Secrets for the Mad
Page 7
At an event in the US, a smiley person gifted me with a little watercolour drawing, boarded with yellow card. They had dotted tiny splotches of pink along my cheeks, to match the actual acne scarring I carry with me in real life, and I was honestly the most flattered by that drawing of me that I’d ever been.
My skin problems started as soon as I hit puberty. I was so used to never having to think about my skin at all to dealing with giant lumps on my nose and forehead. I had always picked my newly healed scabs on my knees after falling over in the playground, and now that my entire face was covered in unfamiliar imperfections, I sat in front of my bedroom mirror, squeezing, dabbing with wet loo roll, and then plastering my skin in random products from the bathroom like toothpaste and Savlon in a desperate attempt to heal my broken skin. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Adults would just bat my hands away from creeping up to my face, hissing ‘don’t pick!’ as if the compulsion was optional. All I wanted was for my face to feel clean and smooth, so I bought medicinal-looking exfoliators and pretty much scrubbed my skin red raw with hot water until it squeaked. I’d rub myself dry and enjoy a face that felt matt and clean, like it used to. Moisturiser sounded like a dumb idea. Why would I grease my face up again if I’d just cleaned it? So I’d take around a compact powder in my bag, and as my face got slimier in the day I’d drag a powdered-up cotton pad over my damaged skin.
So, yes, now I am covered in scars. At twenty-two years old, I look after my skin as best I can. Well, you’d think I’d have learned my lesson about picking, but that seems to be something engrained into me that I really battle against. I still squeeze spots before I go to bed and make my face bleed in public when I scratch at my imperfections absentmindedly on the train, when I’m lost in thought. But now after I’ve cleansed my cheeks and T-zone softly, I rub a little Vitamin E oil into my hands and smooth it over skin that is absolutely covered in little red marks.
It’s alright; I’m okay with it now. A little bit later in my teens, when I was having sleepovers with my gal pals, we’d all change into our PJs after gossiping until the evening and get ready for bed. My friends would natter away while casually dissolving away their foundation with a face wipe, laughing carelessly and walking around barefaced, revealing fresh, clear skin. I would wait until the last possible moment in the night, and then slip away to the bathroom alone to wash my face and squeeze my spots as usual. Once I’d finished with my (terrible) skin-care routine, I’d dig out the secret foundation that I’d stashed in my wash bag and slather a thin layer onto my just cleansed skin. I’d go back into the room, pretending I too was fresh-faced like all of my clear-skinned friends, but still not able to look any of them in the eye.
I think, looking back, everyone knew, but we all pretended for my sake that they didn’t. Of course, sleeping with my face coated in paint didn’t exactly help with my acne, but it felt worth it at the time. I couldn’t bear walking around without anything covering up what felt like angry mountains on my forehead.
But even with a thick layer of make-up on, around friends or strangers I was convinced that everyone was staring at it and thinking about it as much as I was. It felt like I had a sign on my face that read something like ‘DON’T MENTION IT EVEN THOUGH YOU CAN’T STOP LOOKING AT IT’, and so I’d walk around with as much hair in my face as possible, looking down in conversation when I noticed whoever’s eyes I was talking to flicker to the particularly bad bit on my chin. I couldn’t stand the idea that they were staring at me the way I would in the mirror – analysing every lump and scab, horrified, and immediately labelling me as ugly. I just knew that the first thing I looked at whenever I was talking to someone was their skin, and how much smoother and more matt it was than mine.
One day my pretty friend came into school with her hair covering the side of her face. She seemed upset. She spoke softer and littler than usual, and in a group of people she hid behind others. Eventually she pulled me aside, away from everyone, and whispered, ‘How bad is it?’
I frowned. ‘How bad is what?’
She let her face fall and her eyes roll, and then she aggressively pointed at her cheek. Behind the shadow of her fringe was a pimple, surrounded by a concealer shade that was slightly more orange than her pale, freckled skin.
