Refuge of Brass

Growing up, I slept on a beautiful antique brass bed. It had been my great grandmother's bed and was handed down to me because I was her namesake, Sarah Ann. I loved it because it felt like a princess bed- tall off the floor and so stately and shiny. There were so many things I loved about that bed. Of course, because it had been my grandmother's, I loved that it helped me feel connected to my family. All of our antiques were special to me, but the bed in particular.  I also hated having hot hands and feet when I slept and loved being able to touch the cold brass and cool them off during the hot Las Vegas nights. My mom wasn't a fan of that habit because my hand and footprints would be all over the bars she had to painstakingly polish with Brasso (a chore that became mine as I got older). But my very favorite thing about the bed was having my own personal hideaway.

Because it was such a tall bed, it had a sizeable space underneath. From as far back as I can remember, I loved spending time under my bed. As a little girl, I'd hide there when I was sad, scared, or overwhelmed. I remember once my mom being in a panic after searching all over for me and finding me there- I had fallen asleep. I felt safe there. It was my refuge. As I got older, I'd go underneath with pens and pencils and draw pictures and write my thoughts on the boards of the box spring where the fabric had come loose. Eventually, I tore all of the fabric off just so I had more space to write. I sorted out a lot of heartbreak underneath that old bed. I matched my name with boys' names and then scribbled them out as that relationship, (or maybe just a crush) ended. I took my journal down there with a flashlight and wrote and wrote. I even remember taking my Walkman and headphones down there so I could listen to the Beach Boys (or some random mix tape a friend had made for me) for hours to calm myself when life seemed hard. I'd emerge with a tearstained face, but feeling so much better. I have so many memories under that beautiful bed. 

Right now that old bed is sitting in my garage, waiting for me to have the space to use it again. It's Abbie's bed now. The old box spring is gone and there is no evidence of my time spent under there. But I miss it. I find myself wishing I could go under there once again. What is it about hard times that make me want to hide? I lock myself in the bathroom now or will maybe sit in the car in the driveway and mull things over. I retreat into social media, hiding from my reality and scrolling numbingly through other people's lives and posts. I listen to podcasts and music to distract myself. I walk, I run, and even CLEAN to escape dealing with the things that weigh me down. Hiding is my specialty. Only now, I seem to be doing it to retreat from my thoughts instead of processing them. 

So maybe this blog post is to help me remember that bed and how it was a safe place for me to learn about myself. Is it possible that I've started thinking about it because it's finally time to begin processing the hurt and pain I've been dealing with for years? Maybe I need to find another place, out of harm's way, to work out the scary details of my life. It might not be that old bed, but I bet it will be well-protected, possibly somewhat dark, and likely includes a little more writing.