Secrets for the Mad

by Dodie Clark

  ‘There will be days where you will run through, bounding your way to us. And then there will be days where you’ll just want to run back, because it’s closer than the exit. It will be horrible, and scary, and different; but bit by bit you’ll make your way through, and then you’ll come out the other side and we’ll all still be with you, and you won’t even remember what it was like before.’

  I turned my face to look at him, and a sentence appeared in my brain that hurt so much my eyes welled up dramatically.

  ‘But what if I can’t walk forward, and I stay in the tunnel forever?’ I mumbled pathetically, my throat closing up and tears spilling down my neck.

  * * *

  It’s hard to relate to past me; someone who couldn’t comprehend the idea that I wouldn’t always feel as sad about the person I was leaving behind. I knew that I had to move on to new chapters in my life, and I wanted to, but I didn’t know if I could. I was terrified that to get over a relationship was just to forget what it was like, and I didn’t want that!

  I like to make deep and intense connections. I spend years getting to know people I enjoy intimately, and I dig underneath the surface and we scoop out our secrets and inner thoughts and share them with each other; so to say goodbye to someone I had shared my soul with for so long felt so unnatural and terrible for me.

  But Sammy had been right. The tunnel was terrible for the first month, and then it got brighter, and then I pretty much forgot I was walking through one until it was half a year later and I realised I had already been out the other side for a while.

  I have felt that pain three different times in my life, and despite each new broken heart insisting it would be even more impossible to mend than the last one, they have all healed over time.

  THIS WAS THE RIGHT DECISION

  There is always some relief in a breakup. Everything that ends, ends for a reason, and if you can’t find one yet, you’ll come across it later. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you can start making your journey through the tunnel of breaking up that leads to being better. People are going to tell you that ‘you have so much time’ to find someone else, and that ‘there are plenty of fish in the sea’. And, for a while, you’re going to say you don’t want someone else, you want that particular fish, because no one else will have all the wonderful qualities that they had that made you fall in love with them.

  But – to quote my first boyfriend, actually – life is a bus ride, with only so many seats. It took me a long time to comprehend that sometimes people had to leave my life, to make room for the better ones, but once I understood that it became easier to let go, and I was surprised at just how quickly new, interesting people somehow found their way onto my bus.

  Your friends are usually right, in the end; if a relationship is damaging you, they will be able to see it much more clearly than you will. And you might argue that they’re wrong, you might even manage to convince yourself, but there will always be a part of you that knows; and in the end you should hold on to it as a way to guide you out of this. If it’s a perfect, happy goodbye, then good; you’ve got yourself some closure. And if it’s terrible, then good; let that be a reminder of why this is happening.

  Close the book; it is finished, and it served its purpose. You loved, you broke, and you will learn for when you next love again.

  I KNEW YOU ONCE

  I knew you once

  and it was nice.

  I knew your brain and your heart,

  all your insides.

  Oh, I could tell

  just with a look

  what you were thinking,

  that’s all it took.

  You shared your secrets

  and I shared mine.

  Silence was comfy

  without having to try.

  We swapped our smiles,

  gifted advice,

  yes, I knew you once

  and it was nice.

  PROCESSING

  All right, look. It’s 9.16 p.m. and you’ve had one glass of white wine with your dinner. You’re going through old hard drives for some reason – you’re editing a video and you need some footage from your old laptop; you’re trying to prove a point to a friend about a discussion from months ago – or it’s 9.16 p.m. and you’ve had wine and you’re just bloody nostalgic. You’re searching through folders, letting out little chuckles at past conversations and bad haircuts, sipping from your glass, and suddenly you see it and your heart drops. You click away immediately – a well-trained knee-jerk reaction. You’ve blocked them on all their social media, but of course their face still crops up now and again and you’re well used to scrolling past quickly, pushing the pain away. But this is different – a snapshot of a happy, love-filled time. This picture of them will be the familiar version, the face of someone you loved, someone who loved you.

  Do you look?

  Are you allowed?

  Has it been long enough?

  You reckon you can handle it. You’re strong enough now, surely. You brace yourself, and open the file.

  You’re surprised. It doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would; in fact, it makes you smile. You picture the memory, and the events around that night. There was a little argument in the car on the way there about who came up with that funny joke you both told to friends, you had held hands under the table and took it in turns to squeeze, you had tripped over the kerb on your way walking back and they had laughed. You stare into your younger eyes, trying to relate to the person whose heart was attached to the soul standing next to them, but you honestly find it difficult. These two people were happy together, here; but now neither of these versions of them exists, and this photo belongs to the past, before time had changed the world in the wonderful way it did.

  DUMPED IN DISNEYLAND

  I’m chewing on a straw to distract myself from the ache in the soles of my feet and my chest. The sharpness of the plastic against my tongue also helps to ground my existence; as usual, my brain decides for me that a way to deal with the pain is to shut off reality and numb every other sense.

