Secrets for the Mad

by Dodie Clark

  ‘Well, after I finished the song, it got all messy, which is classic . . . So now the song doesn’t really work. Anyhow. Fuck it!’

  ‘Fuck it!’ the audience concurred.

  I wonder what it’s like for her to repeat tricky experiences in concerts, to replay them. Week after week she has to dive back into that place in her mind. The professional can’t forget or begin to heal over the difficult things; she must carry them with her from gig to gig. Performing must be exhausting.

  A friend of mine once showed me a tattoo on his forearm. It was of an ex-lover’s signature.

  ‘Yeah, the relationship went sour,’ he said, ‘but the tattoo isn’t a regret because it’s a reminder of exactly when I got it, when things were at their best. Life changed. But that moment, that little while, didn’t.’

  What he later found, what was surprising, was that he started to feel that his tattoos changed with him. Though the moment it represented couldn’t be altered, its legacy was constantly evolving. It aged with him; the bond with his memory, its beauty and pain, grew kinder, forgiving, the way friendships do.

  It’s hard seeing a friend under emotional pressure. Fame comes with a lot of difficulties and pressures. She’s doing something incredible with her life, but at the end of the day I hope my friend is okay. It’s clear that the only way Dodie will thrive and be happy is by going forward. So I’m left with this tension, hoping that she keeps going and going – and that as the pressures rise she can rise with them. Which, of course, she will.

  We love her, her friends, her fans, but that’s a lot of love to bear.

  Connecting to people on the most fundamental levels brings with it an unexpected responsibility. People share their problems with Dodie because that’s human nature: when someone gives you a part of themselves, you feel safe enough to share something back with them.

  And, of course, any human being in that position wants to help. You would do your best to reply to those people.

  But then one day, years ago, when I visited her flat, Dodie opened a cupboard in her kitchen. It was full of fan mail. Quite literally, rammed. Picture it, really: the average letter or card is, what, a few millimetres thick, ten centimetres wide? And her cupboard was probably a metre deep, thirty centimetres wide. Hundreds of people – several hundred – had reached out to Dodie, and were waiting for a reply.

  ‘I want to read all of it, but I can’t always reply to everything. That’s the hardest thing. Sometimes you’re too late, and there’s never enough time . . . Or sometimes people try to take advantage of you. I can’t help everyone directly when they share their problems with me, and that’s really difficult. But I’m not a trained therapist. It’s not safe for me or them to help like that. So I can’t help in that way. All I can do is keep creating. And that’s so hard.’

  Benjamin Redwood

  London

  26 September 2016

  INTERTWINED

  Skin

  Heat

  Hair in your mouth

  Feet touching feet

  Oh, you

  and I

  safe from the world

  though the world will try –

  Oh, I’m afraid of the things in my brain

  but we can stay here

  and laugh away the fear

  Numb

  Fine

  You create a rarity of my genuine smiles

  So breathe,

  breathe with me

  Can you drink all my thoughts?

  ’Cause I can’t stand them!

  Intertwined

  Free

  I’ve pinned each and every hope on you

  I hope that you don’t bleed with me

  I’m afraid of the things in my brain

  But we can stay here

  And laugh away the fear

  MEN I HAVE LOVED

  He is angry. He is judgemental. He is arrogant. He is selfish. He is overbearing, solid and warm bodied. He squints his eyes and heaves out pointed sighs that make my throat close up and my torso tense and my heart race and my eyes leak. The highs aren’t that high, and they are so fragile, like thin ice. The lows are frequent, panic-inducing, horrible. The middle of the two is confusion; familiar confusion.

  He is soft. He is warm, like a laid-in quilt or pillow. He is hilarious and bright and so interesting. He runs and jumps and moves his eyebrows and stretches into straight-teethed grins that fill me with safety. His lungs buzz, and the music sprints up his throat to be chewed into hundreds of syllables that dance around the room. I know that he will be with me forever and I must never lose him. He is my rock.

  He is quiet. He is colder. He is mathematical, complex, intelligent. For some reason, our bodies fit well together, like two pieces of wood that slot in perfectly. My eyes flicker up and down him and my mouth waters at the idea of holding his strong jaw in my hand, inhaling his air, tasting his soul; maybe because it reminds me that he is not just machinery on the inside. Like me, though, he is broken.

  YOU

  I told you I was looking for some empathy.

  Well, you fooled me

  Just a touch and a thought and I was gone,

  And now someone’s gonna get to know the better you.

  When I was supposed to?

  Oh, why did it have to be you?

  I guess

  now the next time there’s an opportunity

  I’ll tread more carefully.

  My heart’s running out of Sellotape!

  You know

  how is it I’ve never felt that way before?

  I was so sure

  it wasn’t going to be you!

  Why do all the red flags

  just look like so much fun?

  I have a habit of

  searching for the damage

  to share my love

  I promised to be numb,

  but somehow you were the one.

  Now to unwind

  months of a good time.

  People will tell me that I messed up,

  and it wasn’t love,

  and I’m secretly hoping they are right; because

  whatever it was it was wonderful –

  but non-functional.

