The question of my fears rests at the edge of my bed, embedded I assume, deeply in my subconscious. Since I purchased my current mattress, seven years ago, it has sat on directly on the floor, with no bed frame beneath – even through three moves. Before this one, I slept on the floor for a year. Before that on a foldout couch with a bar in the middle that slowly began to cut into my ribcage. And before that I slept on a waterbed that took up half of my living space. My recollections of prior choice and sometimes my only options for a place to sleep are sketchy. Few of them are memorable, but one stands out.
My first theory centers around a three-story bunk bed. I was seven.
The middle bunk was mine and I was firmly convinced that if my feet hung off of the bed, Sharks would bite off my toes.