I slept on the couch every other week. My sister and I traded off so one could always have our bedroom. I liked sleeping on the couch. I still do. Having 90 degree softness feels like a hug.
There was commotion when my step dad got up at 5:30 for work, but I didn’t mind it.
With my back turned and my eyes shut in partial sleep, I never knew exactly what his routine was. I heard the opening and closing of the fridge. I heard him walking back and forth between the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. I don’t remember if he ate breakfast but I loved the smell of coffee.
He played his music, which I also liked. I have a thimble size trophy case of nice memories of him. One is from one of those mornings. He was sitting in the chair next to the couch. Elton John’s Rocket Man was playing. He talked about the song and why he liked it.
I liked it when he liked things. And I liked the things he liked. They made him happy and kept his attention away from me.
In this song he liked science fiction imagery and the veiled reference to pot.
Listen to this part:
And I’m gonna get high as a kite by then.
He likes to get high, like I like to get high.
He rarely talked conversationally with me. Not like he did with his friends. Or even with the friend of mine he had things in common with. They’d stand around talking about cars—their engine sizes and model years. I always wondered how my friend even knew about these things. My step dad’s interactions with me normally fell somewhere between: transactional, lecture, interrogation, or rage.
I knew pot was illegal. And though he had always done drugs openly in front of me, him talking to me directly about it felt like intimacy.
Some mornings were not nice, however. He would wake me up to lecture me. Or he’d stomped around the house accusing my mom of hiding his keys. Or complain that he didn’t like the lunch she packed him. But still, I liked the couch.
Then, the summer I was 13, my grandpa set up his spare truck-bed camper in our yard so I could have my own bedroom. From my grandparents this kind of generosity and care about my happiness was normal. I don’t know where I’d be without them.
I was elated with the autonomy and distance from him that this gave me.
It was like having my own house. I set up my stereo and rotated through the four tapes I owned and radio stations that reached me. I let it play all night while I slept—also comforting. I snuck in snacks that I ate whenever I wanted. I went to sleep when I wanted. I heard cicadas and saw fireflies out the window, with friendly summer breezes coming through the screen. And he never came out there.
But like always, I had to pay a price for something good.
When, in early October, it got cold at night, I brought my pillow and blanket back inside to resume my couch rotation.
What are you doing, boy?
I’m sleeping on the couch.
You have a bedroom. That camper.
But it’s cold.
You have a sleeping bag.
Fuck. Why did everything have to be such an ordeal? What didn’t he like about me coming in back in? As always, this his method of expressing himself. To make nasty, stressful, angry mess of it and rub my nose in it, just like when our cats peed in the house.
But it’s really cold!
Boy, this ain’t cold. When I go hunting up north, I sleep in a sleeping bag and it’s a hell of a lot colder than this.
He was getting angry. It was a losing battle so I swallowed my pride, tears, and the shaky feeling that I had a right to seep in my own house. I grabbed my sleeping bag and went back out to the camper.
When it was warm, the wood paneling was a comfort, reminding of summer camping with my grandparents. But now its uninviting cold metal was what I noticed.
I slid into my sleeping bag and made the best of it.
How long is he going to make me sleep out here? All winter?
For the next couple of weeks it was okay. The sleeping bag was warm enough.
But each October night got colder. I’d zip it up all the way, leaving just my eyes, nose, and mouth exposed. I watched my breath, lit up by the yard light coming through the window.
My face would get so cold I had to submerge into the sleeping bag, but eventually I had to come up for air.
In the morning, the chill would be deep in my bones. Luckily he was gone to work by then. I could take a long shower to warm up and not worry about him accusing me of wasting his hot water and money.
As arbitrary as his rules were set, he would unset them. At some point he let me back in.
I don’t know what triggered him when I asked to come back inside. Did he like it when I was gone? My therapist once asked me if I thought he liked me. I had to really think about it. Despite those thimble-trophy of nice moments, I honestly don’t think he did. He didn’t understand me. I liked drawing and making things. I was soft spoken and gentle. When we went fishing, I felt guilty watching the worms squirm for their lives when I put the hooks through them. And I had no idea about engine sizes and model years.
Maybe he resented the kindness and privilege my grandpa showed me. Or maybe he thought I was being soft and spoiled, worried I wouldn’t be able handle difficulties as an adult if I couldn’t handle this trivial discomfort.
What it taught me was to have a high tolerance for self deprivation.
Which is helpful when I can’t have things I don’t need but want.
But not helpful when there are things I need but don’t know how to get.
Things for my health and happiness. Like when I was constantly broke because I didn’t know how to ask to be paid what I was worth—resulting in me not seeing a doctor for 20 years. Or losing a tooth from not seeing a dentist for 10 years. Or not getting into therapy for all of this until I was 36.
After I came back inside, the angry party of me wanted to speak up. But in order to survive my life, I swallowed it. I went back to the couch and pretending to be asleep when he was around. And it was still comforting. Because this was the closest I could be to my step dad and feel safe.