My teenage bed
Feeling nostalgic for an old-self
I’m in the midst of clearing out old junk before a cross-country move. My partner and I are opposites about objects — he’s sentimental and nostalgic, I’m practical and uncluttered. He sees the future potential of an object, where I see past patterns of use. So, I don’t have much that has lasted through the decades — most of it could fit in one box.
But there is one thing I’ve kept: A bed.
Beds are kind of a big deal when you think about it. They’re the place you can curl up in the foetal position and cocoon yourself from the world. A place of rest and comfort and warmth. Where you don’t have to be anyone or do anything.
This bed is a double I bought when I was 18. As the youngest of four kids, I’d had hand-me-downs my whole life. At this point I was sleeping on a scuffed, black painted, wooden frame. It had been discarded by a sibling’s friend who had questionable hygiene habits. My mum must have taken pity on me and suggested actually buying a bed — what a treat!
Neither of us particularly liked shopping. I know some mothers and daughters bond over buying things — that was not us. We got in the car and headed to the industrial part of town. I wandered around the giant store filled with row after row of perfectly made beds with matching cushions and lamps. The sprawling blend of (implied) private spaces made me think of a middle-class refugee camp.
And then I found the bed. A simple, vintage-style, metal frame, powder-coated in pale cream. I could see myself sleeping in that bed.
I decided on the double, and it was loaded into the car. On the drive home I considered the need for proper linen. Something vintage-inspired, but not lacy. Pale pistachio green sheets? Yes. And perhaps a doona cover in deep burgundy. I’ll know the right one when I see it.
It took me a little while to find the exact colours I was looking for, but once the bed was set up, and with the new sheets — it made a satisfying impression. I knew this bed was a keeper.
Sometime later I moved in with a boyfriend, and the bed made the trip into his spare room. I naively thought I’d still get to sleep in it sometimes — but it turns out boyfriends don’t see a vintage metal bedframe as a legitimate reason for sleeping in another room.
I didn’t know it at the time, but my boyfriend had bipolar disorder and was slowly descending into a manic state. He became very jealous and possessive and forbade me from seeing my family. At some point I knew I needed out — and when he went out for a packet of smokes, I called up my sister and she took me to her place a few streets over.
He wasn’t happy about coming home to an empty house and sent some angry text messages. Then he said he was throwing all my stuff on the lawn. Hmmm… that’s not good. Again, super-sister came to the rescue with her van. We drove back and started efficiently loading up everything that was on the lawn. I almost left behind the bed slats for lack of space, but in the end we managed to fit everything in. (Well, everything that we could see. I ended up losing my book collection that day, but let’s not talk about that — I’ve never fully recovered.)
I guess I was more careful with my bed after that. Over the years, I slept in other people’s beds, but few ever slept in mine. It maintained a feeling of sanctuary I could retreat to whenever I needed.
It was nice to have a space separate from my partner’s. A place of comfort in solitude. A bed where you can lie sideways. Where you can toss and turn freely — twisting the sheets into a tight ball if you feel like it. Somewhere you can read a book at 3am.
I understood it was something I’d have to shed to embrace the so-called ‘marital’ bed. A shared life means leaving part of your individuality behind. That’s just part of the deal. Having separate beds is breaking the Laws of Relationships, right?
The next time I moved in with a boyfriend (my now-partner), the vintage bed moved into the spare room. We advertised the room as semi-furnished and found a housemate. It was her bed for a while, then another housemate’s. It later became a bed for the occasional Airbnb guest, for my mum and dad, for a Norwegian friend and his daughter.
Years later, when we left that house, it was to start a family in the suburbs. The bed moved into the ‘guest’ room again. After our twins were born, it became the feeding room. It was the best place to do night feeds without disturbing my partner or the other baby. The bed was the foundation of many blurry nights as I sat there, babe in arm, trying not to drift off.
The babies grew and didn’t need breastfeeds anymore. It became the guest bed again for a while. And then Covid happened.
The spare room became my home-office. I’d be spending 8 hours a day in there — my only space away from the never-ending responsibilities of parenthood. To step outside its door meant facing the ‘mummy, mummy, mummy’ paparazzi.
I kept my lunch-breaks as the last precious trickle of alone time. Bringing my bowl of noodles or poor-man’s paella, I’d sit cross-legged on the bed in the pool of sunshine from the window. I could lean back on the pillows and watch the neighbour’s cat, or the clouds drifting past. A chance to ponder. My bed has been through a lot — half a dozen house moves, including an interstate budget courier — but still looks more or less the same as when I bought it. I couple of scratches perhaps, but we all have those.
As months passed and the pressure built from being stuck in the house together (all. day. every. day.) my partner and I had some big arguments. Stuff we couldn’t resolve and that left us both feeling like shit. It didn’t feel right to share a bed anymore. One night I stumbled red-eyed into the spare room, tipped all the accumulated bed-junk onto the floor and crawled under the covers. It didn’t feel good. The pillow was too soft, the mattress too hard. The air felt different in this room — the pitch darkness behind my eyelids had a different hue.
It’d been a long time since I’d slept in this bed.
I’m sorry, bed. Are you rejecting me because I left you behind? I know the hand-sewn doona cover has been in the cupboard for too long — you’re too good for this Ikea thing. But you were bought to suit a teenager’s idea of life. You’re not the bed for a woman in her thirties with two kids and a partner. Is it too late to go back to the simple, naive life that you were meant for?
We got counselling and I returned to the master bedroom. It was easier to sleep, but I knew there was a little piece of me still sitting on the other side of the wall.
Maybe this is why my partner doesn’t like getting rid of stuff? Perhaps it’s not so much about the future potential of something, but the way it connects you with a past self. The old-you who first owned it. Is the memory of a breakup stronger if you can hold the CD that helped you through it — even if you no longer have a way to play it? Can the texture of a dress still make you feel like the centre of the world — even if it doesn’t fit anymore?
I think I’ll stick to my one-box-of-memorabilia policy. Paying to ship memories across the country seems silly when the memories ultimately live in your head. Nostalgia can be nice sometimes, but it’s not a time machine — there’s no going back. Whatever the past, we still have to live the lives we have now. And I like empty cupboards. They have space to be filled by new life experiences.
But I’m keeping the bed.
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