I looked back at her worried eyes and laughed. ‘It’s literally fine. Like, it’s a bit crusty but you can barely see it.’
She squinted her eyes suspiciously, but she lifted her head up a little, letting her hair fall back a bit and allowing more light to shine on her face. ‘Are you sure? Should I put more concealer on?’
‘Definitely not. Honestly I wouldn’t have noticed it at all if you hadn’t pointed it out. You still look like you, and you’re still pretty.’
She grinned, and tucked her fringe behind her ear. Her little spot sat on her cheek, but her eyes gleamed. ‘Okay good. Thank you!’ And she floated away, back to the group of people who also couldn’t give two shits about the clearness of her skin.
Turns out no one really cared about my skin either. The friends I had sleepovers with had insecurities of their own, and were most likely far too in their own heads about the way they thought I was looking at them to think about how I looked. And here’s the thing: people might notice it, but is it going to affect the way they see you and treat you? I should absolutely hope not, and if it does, why on earth should you care about that person’s opinion of you?
Now I can walk around barefaced in front of anyone, and I feel far more beautiful than I did as a teen with a secret layer of foundation on. There is something about confidence that is far more attractive than any physical quality, and even on the days where I feel just as gross as I did when I was younger, I push it away and pretend. ‘Fake it till you make it’ actually works. If you tell the world you’re beautiful, it will believe you, and then you’ll start believing it too.
* * *
Before you practise loving your spotty skin, you might as well look after it as best as you can.
1. Let’s start internally. You’d be surprised at just how much my face changed entirely when I learned to drink more water and get enough sleep. I feel as though I usually fail at life targets when I really try them – I know, I’m the worst – so I accidentally achieved this by falling in love with green tea and not enjoying late night parties any more. I’ve always loved fruit and veggies and all things healthy, but my kryptonite was cheese. I used to buy a block and get through the whole thing within a week, pouring shredded cheddar over mountains of pasta, and then nibbling on cubes with grapes as snacks too. Dairy contains all sorts of hormones and I definitely recognised a connection to my breakouts, but life is short, and I fucking love cheese, so I cut down but definitely didn’t cut out. But it was enough to help, and all these things combined absolutely helped to make my skin feel plumper and my face just look . . . awake. I wasn’t walking around looking like a dehydrated zombie any more!
2. I’m going to say it – just in case you’ll be able to take the advice that I can’t seem to – but DON’T touch it. I’ve tried absolutely everything. In my little room in my old house, I wrote ‘DON’T’ in sharpie on my mirror, as if it would have been enough of a reminder to take my hands away from my face and stop me staring into my pores. I cut my nails short so it was harder to scratch, I asked my friends to tap me if they saw me picking, but even still, if there’s a spot that’s begging to be squeezed, I will.
So, if you can’t stop like me, we can work around the problem. First, only touch your skin with clean hands, so as little bacteria as possible gets in. A warm face cloth will help to open up your pores, and ice cubes help tremendously with inflammation. If it doesn’t burst (ew) then don’t tug at it (also ew). If you’re examining your face out of boredom, instead of wasting your time attacking your skin, use it to pamper. A face mask can help to heal and will also temporarily restrict your face from being prodded.
3. Learn from teenage me – drying out your face completely is not the answer. Your ski
n will just produce more oil in an attempt to rehydrate itself. Wash your face gently, and research and invest in some repairing oils.
4. For make-up, wear whatever you know will make you feel good, but also practise feeling good without those things. I used to completely paint over my skin because I couldn’t bear the sight of any sort of redness or imperfection whatsoever. I posted a video showing my naked face up close, and someone told me that my scarring looked cute, like extreme freckles, so now I leave most of them to show in my daily make-up routine. I’ll use a tinted moisturiser and some targeted concealer for the particularly angry bits, but I’m not afraid of letting them show any more.
MY FACE
Hello!
This is my skin.
Please mind your step on the pores, you might fall in.