  I am so sad. I haven’t been this sad for such a long time, and so the universe thought it would be funny to place me in the brightest, most saturated happy place in the world and place cold hands around my throat, my heart, my brain, and squeeze, just a little. I let my eyes unfocus, and the voices and chuckles around me fade away and I let it all just swallow me up. I don’t care that I look sour-faced, that I’ve paid $200 to stand in a hot queue and feel shit, that maybe if I tried really, REALLY hard I could push it all away and choose to at least try and enjoy myself. But I have no energy left to tread water right now.

  I can’t even cry. It’s so deep rooted I can’t find a way to bring it to the surface, and so it just sits inside, weighing my body down and rotting my soul.

  I fade in out of time. In one of my zoning-out moments I hear a sharp voice: ‘Dodie?’

  I look up, suddenly aware that I was letting my cheeks droop, and I probably look stupid.

  ‘Can I take a picture with you?’ A girl in pigtails is smiling at me. I pull my cheeks up with the little energy I have and try to reflect the tone of her voice. ‘Sure!’

  We stand together and I look at someone in their phone screen with my face who is showing their teeth but their eyes are dead. She takes the picture. I wonder whether I should tell her.

  ‘Thank you!’ She hugs her phone and twirls away.

  ‘I feel terrible,’ I murmur. She spins around again and laughs awkwardly, still walking away. That was a mistake.

  She brushes past a couple in the queue. There’s a women wearing white, lacy ears and she has a badge that says ‘happily ever after!’ in a font that reminds me of primary school. She’s holding her partner’s hand loosely, their fingers interlocking. Her mouth is upturned, her eyes glossy. She darts her head around, clearly drinking in and relishing the situation around her. My eyes immediately fill with tears – but not because I’m jealous.

  One day, I will be s
tanding in Disneyland with white ears and a happy badge. I’ll be holding someone’s arm, smiling up at the world around me. The grey memories of now will be tied up in a little box, and they will sit somewhere in the back of my mind, available enough to visit if I need to but far away enough for them not to hurt me. I will be an entirely different woman – someone who is not in pain, and someone who cannot relate to the numb, cold, sad girl that I am now.

  She feels so far away that she must be impossible. The pain is so real right now that it feels like I will be this girl forever. But I know that that can’t be true.

  I chew on my straw and blink back tears, breathing in a mixture of hope, depression and hurt.

  LIFE LESSON

  When I’m eighty years old, and alone in my chair,

  will I look back at safety, and be glad I didn’t care?

  NO! I can hear her screaming, ‘Love, break and learn!

  What else are you young for?! FUCK IT! Hurt whilst you can!’

  BISEXUALITY – COMING OUT TO MYSELF

  I was twelve, and she was adorable. She had thick orange and gold locks that tumbled down her back, little straight white teeth that peeked out of her pink smile, and cocoa powder freckles on cotton skin. I’d beg her to draw on my arm with a biro pen and I’d get tingles running up the back of my neck as I felt her cold skinny fingers on my wrist and drank in her smell of apples and a dusting of talcum powder. I’d gravitate to wherever she was, following her around and laughing extra loud just so she’d look at me and smile back.

  But she was just older, and cooler. I wasn’t confused, or worried, or guilty – I would grow up and have boyfriends and marry a man. I fancied Tom Downey in Mr Potter’s class. The joy and ache I got from looking at this girl felt so normal I was certain it was just something everyone experienced. The word ‘gay’ was a naughty, shocking word, and I’d never have anything to do with it.

  * * *

  ‘He’s bisexual,’ Alice exclaimed, wide-eyed and cross-legged on my bedroom floor. It sounded dirty, and I was sceptical and worried for her. Boys kissing boys = gay, and the popular people found it bad. What was she doing, fancying someone like that? At least he didn’t go to our school.

  I didn’t really get it. He was so nice, and he seemed so normal. Now he was weird.

  We scuffed our school shoes on the ground as we walked around the basketball court, guilt sinking into my stomach. Charlotte, another girl at my school, had just told me that she fancied girls, and in a state of awkwardness I told her I felt the same. A rush of panic came over me as I realised I was walking next to a LESBIAN. Did she fancy me? Was she going to tell everyone that I was one too?!

  ‘They’re just so . . . soft. And they smell nice. They’re so pretty,’ I said.

  I couldn’t tell if I was lying or not. Everything I was saying was definitely true; but she was so certain, while I felt sick at the idea of everyone knowing. My friends would think I fancied them, but I didn’t! I didn’t even know if I fancied girls properly. I was sure that everyone got the same type of crushes on girls that I did, and that Charlotte was actually different, so I must have been lying. So I told her about all the girls I’d fancied and we gushed over the relatability of secretly fancying people, somehow telling the truth while the words ‘I’M NOT GAY’ screamed at me from the bottom of my brain.

  * * *

  I didn’t want to commit to the label in my late teens. The fear of the word ‘gay’ had thankfully dissolved as I transcended from the judgemental crowds of Essex to friendlier, love-based communities from the internet. After experiencing female kisses at drunken parties, I knew that I definitely enjoyed being intimate with women, but even so, I was convinced that it didn’t mean I deserved a different label, as everyone must feel the same way I did. How could anyone not want to? We were all just hiding it, and soon enough me and my other schoolfriends would be laughing about the days we didn’t admit that we fancied girls as well as boys.

