Sterile. Cold. Demanding. A box like existence with nothing out of place. No emotions. No warmth. All so perfect on the surface. Uninviting. Restrictive. Suffocating. Anaesthetising. I have no memories in my house before I was twelve or thirteen, frozen out for some reason.
Dark green carpet showing all the fluff and dirt marks. My mother couldn’t handle how the carpet always ‘beat’ her, how no matter what happened, it never remained pure and spotless. Perhaps that’s what she did to me, hoovering me daily, sucking me of everything that wasn’t perfect in her eyes. I could at least be that pristine, hoovered carpet with no blemishes and as such she could maintain her image in the world. Maybe this is the reason I still hate dark green? I have vivid memories of the upstairs where the little box room provided scant protection from her octopus tentacles when I was a teenager. Even in the toilet there was no privacy or seclusion. She had total control, could open the door knowing I would never question the invasion of my space because it was the norm. Memories of my bedroom where I studied my ‘O’ levels every night from four to eight o’clock in order that I was given permission to go out with my boyfriend from eight to nine fifteen. Such a rigid, controlled existence, just an hour or so of freedom before I had to return to my box, like Cinderella who would turn into rags if she was late. I remember the top of the green stairs where if I was late by five minutes, both parents would appear like demon gods admonishing my wicked and evil behaviour. Both of them were so terrifying in these moments, I didn’t know it was because my mother was scared out of her wits for my safety and sexual innocence. A year later, I remember the green carpet offering me no protection when my mother found one of my contraceptive pills. I was seventeen, doing my A-levels and had been with my boyfriend since I was fifteen – we were like Darby and Joan. But my mother held the pill in her hand, looked at me with horror and branded me a slut by that look. She cried all night and the next day nothing was said, no emotion expressed from either of them. Just the usual, torturous witholding, to let me know this time I had been particularly evil and bad. I recall how my mother would lock my father in the garden because she was riddled with anxiety about burglars and strange men. Sunday mornings where my father would sulk, labelling me as lazy and shutting me out if I ever slept in past nine o’clock just because he couldn’t sleep beyond 6 am. Memories of bland meals which were rushed through in a few minutes as my parents literally gulped each mouthful at breakneck speeds and my brother and I followed suit barely noticing the food. I remember the day I returned from school to a devastating silence as I learnt my mum had put my beautiful puppy down. The emptiness, the loss but still no emotion expressed. Dear Dusty, I missed you so much. I recall the guilt I felt for feeling no emotion when my dad was in pain with kidney stones and how angry and cold he was I didn’t seem to care. I remember how he shut me out with silence, sulking for two weeks because he felt so hurt. I guess I had also numbed out by then. Christmas was so cold and sterile. Standard stockings with practical, useful presents picked up at second hand shops or for a pound in a sale wrapped up in re-used paper, together with boring, tedious satsumas to help fill the space. No possibility of indulgence or being pampered. Where was the fun, the laughter, the play and the magic? And museum trips where my lunch box seemed to be the only one without any special delights, no secret chocolate bar or sumptuous goody. Nothing nourishing. Nothing to get excited about. Well, Mrs Bouquet, you can keep your house. It has no thrills or happy memories for me I’m afraid.
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