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Rated: 18+ · Book · LGBTQ+ · #2354557

Humorous, honest writing about shame, identity, and the search for belonging.

Floorbound is a raw, darkly funny memoir about shame, identity, and the strange ways we learn to belong. It follows a narrator who grows up feeling out of place in his own skin and in the world around him, carrying secrets he doesn’t yet have language for. Through humor, reflection, and a willingness to sit in uncomfortable truths, the story traces how he unravels old patterns, confronts the weight of silence, and slowly builds a life that feels like his own. It’s a book about survival, self‑discovery, and the quiet courage of finally telling the truth.
March 16, 2026 at 4:47pm
March 16, 2026 at 4:47pm
#1110811
I had one of those unexpected conversations with my dad recently — the kind that starts casually and then quietly rearranges something inside you. I mentioned I’d written a book and that it includes a few stories about me liking his socks and begging him to stand on me. The whole exchange still feels surreal. There’s something unnerving about a parent walking through the rooms you built out of old memories, especially the silly, strange ones about his weird kid.

He told me I was always under his feet when I was little. Literally. On the floor, his feet resting on me, while he read or watched TV or did whatever dads in the late 70s did to avoid thinking too hard. Then he sent a photo I’d never seen: three‑year‑old me standing next to the laundry hamper, holding one of his socks up to my face like it was a sacred object. It’s funny and strangely tender at the same time — exactly the kind of image that explains everything and nothing. We laughed at the photo. Dad asked if I ever outgrew that. I told him not really.

And then he said the line that stuck with me:
“I never understood why you were the way you were.”

Not in a harsh way. More like a man looking back at a puzzle he lived with but never solved. I told him I didn’t understand it either. Honestly, I still don’t. I’m sure it was confusing for any dad to understand why his son liked sniffing his socks — especially in the 1970s.

I asked if he remembered me begging him to stand on me. He said one day he finally decided to do it — not because he understood it, but because I was annoying him. He added that he figured I’d stop asking if he added more weight each time. A kind of early parenting FAFO moment. Much to his dismay, the opposite happened. I just kept coming back like a tiny floor‑dwelling creature who needed pressure to make sense of a world where I felt different.

What surprised me was how genuine the whole exchange felt. No defensiveness. No awkwardness. Just an adult son talking to his father about weird shared memories that had never been spoken aloud before.

It reminded me that so much of childhood only becomes legible in hindsight — if it ever becomes legible at all. Sometimes the best we can do is talk about the strangeness, the emotion, the honesty inside it, and let the story breathe.

Maybe that’s why Floorbound exists. Not to solve anything, but to finally look at the odd memories, the unanswered questions, the photos of a kid sniffing his dad’s sock, and say: Yes. That happened. And it mattered. And it was weird in exactly the way I was weird.

A small thank‑you to my dad for being weird with me.

Floorbound is available for Pre-Order here https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GRZ95W6M
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