I was woken by a thunderstorm. A loud clap outside my bedroom window scared me awake and I gazed about in a daze, unsure of where—or who—I was. It took me a few long moments to remember: I was sleeping on an air mattress in Greenville, South Carolina. My room was dark, lit only by frequent bolts of lightning. There was no furniture and I felt low to the ground—because I was, as air mattresses are by definition not tall objects. It was a vulnerable position, right next to a large window. I could see the shapes of the bushes, shrubs, and trees outlined outside. I felt scared.

I remembered my roommate, Rob, supposedly sound asleep in the next room. His presence was comforting—it reminded me that I’m not alone in this. My fate was also his—if someone smashed in my window, the large square above my head, he would be a victim as well. Surely they wouldn’t kill me and leave him sleeping soundly only a few feet away?

And yes—the grotesque nature of that thought was not lost on me.

Drawing my blankets over my head, shielding myself from the storm, I thought back to all the beds I’ve inhabited recently. There are more than I care to remember, and while most were comfortable, warm, and cozy, a select few were the breeding grounds of distress, anxiety, and unhappiness. So many beds… and now, here I am, essentially sleeping on the ground in an empty apartment in South Carolina. How did I get here?

I moved a fair amount from 2006 – 2011. It began with my twin bed at home in Chantilly—the bed I’d slept in since childhood in Austin. It had four wooden posters; one was crooked as the result of Andrew and I jumping on the mattress and damaging it as children. It was often covered in stuffed animals and floral sheets and I slept curled up against the wall. In college, I moved from a dorm bed to my house on Shamrock Road (another twin bed from my parents’ trove of bed frames and mattresses) to an apartment on University Circle to my one-bedroom off 14th Street, then finally a duplex in the Lewis Mountain neighborhood. This is where the story truly begins.

The Lewis Mountain bed was from my parents—their discarded queen master bed, with a black steel frame that was broken on the bottom. Somehow we fixed it up so it didn’t dip in the middle. John shared that bed with me when he lived in Charlottesville during the fall of 2011. I put black sheets on it, to give the small room some chicness, and we made love often during our first few weeks together. Then I got sick and the love-making slowed down; instead, John would watch movies in my bed while I worked or was at the library and sometimes I’d watch with him, until I’d get so tired I’d fall asleep before the film was over.

In January, I moved from my sweet little Charlottesville apartment to Knoxville, Tennessee. All I could bring with me had to fit in my little red car, so the steel-framed bed remained in Virginia. The room MJ reserved for me had a bed—well, a mattress and box frame on the floor. She promised to fix up the bed frame for me, but never would. It was a full bed, with white sheets and comforter. It was the only seating area I had, save one fold out chair by the round table in my mini-kitchen. I did most things on that bed—eat, watch DVDs on my laptop, cut out triangles for the bunting we would screenprint our invitations on. I’d cry. I’d sleep, long hours, more hours than I’d ever sleep in my life. It wasn’t a bed I was fond of.

From there, several weeks bouncing around Virginia until Indiana. Finally. Our marriage bed was a king, how commanding! A king mattress… on a box spring… on the floor of a dorm room apartment in Bloomington, Indiana. The sheets were gray and towards the end of our year in that cold, drab apartment, cockroaches would join us under them.

There was a month in Europe, in a full bed with white blankets. All I remember of that time was the insufferable heat. Some nights, I swore I was trapped in hell, suffocating, never to feel a breeze again. Then we finally got a small fan, propped it next to the bed, and slept (nearly) sweat-free.

After we left that mattress in Indiana, I returned to Charlottesville. A week with Amy and the girls—every time I visit, they pull out a futon bed for me and despite the dip in the middle, it was always cozy and comfortable. I slept hard in that bed, often from utter emotional exhaustion; there I was finally able to sleep peacefully. Then to a few glorious weeks with Lisa; she re-painted her son’s old bedroom for me and covered the full bed with new sheets and blankets. The blankets were a little starchy and stiff, but the sheets were soft and soothing. The sunrise always hit the room’s windows just right and I’d wake with renewed energy and motivation. It was a home full of love and it became my little haven of happiness.

I drove down to South Carolina not long after that and stayed in a guest room in a single family home 10 miles away from the apartments I would soon come to inhabit. It was another low-lying full bed, with white sheets and blankets. I vowed to never sleep in white sheets again. The bed did the trick, although I always felt like a guest and not a resident. It wasn’t destined to be my home.

A month in Arizona, where I slept on the bottom mattress of a bunk bed—stiff, with sheets that covered you and didn’t offer you any warmth. A few roommates came and went during that month and I spent some nights sleeping peacefully and others tossing and turning.

Finally, time has caught up with itself. Sure, there were a few trips here and there—hotel beds, sleeping in Jen’s guest room, sharing a bed with the cats of a couple I train with in South Carolina. Those nights only served to confuse me when I woke during that thunderstorm—where was I? What part of the world was I waking up to? When I opened my eyes… who would be there to greet me?