  Oh,

  I really hope I don’t love you.

  MY MANIPULATIVE, UNHEALTHY RELATIONSHIP

  I had just turned seventeen, and I was awkward, skinny and weird. I had a best friend called Alice, and we would make twisted faces across the room and burst into ugly laughter. She’d do my make-up and we’d laugh at how big my nose could look in pictures and we’d film ourselves roly-polying across the floor and end up in a heap of giggles. We’d gossip over boys in our school and cringe at bad kisses at parties where we hadn’t learned how to drink responsibly yet; and then freak out when they’d text and help craft replies of rejection.

  I’d had a couple of boyfriends – one was a boy friend/boyfriend, who was incredibly sweet and I shared my first kiss with, but I mostly liked just for company. The other was fairly long distance (for someone who was still in school) and it was exciting, but overall he didn’t care and it wasn’t serious at all. It was looking like I was on track to my and Alice’s pact to marry at thirty; all boys were immature and all the fit ones would never be interested in us.

  He was twenty-two. He wrote me long, in-depth letters about music, adventures, love. He was a surfer, had the flicky hair Alice and I would swoon over, and would go rock climbing and running – so he definitely had a six-pack. We had four-hour-long phone calls and we’d text at least every half hour, taking it in turns to ask each other questions like ‘What would you spend a million pounds on? Who’s the most famous person you’ve met? If you could only have one meal for the rest of your life what would it be?’

  When we met for the first time, he ran off his train, bounded through the barriers and scooped me up in his ginormous arms, lifting me and twirling me round the station. I was a little embarrassed but I didn’t care. Look! Look at this man! This man fancies me.
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  I had a mammoth spot on my chin and a terrible cold, and although he kept his distance because he didn’t want to get ill he still called me the next day. And the day after that, and the day after that.

  He moved to London and I’d get the train in after sixth form to visit his flat, finding him waiting for me at my platform grinning and holding pink flowers. He asked me to please not talk about exams so much around his flatmates? If I had to, maybe call it college, or something. I understood. He also asked me to wipe my socks before I got on his bed so I didn’t bring all the fluff onto his covers, and spit my toothpaste into the running water so it didn’t stick to the sink. He tutted but laughed at my terrible sense of direction on our walks to the shops, holding my hand and leading the way, or the way I’d chop onions haphazardly because no one had taught me how yet, grabbing the chopping board and instructing me to watch and learn. I’d started to feel a little incompetent and stupid; I didn’t know why I forgot things, or couldn’t do things as well as he did, but also I didn’t know why it mattered so much. He’d make popcorn and pour me red wine and we’d snuggle up on the sofa, tickling each other’s arms and sitting in electric excitement while we watched movies, until it was time for me to travel home for school the next day.

  I finished my A levels in the summer and so I started staying round his and spending more days together. About four months in, I was washing up after an evening of pasta and wine. He had asked me if I could help out around the flat a little bit more, so I was trying to show him that I cared. I can’t remember if he was frustrated about something before, or if this really did come out of nowhere, but he grabbed a bowl I’d placed upturned on the side and slammed it upside down on the counter dramatically. I jumped and stared at him, terrified. He stared back, his eyes angry and wide, the clang of the bowl ringing through the silence.

  So I didn’t know how to drain a bowl when washing up. I mumbled an apology and we got ready for bed without a saying a word to each other, my heart pounding and my head spinning. Did that really happen? Who was this man?

  I can’t remember exactly how the shouting started. He was angry that I was so lazy – too lazy to care, to try, to think, and he felt as though he was running around me, picking up everything I failed at doing. It somehow started to make sense to me, and I felt awful; of course he was so upset when I was so incompetent. I burst into tears and apologised, saying sorry for every point he’d made. He hugged me and I melted, relieved and desperate to get back to how we were before. I definitely wasn’t in the mood to have sex, but I wanted to be on his side again, and there was no way I could have said no now. He finished, and we curled up in the dark.

  ‘So what are you going to work on from now on?’ he said. I panicked. I needed to get this right.

  ‘Showing you that I care by not being lazy.’ It worked. He kissed the back of my neck, and whispered ‘thank you’. And so we went back to happier, snuggly us, for a while; but with all bowls drained properly, and all onions cut neatly.

  I would tiptoe around him, saying and doing all the right things, and we would be so good together. He’d tell me I was ‘his’, and he’d hold my hand at events proudly, taking every opportunity to boast to the room that this was true. I’d bat his hands away playfully, uncomfortable at the public display but happy I was loved. At one particular party I noticed a friend I hadn’t seen in a long time in the corner of the room. I slipped my hand out of my boyfriend’s and bounded across the room, wrapping my arms around him. We caught up excitedly, gushing about the months we’d missed. ‘Oh! And my boyfriend’s just over there.’ I turned around, ready to point him out, but I couldn’t spot him. I turned back, apologised, and we continued to gossip about our lives.

  The silence lasted the whole way home. I’d try to hold his hand, but it would be limp, so I’d pull it back and hug my arms. I’d gather enough courage to ask him how his night was, and he’d shrug softly, looking away. On our walk back from the station, he finally spoke.

