle on since the dog couldn’t get on the couches anymore. Depressing though these topics were, they were a preferable distraction compared to the alternatives my mind kept trying to present.

Another great thing about my hygienist, she’s efficient. She’s friendly and receptive, but there’s also some unspoken understanding that the best thing for me is to get through these appointments as quickly as we can wrangle it. The sooner we get finished with it all, the less time there is for these fuzzy memories to sharpen and overtake me.

The dentist came in to check the x-ray images, complimented me on my enamel, and asked if I had any questions or concerns. I didn’t. He commented that he’s glad I already had my wisdom teeth removed, because my mouth is apparently very small, and wisdom teeth would never have found room to live in peace in there. He’s said similar things before. A good bill of health and some well wishes, and I thanked him for his time.

I didn’t tell him I was gripping the edge of the reclined exam chair as if it would literally help me keep my grip on present time and space. I didn’t tell him I had to consciously remind myself to keep breathing while the hygienist finished her work.

However many intentional, deliberate breaths and minutes of irrelevant conversation later, I was all set, scheduled for my next appointment in six months and reminded to finagle with the insurance payment when it came in. I was just thankful there had been no cavities or other issues discovered, which would have meant more agonizing minutes in that chair just like the ones I spent today.

It’s been 14 years. Trauma doesn’t go away, you just learn to live with it, or barring that, you learn to function.

But ya know. No cavities, so, yay.