**WARNING: this post is incredibly self-absorbed, petty, materialistic and generally terrible. But I’d also like to think that it’s strangely relatable. If not, I guess that just makes it even worse. You have been warned. **
I’m moving house in a couple of days and that, in itself, is terrifying. I’m about to embark on this huge adventure and start a big scary adult job and it’s all horribly grown up. Because the school I’ll be working at is a little way away from my home (and I don’t drive – lame, I’m aware), I’m having to move into rented accommodation with two lovely people I will be working with. And because the place in unfurnished, I’m having to scrape and rummage to find furniture for the place. Luckily (and very generously), my parents have told me that I can use the furniture from my room to help me out, as well as finding other odd bits of furniture from relatives and friends that I can use. Don’t get me wrong – this is all very kind and I am very grateful for it.
However, in this list of furniture that my parents are very kindly letting me borrow is the bed I’ve had since I was four. It’s a nice bed made of lovely wood – a single bed, but then what four-year old needs a four-poster superking sized mattress! I’ve had many a nice night’s sleep on it, read to my heart’s delight while wrapped in blankets and cushioned on the lovely memory foam mattress. It’s been my safe haven (or at least part of it) for the majority of my childhood.
But every time I think of my lovely bed in my new room, I feel a wave of panic and dread wash over me.
The bed has come to represent something for me, and it probably shouldn’t. It’s probably me blowing this completely out of proportion, my tendency to over think every little thing at it again. That bed, for me, has come to represent a reminder that I don’t know what I’m doing, that I might fail. For me, it’s a reminder that, in someway, I’m still a helpless child.
It’s silly, I know, but I can’t seem to see it in any other way. My mum keeps telling me I should put off buying a bed for the new place and, in many ways, it makes sense. Beds and mattresses are expensive. I probably can’t afford a really nice mattress and a cheap mattress may be a false economy. It’s a perfectly good bed… All of these are really great reasons, but they aren’t the ones that get replayed in my mind every time I think about that new room with my childhood bed in it.
There’s no point buying too much furniture. Use what you’ve got. What happens if things don’t work out, for what ever reason? What if you end up having to move back home? You don’t want loads of furniture then.
That’s what is killing me. Keep the childhood bed, then you can fail. And, no, I don’t think my mum truly thinks I’m going to fail. She would never say something like that. She means what if I decide I’d sooner stay at home, if I learn to drive and can commute, if I want to save for a deposit for a house. But, there’s still that other reason I might move home: what if I fail? What if I’m not cut out for this? What if I’m destined to fail?
That lovely bed with a lovely mattress that I’ve read countless books on has been contaminated. It has my every doubt, my every fear, my every insecurity about what I’m going to do stitched into the lining, screwed into the wood, and slapped on the headboard. Every time I see it and think about it in that new room, I see a reminder that I might not be able to do this. Maybe I am still a hopeless child when it comes down to it. Maybe I will have to run home and hide under the covers because I’m not ready to be an adult yet.
But, the truth is, I’m also trapped with that childhood bed. How can I tell my lovely parents, who have so generously offered me furniture which would cripple me if I had had to buy them new, that I don’t want my bed. What’s wrong with it? It scares me. It makes my doubt myself. I’ve cried over that bed. Well, don’t be silly. That’s just you thinking about it too much. It doesn’t mean that at all. But it does now.
It doesn’t make sense. It isn’t rational. It’s me being silly, being childish. And how do you sensibly bring that up in conversation. You can’t. So, I’m stuck with the childhood bed and everything it’s come to mean. And I should be thankful, grateful, pleased. I am, I want to be. I want to ignore all the dark things that come to mind when I look at that bed, but I don’t know how. I just have to ignore it but it’s hard.
I know this doesn’t make sense, but I had the overwhelming urge to write everything down. I can’t say it because it sounds silly, petty, childish. It’s selfish. If I tell my parents, they’ll feel bad. It makes me sound ungrateful, like I expect something from them. And I don’t, and I don’t want them to think that. So I tell strangers on the internet, and hope that at least one person understands what I mean.