Look it’s purple, beneath your feet.
Yes, I’m only 20 – no, I don’t get plenty of sleep.
Sometimes there are cheekbones
hidden under a smile,
and if you’re really lucky
freckles pop up every once in a while.
I usually do a paint job
every single day,
so welcome
to my face.
Oh,
meet Mr Zit.
He’s been around for so long, I’m starting to get used to it!
Let’s swim through my brows;
they move so much they must have special powers.
Sometimes there are cheekbones
hidden under a smile,
and if you’re really lucky
freckles pop up every once in a while.
I usually do a paint job
every single day,
so welcome
to my face.
I secretly like it here!
I secretly like it here.
PARTY TATTOOS
Take a look at the clock,
only so long to go,
scrubbing smooth young skin,
saying I don’t know.
Grab a bag, grab a bottle,
but leave the what if –
you’ll see it in the morning after your kicks.
All you will need for a rocking good time
is a bunch of people who don’t give a damn!
There’s a yes, in your head,
gotta find where it’s at.
You’ll lose it in the morning,
but ignore that.
We’re not bruised,
they’re just party tattoos!
And that colourful mess is just colourful regret.
Black lipstick will never be a sin.
We’ll regret it when we’re old, with wrinkled up skin.
My mummy said to always wear a coat;
but it’s warm, and it’s heavy, and we’re trying to float!
Don’t forget she’ll be right when it’s 3 a.m.,
so shiver, but shiver with a friend.
We’re not bruised,
they’re just party tattoos!
And that colourful mess is just colourful regret.
Black lipstick will never be a sin
We’ll regret it when we’re old, with wrinkled up skin.
Write a postcard to you at 84,
tell her you’d never dream of living behind a door.
Life was fun, full of love, full of hopeful smiles, bet you wish you were here – but I’ll see you in a while.
CHAMPAGNE AND CORNFLAKES
In 2015 I travelled around various places on tour. I’ve mentioned that I don’t remember much of my Australian/New Zealand tour, but I came across this message that I’d sent to my friends describing something funny that had happened. It was meant to be just a short recap of the experience, but it ended up turning into a mini story. I wanted to add it in, because firstly this was a moment where I realised that I’d missed writing and I wanted to do more of it; and also to show just how dramatic I have always been. Dodie will always find some sort of meaning in everything. Enjoy!
I THINK I JUST HAD A FUCKING SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCE
I just tried to write it down but it turned into a story. Here is basically what happened in novel form. Some things may have been exaggerated but holy shit.
Okay so . . . I’m currently sitting in 74a, next to two guys, and I’m pretty sure the guy in 74b is reading this over my shoulder as I type.
I’ve just showered. I’ve de-tightsed but am wearing my slouchy massive stripy jumper dress, NO MAKE-UP, bad skin, bare legs and sandals. Oh, and short hair half tied up in a weird tiny ponytail. I have a cute fringe swoop going on tho.
And I’m trying to come to terms with what just happened.
I find a seat in the business lounge. I’m carrying my beige backpack, my PILLOW, and my uke. I ask for a champagne, set it down, and then because why the hell not, I get some cornflakes. It’s free, it’s breakfast, and I love cornflakes. I sit down, put them next to each other, and suddenly realise how stupid champagne and cornflakes look. I clearly do not belong in a business class lounge.
But you know what?! Fuck it. I’m going to own the weirdness. I decide to take a photo of my stupid naive breakfast.
I look up, to see who will be judging me.
Sitting opposite me, wearing a sky-blue shirt, tapping on his laptop, is the most stereotypical attractive man I have ever seen. He has thick brown hair, a jawline and cheekbones that could slice butter, and . . . Oh my. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal the most beautifully toned forearms I’ve ever seen.
I melt a little bit, fluff up my hair instinctively, and hold my phone above my dumb meal to take a photo.