  Turns out I was the only one in my friendship circle who ended up admitting it because none of them actually felt the same as I did. Apparently, a lot of the female population didn’t either, and those who did might label themselves as bisexual.

  So I took the label, and I loved it. I love that I have the capacity to fall in love with anyone, regardless of gender, and I love that, actually, I am different to a lot of people I know. I love that, through the label, I found people whom I can relate to, and I love that I am part of a community that needs more attention. It took me a while to find out who I was, and there was nothing wrong with that for me, but perhaps my journey would have been a little smoother if I had grown up in a world where the word ‘bisexual’ wasn’t so terrifying.

  Nevertheless, I love it. I am lucky that I can love my sexuality, and love myself, and I will strive for a world in which everyone can feel the same.

  SHE

  Am I allowed to look at her like that?

  Could it be wrong when she’s just so nice to look at?

  And she smells like lemongrass and sleep,

  she tastes like apple juice and peach.

  You would find her in a Polaroid picture

  and she means everything to me.

  I’d never tell,

  no, I’d never say a word,

  and oh, it aches,

  but it feels oddly good to hurt.

  She smells like lemongrass and sleep,

  she tastes like apple juice and peach.

  You would find her in a Polaroid picture

  and she means everything to me.

  And I’ll be okay

  admiring from afar

  ’cause even when she’s next to me

  we could not be more far apart.

  ’Cause she tastes like birthday cake and storytime and fall,

  but to her

  I taste of nothing at all.

  And she smells like lemongrass and sleep,

  she tastes like apple juice and peach.

  You would find her in a Polaroid picture

  and she means everything to me.

  FAME

  I’m not too sure if I deserve the title of famous. Let me google the definition:

  famous

  1.

  known about by many people.

  Well. Yes. I guess so.

  2.

  informal

  excellent.

  ‘Galway stormed to a famous victory’

  HA. Not too sure about that one, Google. Especially because there are many famous people who are far from excellent.

  * * *

  By my younger standards, I’m famous. I don’t really know how child me created such a clear definition, but I remember thinking of it as very black or white. Fame was akin to having magical powers – you either had magic, or you didn’t, and I wanted it more than anything. This absolutely stemmed from my insecurities that came from bullying: the desire to be liked, and to be special, and I begged my parents to take me to drama clubs and dance classes so I could one day be loved as much as I loved the ‘famous’ people I knew. I’d see West End shows for my birthdays, and I’d lean forward in my seat, gazing up at the performers and wondering when they’d notice that someone potentially magical was waiting to be invited up to dance. We’d wait by the stage door and I’d hold out my ticket and a pen to the ‘famous people’, staring at their skin and wondering if they were truly real. They’d float away, probably to their mansions, and I’d fall asleep in the car home, dreaming of the other world they lived in and clutching my bag stuffed with confetti from the show as if it was valuable fairy dust.

  * * *

  When I was nine years old, I got a letter from my drama club asking me if I wanted to participate in the Lord Mayor’s Show parade as a dancer. This wasn’t like any old ballet show – I would be performing to thousands and thousands of strangers. I was taught a routine, given balloons to hold, and told to smile and wave as we marched by. I obviously didn’t need much encouragement. I extended my limbs in my steps and stretch
ed my smile as wide as it could go. My legs burned and my cheeks ached, but I was on the other side. ‘I’m famous!’ I squealed to the older dancers around me, who laughed as I waved and blew kisses ecstatically to the London public. I felt special, and adored, and though the next day I’d wander around the playground alone, singing to myself as my classmates played in the groups around me, for one day I felt wanted.

  * * *

  When I was fourteen, I wrote a song called ‘green grass’.

  Look at them smiling,

  they’re living the life.

  That grass is so green

  on the other side.

  If I had that chance I could so easily be there,

  but whilst they’re living my dream, I don’t think they care.

  Do they even know how lucky they are?

  To be where that green grass grows – to be a star.

  My curiosity and desire for fame had led me to obsessive watching of behind-the-scenes videos of Disney Channel stars on YouTube. I could quote Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato’s private jokes down to their intonation and pauses, and I would waltz around my room mimicking an American accent and telling my toys that I ‘loved seeing Miley at the DC meeting yesterday’. (Yes, I was a weird kid. Surely we’ve established that by now.) The friendship that they broadcasted online was just like mine and Alice’s, and I knew that we’d all be best friends, if only we could somehow meet. I remember being so jealous, and angry. Mum would tell me that the kids on Disney Channel were pushed into acting classes from a young age and were forced to audition before they could write, and I was so irritated that I’d missed out on the life I wanted because my parents didn’t do that for me. So I wrote bitter songs about my dumb normal life at school and continued to dream about me and my cool famous friends, rocking up to shoots and waving to our fans outside hotel rooms.