The Fragrance of Life
Navigating change as a trauma survivor
I’ve been waking up to the scent of coffee over the last year even though I rarely drink it. As I’ve settled into living alone, I’ve discovered I’m more of a “tea girl,” enjoying the crisp bite of herbs on my tongue over the jittery bitterness coffee brings. With the space to explore what Valerie likes, absent of any outside influences, I’ve come to prefer tea over coffee upon waking.
But sometimes the universe gets it right and puts two people together at the right time. For the last 14 months I’ve been waking up to the spill of long, black hair draped across my second-hand sofa, belonging to the best friend I’ve ever had… my blankies wadded up around his middle instead of neatly tucked under his beard, the remnants of our horror movie or Bob’s Burgers marathon night scattered on the floor… popcorn bits, empty wine glasses or whiskey bottles, plates of frozen pizza crusts. It’s horribly messy and perfectly comforting.
He fucks up his coffee every morning if I don’t head him off at the pass and fill the French press before he yawns, stretches, and finds his glasses (on the countertop behind my sofa if I tucked him in before retreating to my room, or on the floor where they could be stepped on if I didn’t.)
His morning mugs are filled with coffee grounds because he insists on pushing the plunger up and down, even though I tell him this is where his problem lies. Just push it DOWN! Once!
It drives me nuts.
I like to boil a big kettle of water before stepping outside for my morning smoke and squirrel feeding, enough for his pot of coffee and a cup or two of green tea for myself, so I don’t have the gagging sensation in my throat every time he takes a sip while we watch our favorite YouTube show, Good Mythical Morning.
This is what I prefer. Avoiding what the day demands as we critique Rhett & Link’s wardrobe, giggle over their shenanigans and pause to insert our critiques based on our life experiences.
I prefer his comforting presence, his stray strands of hair on every conceivable surface of my home, and his hilarious one-liners and rants about indigenous history over coming home to an empty apartment.
I love my privacy, but he doesn’t merely invade my space… he improves my sense of solitude. I can be my same self in his presence as I am when I am completely alone and if you’ve ever experienced this you will understand how very rare it is.
He is dark, gritty, messy and so very real. He canon-balled into my life just as I was entering what I didn’t realize was going to be the most challenging year of my adult life… my year of emotional healing.
Divorce was confusing, moving away from my children was difficult, and deconverting my religious beliefs was unsettling. But deciding to actively heal from complex/childhood trauma was the hardest task I’ve ever undertaken.
My whole life has shifted as I’ve ended romantic relationships, distanced myself from co-dependent sibling situations, and put all my focus on self-love and acceptance. In one single year, nearly everything in my life shifted beyond recognition.
But he was consistent.
Loving me, respecting my boundaries as I practiced them, challenging me to trust, and making me laugh until I peed my pants (literally, on occasion.) When I wake in the morning, not wanting to face the reality of the day ahead of me, he is there to pry my eyes open with humor, energy, and plenty of sarcasm.
But, the time has come for him to move on and my shitty sofa will have one less lump in the morning, my shower drain won’t clog as quickly and no one will be here to tell me I should be smoking weed instead of cigarettes. The scent of my tea won’t fill the whole apartment the way his chunky coffee does.
A year ago, I would’ve ignored this impending sense of sadness, pretended it wasn’t going to happen and when it finally did happen I would try to push it all away with alcohol and boyfriends and sex and work… anything to escape the feeling of loss and grief. But, after all the trauma healing I’ve done and all the skills I’ve learned, I don’t have that luxury anymore. I know I’m going to feel a great, enormous sadness and the only way to navigate that swamp is straight through it.
I am going to feel sad.
Maybe for quite a while as I adjust to a new routine without my witty companion by my side, without being able to pull him close at the end of a bad day like a blankie under my chin to catch my tears. The fragrance of my home is about to change and I wonder, “Will I learn to like it?”
I think that for trauma survivors in particular, change is an incredibly difficult tonic to swallow. It lodges in our throats and scratches down. It’s an awakening jolt to all our senses as our little wounded parts wake up in protest to bellow, “Hey! What’s happening NOW?!”
Life is happening. It just keeps happening no matter how many times I think the “hard part” is over. At this moment, I feel like I can’t handle one more season of grief and loss. I’m sick of this and it seems like I get a brief moment of relief before I have to start the grieving process all over again. It feels like I have been grieving my whole life.
I do not prefer this but, as a trauma student, I also know that change always sneaks a reward treat in its pocket for me. I have never experienced a big change without a massive breakthrough, so I will bring into my next year all he has taught me… that I am worthy of being loved for just being me (not what I offer someone sexually,) that it’s ok to talk about squirrels, the weird dream I had last night and the things that hurt my feelings or anger me, that someone can love me and not just tolerate my excessive chattiness but enjoy it.
That I am a unique and valuable person who deserves to be loved and appreciated for the way I am — not despite it.
The fragrance of my morning, and my daily life, is about to change and that’s bitter for a trauma survivor. The sweet part is that I have had something safe and wonderful and I know what to demand going onward. I know what kind of friendship I deserve and I won’t settle for anything less than respect, love, and humor.
And I can handle a little grit so long as the heart is aligned with my heart. This is what I prefer.
Hey, Boo Boo: I love you with every awkward part of me that makes me Valerie. Thank you for loving me and caring about me and letting me talk through movies and giving me space to fan-girl over Little House on the Prairie and always telling me my cooking is good except for that one Hello Fresh meal that wasn’t my fault and not making fun of me for throwing up in the Barr Trail parking lot.
You will always have a home wherever I am and you are always in my heart. You are family.
