The End of the Blue Room

Sometimes childhood is chasing rainbows across the park.

Sometimes it isn’t.

Many of us carry childhood hurts cloaked in threats, silenced yet brooding.

This is part of my story, a recent adventure when I made peace with my past.

blue roomMoving forward, moving back, vacillating like the chrome balls on one of those perpetual motion gadgets, I’m heading South-side.

I’m looking for the blue room.

It’s been a while. 20, 30, 40 years, more … People have died, some I’ve loved and some I’ve loathed. The blue room lives on inside me, hidden in a dark corner in my heart. Dust obscures the memory leaving a vague feeling. Have I done something wrong?

I’m looking for the blue room.

Rollicking, muffled squeals of metal wheels on dusty tracks, I sink into nostalgia. I’m a kid again looking out the window, listening to my father read out the station names. I knew them once, now they stir within. Little me in her pink dress is enjoying the ride. The next station is OXLEY. My ticket reads OXLEY.

So close now, to the blue room.

Stomach uneasy, right hand disabled toilet, zebra crossing, shopping centre, cold pressed coffee, watermelon slice seat cushion, house number 61, children’s voices, local playground. Little me in a pink dress on the swing higher and higher, swinging back and forth for hours.My adult stride tempers into my child’s footsteps, as I walk down the left hand side of the street. House numbers are fading and falling off the fences, 67, 65, 63, 61.

I’m outside the blue room.

Outside and inside, black and white weatherboard, home of the blue room,  #metoo, coffee, walnut torte, frankincense, adult conversation, regular weekend train trips … I’m back there,In the unwrapped memory, swallowing air instead of saliva.

I’m inside the blue room.

It’s not consentual. It’s not sex. It’s a violation just the same. It’s a strangulation of the voice. It’s guilt. it’s shame. It’s a child not knowing she should save herself. It’s the birth of the rock that lives in my heart space. Silence ≠ Yes. Cerise and gold Frangipanis, small house, small garden, small rooms, small, so small … I pick up two flowers and offer them to the past but they fall at my feet and the rock does too.

Finally, the end of the blue room.

It’s hard enough to find peace of mind. I’m writing to make my peace with myself. I’m sharing hoping my experiences may be helpful.


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