There are two places in my childhood that I desperately wanted to be.
One was my mother’s bed, warm and wanted, TV emitting a soft blue glow, and the warmth incandescent bulb of her massively carved headboard, filled with books and drawers and s mirror. I always slept better in that queen sized bed, even on the rare nights when I was a teen and went back in my moments of greatest duress. When things were good, we’d talk for hours there, laugh at the silliest things. It was safe. It was home- for many years until she died.
The other place was a similar bed, but I don’t know the details well enough to describe it. It was my father and stepmother’s bed- in the master suite of their master house. I can count on one hand the times my memory reaches back far enough to remember being allowed in their room.
When I was a little girl, visiting there for my court-mandated six weeks, night would come and I’d feel indescribably lonely. Maybe it was the crime shows and movies that scared me and made me think too much- way too mature for my age. Or maybe it was the fact that when bedtime came, the three of them- Dad, Her, and my younger brother would hold up in the master suite and shut the door. Kent would get his bath in their giant jacuzzi tub. I would have to run my own.
I was five, six, seven. I was terrified of scalding myself, so I often took cold baths. I could often hear them laughing and see the glow of the light flickering under their door as I waited outside on the couch, cold and wet in my pajamas, waiting for dad to kiss me goodnight and send me off to a room that wasn’t mine with a fan that felt too cold.
It was no wonder I desperately needed my fucking teddy bear, which She often fucking hid. Monster.
I wanted to be in that room. I wanted to feel safe. Wanted. Content.
Thank good I didn’t spend most of my life growing up there.
Now I have my own huge bed, with shelves and soft glowing lights. A TV that hums and flashes with whatever I want to watch. Two massive dogs, soft and sleepy, curled at my feet, and a fan that keeps me comfortable. A husband pressed against my back, only an arms reach away when I need connect because sometimes, that loneliness still seeps into my stomach.
And I am safe. I am so wanted. I am content.
and I only wish I could wrap my arms around that little girl in a bed that wasn’t hers, in a room that was too dark and quiet, and tell her that one day she’d be so very safe and happy.