I only get one, of course. I’m not drawing more attention to myself. It’s not the best, but I can’t deal with the pressure of the god sitting opposite me. I put my phone down on the glass table, pick up my silver spoon, and poke it around my cereal.
After a few minutes of a mixture of mushy milk and tangy booze, I hear a sigh, and the godly man sits upright in my peripheral vision. My stomach clenches.
‘Enjoying your meal?’
I look up, and stare into a warm, kind, beautiful smile. ‘I knew you were going to . . . like . . . notice this. I just thought it looked so stupid.’ I grin at him, sipping my champagne as casually as I can. Another hair fluff. Not on purpose.
He grins back. ‘What are you doing with the photo?’
His voice is deep, smooth and interesting. I can’t place his accent. English? Australian? But the ‘r’ seemed so American and sharp.
Luckily I have a line ready in my head to say. It sounds cool. Casual. Comedic. ‘I dunno. I might write a song. “champagne and cornflakes” sounds like an awesome band name.’ I look down, stirring my spoon in the soggy orange lumps and smirking a little. He laughs back. Score!
‘Are you sending it to a friend?’
‘Maybe. I just wanted to capture the madness.’
‘Brilliant. I just thought that it was the epitome of . . . The Jetlag Breakfast.’
‘Well, there’s something to wake up me up. And something to send me to sleep.’
‘I was going to say . . . It’ll help you nap. Are you coming or going?’ He tilts his laptop screen down, smiling and squinting his eyes slightly, as if he’s looking into a brighter light.
‘I’ve just come from Melbourne. So, fourteen hours of sitting in the same spot, attempting to sleep upright. Eight more to go.’
‘Ah, I’m going the other way. Just had my eight, now for the fourteen back home.’
As we chat back and forth, my head is squealing. How on earth is this painfully attractive man talking to a tired, skinny plain girl in a stripy oversized jumper? Am I smiling too much? Have I drunk this champagne too quickly?
We exchange the small talk basics. I manage to explain my YouTube, touring situation. He’s into science, and does some presenting work with ABC. So, holy shit. No wonder he’s so hot.
‘So, I’m guessing you’ll post that picture to Twitter?’ He opens his laptop. ‘Cause, you know, I’d li
ke to follow your “champagne and cornflakes” release.’
‘Haha. Sure. Um, yeah, it’s . . . Doddleoddle. Stupid, I know. I chose it when I was like sixteen, and there’s no going back now.’
‘Gotcha. I feel you; turns out “Alan Cosmos” isn’t actually as rare as you might think for a science geek. Oh yeah, Alan – that’s me.’
‘I’d never know. Hey, I’ll follow you back.’
I click my phone on. Ah, shit. My gate’s open. I should be boarding. ‘Ah, I’d . . . I’d better be going. Got to get on a plane and all that.’
‘Well.’ He stretches, his broad shoulders widening. I have to consciously make an effort not to bite my lip. ‘This was a wonderful five-minute chat. Thank you, and let me know how your new single goes.’ He smirks.
‘Nice chatting to you, Alan.’ I smile back, my pitch ascending to nothing less than a squeak. I grab my uke, passport and fucking pillow, and sling my rucksack on my back, suddenly becoming painfully aware of what I look like.
‘You too. Good luck! I have so much respect for beings who take risks to follow their dreams.’
I smile, give a final look, and walk away, enjoying the buzz of the champagne and dopamine in my brain, thanks to Alan Cosmos.
AFTER READING THIS BACK I JUST REALISED
IT’S A FUCKING METAPHOR
HE’S CHAMPAGNE
I’M CORNFLAKES
WHAT IS HAPPENINFHSB?
A NON LOVE SONG
back, back,
it’s time to go back to you know where;
but was it fun,
in the sun where you were?
stop, no –
no, you’re not allowed to think that!
unwire the good,
don’t imagine what could have been.
what a nice little holiday;
it’s a memory now.
you fool,
how dare you trust fate! she’s not that kind,