  ‘How was Luke?’

  My heart sank. Oh.

  I had left him; I had utterly abandoned him at a party where he didn’t know too many people, and why couldn’t we have gone up to Luke together? Luke clearly fancied me, we could have said hello as a team, but instead I ran off without thinking, or caring, as usual. But I had looked for him afterwards, I said! I was excited to show him off too – well, all he saw was me running towards another boy and being all over him; how embarrassing for the whole room of people to see. I said sorry, but just sorry wasn’t enough this time, and so we were there again; up until the early hours of the morning, me desperately trying to make it all okay again, frantically searching for the right apology. I’d find it eventually, but this would be marked down as Another Act of a Lack of Care from Dodie, threatening the happy days with a possibility to be reopened for another evening of shouting.

  I understood abusive relationships as physical. I told a few people about the way he’d throw things around and kick walls when he was shouting at me, and they’d say ‘well, all right, but if he ever lays a finger on you, let me know’. And I know that he never would; and so it must have been okay. He’d take my phone and write messages to my flatmate in my name, crafting it with me to let her know that his bellowing last night was ‘just a little tiff, we both made some mistakes but we’re all better now’, after she told me she was close to calling the police after hearing my sobs. But surely it wasn’t abuse if I loved him? I felt terrible that people might not understand that he was angry because I had done something wrong. Like he said, anger was just an emotion, and he was perfectly within his right to feel and express his emotions, just like I did with my crying. Besides, his flowers were never an apology gift, because he never had to say sorry.

  After two years of walking on eggshells and multiple failed attempts of me breaking up with him (they were the only times he would cry instead of shout), I was moving away from the town we’d both been living in for the last six months. My tenancy agreement had run out and I had lost my shop job, and it was pretty clear that I wasn’t making any attempts to look for replacements nearby. He packed out the removal van he had helped me to hire, brushed the hair out of my streaming eyes and kissed me goodbye. I felt as though part of me was being torn away, and it hurt so much; but there was something strong, rooted deeply within me, that told me this was right.

  I was so overwhelmed by the kindness of my London friends. I’d go with them to a party and stay stuck to them the whole night, constantly asking if they were okay and if they needed anything from me. They’d grab my arms and smile into me: ‘Dodie! I’m okay! Really! Just go and enjoy yourself.’

  If there was a silence in the room when we’d be hanging out, panic would settle in and I’d swallow a little harder. Tears would prickle my eyes and I’d wait for the heavy sighs while skimming over the past sentences in my head to try and work out what I’d said wrong. I’d be about to apologise, and suddenly they’d chuckle at something they’d read online, or ask me if I wanted a cup of tea, and I’d squeak a reply far too quickly, desperately trying not to breathe out my obvious relief too shakily.

  My experience of a manipulative relationship helped me to understand that they are not as black and white as I first thought. Despite the warning signs matching up to what I was going through, I didn’t see how it could have been abuse if it came from someone who loved me so much, and who I loved back. But it can, and it was. Not drinking enough water in the day, having too much cheese on your pasta and draining dishes the wrong way does not warrant an evening of shouting. You should be allowed to make your own choices in your life about how much you exercise, the friends you keep and the way you look, without being made to feel guilty. Sex should never be an apology and you should never be made to feel guilty for not giving it, and if anger is a common emotion from them then there is something wrong. Mistakes and wrongdoings will be present in every relationship, but the way to deal with them is through communication, empathy and love. No one is ever 100
% right all the time, and if you are with someone who cannot admit that, then you will find yourself taking on all the blame, and it will slowly destroy you.

  Put your energy into the relationships that make you feel good and build you up, not those that knock you down. True love and care with someone does not look like cold shoulders in an entire evening of apologies, or shouting at someone sobbing in the corner of a room, and although I can’t go back to tell myself these things, I’m hopefully able to tell someone else with a new rule book in their head given to them by someone who tends to get angry.

  PAS DE DEUX

  Poppy’s a dancer

  just turned sixteen stares at boys who wear glasses

  in Look magazine.

  Here comes Tommy,

  with glasses and all,

  flowers in hand and ambitious plans,

  it’s not hard to fall.

  She’s walking on rivers,

  he lifts her above,

  she’s full of belonging,

  and so full of love.

  Things get a bit louder,

  Tommy’s focused on plans,

  his smile’s replaced with an aggressive face;

  but she’ll still hold his hand.

  Now she’s given up dancing,

  Tommy says she’s too old.

  He says focus on me, but she disagrees

  while she does as she’s told

  Are you walking on eggshells?

  And when push comes to shove

  are you full of belonging

  but not full of love?

  Back to the studio

  where she was told not to go,

  feeling sick with guilt, the tension builds

  as she opens the door.

  And what else would be there

  but a trusting pair

  of strong bodies, lacking in worries, performing a pas de deux.

  I am not right,

  yes, this is what’s right!

  Souls, and hearts and minds intertwined!

  No, I won’t be defined by him any more.