Secrets for the Mad

by Dodie Clark

  * You have at least five private jokes that are guaranteed to crack you up in inappropriate public situations

  * * *

  Dear best friends,

  If I ever forget what I’m doing here, I just have to look to you. Thank you for the dumb jokes, the encouraging paragraph texts, and the shoulders you’ve let me lay my sad snot on. Thank you for putting up with my temper, my mistakes and occasional carelessness, and my radio silence as replies to your texted questions. I don’t appreciate you all anywhere nearly enough; you all inspire me in different ways, and the things I love about myself absolutely came from you. I promise to listen or to talk whenever you need me to, and I promise to work harder at showing you all just how grateful I am for your existence.

  xx

  6/10

  I feel like a six out of ten,

  I gotta get up early tomorrow again.

  What goes on behind the words?

  Is there pity for the plain girl?

  Can you see the panic inside?

  I’m making you uneasy, aren’t I?

  What goes on behind the words?

  Is there pity for the plain girl?

  I’ll close my mouth, I won’t say a word,

  a nod of pity for the plain girl.

  I know that you don’t want me here,

  oh, I’ll just call a taxi, I gotta be up early tomorrow again.

  What goes on behind the words?

  Is there pity for the plain girl?

  I’ll close my mouth, I won’t say a word,

  a nod of pity for the plain girl.

  BULLYING

  Like most people, when I was younger, I was bullied. Kids are just mean; but also, I hadn’t yet learned that the way to make friends was just to be kind, not to try and make people feel sorry for you by telling stories and lies and constantly seeking sympathy and attention, and that that actually made people feel annoyed and irritated with you. So all through primary school I had people laughing at my shoes and chanting mean nicknames at me in the playground. I’d watch them crowd and whisper to each other, looking at me up and down and then laughing to the group. What I lacked in social awareness I made up for in academics though, and I was in the top set for most of my classes, which, funnily enough, didn’t help the teasing. I was called a boffin, teacher’s pet, and everyone called me dodecahedron (which looking back is honestly hilarious). My parents and other family members told me everyone was just jealous, and that they were probably bullied too, but of course that made no sense to me. So I downplayed my slightly more pronounced English accent, swore when the other kids dared me to, and screamed at my mum when she forced me to wear a bulky coat and waterproof shoes to school.

  When I was in secondary school, or high school, the names got slightly more creative and I sank lower in the hierarchy of popularity. There was a girl on our bus who carried a rainbow bag and didn’t care too much about washing her hair, and she liked to tell stories about being magical. So I called her a witch, and the people who’d punch the back of my chair and stuff crisp packets into my pencil case told me I was a legend, and laughed with me, at her. The next week someone sitting behind me would pull my hair and I’d hear them sniggering my colourful nickname, but now and again I’d be on their side, and the hot, sinking guilt of watching that girl fight tears as we laughed at her seemed to be worth the relief of fake acceptance.

  I grew up and learned some lessons, as did all of my classmates, and the name calling and shaming faded into indifference. I had a wonderful group of friends, but the bullying from my previous years left me feeling insecure and terrified around strangers. I’d sit back in a conversation, possible sentences flashing in my head, but then just sitting there as I lacked the confidence to throw them out in a space between the chatter. If I managed to collect enough courage to let my ideas escape, the adrenaline in my body would make them come out mumbled and stuttered, and they would flop. People would talk over me and I’d vow to just never try again.

  Making videos helped enormously. I could practise my quirks alone, and edit out my flops. I’d watch back a well-spoken, witty girl who spoke without pauses or failed jokes. I’d watch other people’s slick vlogs and take note of their mannerisms I enjoyed, until I secretly became a collage of my favourite parts of other people. (I felt guilty about that for a while until I realised that everyone is just a collage of their favourite parts of other people.)

  My insecurities from bullying thankfully don’t affect my conversation any more. They still shine through in my continual second guessing and desperate need to convince everyone that I am likeable! But that is a battle everyone will fight at some point in their lives. To many people, I am likeable; and to some, I might not be.

  But that’s okay.

  * * *

  To the girl with the rainbow bag

  You are loveable. You are confident, you are bright, and you are brave. You aren’t afraid to openly love the things that make you happy, and I am so sorry for the unjust treatment you get from that. You do not deserve to be made to feel you are lesser than anyone, especially those who are so mean to you. The things I and everyone else was going through do not excuse the way we treated you, but I hope it’ll help you understand that it was never because you did anything wrong. I wish I had been as strong as you are.

  SOCIAL DANCE

  There are some who don’t even need to try,

  born with a warm heart, a twinkle in their eye.

  Glitter in their words, perfume in their breath,

  souls of sunshine and lilac pastel skies.

  You will find no such shimmering in here,

  oh, there’s a wish for some that’s shovelled down by fear.

  Am I happy or just hopeful?

  Confident or boastful?

  Do people smile holding back a sneer?

  Sometimes I wish that I could be

  a kinder, better me, for all.

  Sometimes I wish that I could be

  someone who isn’t me, at all.

  So off you go, perform your social dance,

  outstretched opinions, and a flexible stance.

  Pirouette for show, but never let them know

  that really you’re just begging for a chance.

  Sometimes I wish that I could be

  A kinder, better me, for all.

  Sometimes I wish that I could be

  someone who isn’t me, at all.

  Can someone please tell me how it feels

  to say the perfect words, a model of appeal.

  Should I spill secrets inside, or should I just hide?

  I’ll never be okay to reveal.

  Sometimes I wish that I could be

  a kinder, better me, for all.

  Sometimes I wish that I could be

  someone who isn’t me, at all.

  PAIN

  I’m currently lying pretty much spread-eagled on a cushioned table with a paper towel underneath my bare bum. I’m trying to distract myself from the pain of this woman rubbing hot wax on my . . . areas . . . and ripping out hundreds of hairs from their little homes in my skin, so I thought I’d write about it. Holy heck, OW.

  If anyone asks, I’m not good with pain. I’m actually pretty sure I’m better than most people, but what I’m terrible at is the anxiety. The pre-worry is always SO much worse than the actual act, so I tell people I’m bad so that they’ll take extra care of me. I want to know what’s happening, when, and how bad it will be, so I can worry/prepare enough for it.

  Oh, holy MOLY, my poor little legs. I don’t dare look down for fear that she’s actually ripping off my skin.

  This goes for all kinds of pain. Whether that’s ripping hair follicles out (the current situation), tattoos, operations, or heartbreak. Give me a scale of 1–10 and I’ll prepare for three times that. It’s almost definitely a coping mechanism from my brain. If I anticipate the absolute worse then when the pain does come, it won’t feel so bad compared to what I imagined it to be, right?

  I gu
ess it helps, in a way. I’m always much more okay than I think I’ll be. As I said, the problem lies within the obsessing around the pain. My brain goes haywire and imagines all sorts of horrible tortuous scenarios where I end up going fully mad due to unbearable, uncontrollable pain. Mmmmm. Lovely.

  YIKES BIKINI LINE. OW OW OW.

  Anyway, I don’t think the answer is to tell myself it won’t be as bad as I think. Like I said, it’s almost handy to anticipate the absolute worst so it’s never as bad, so I wouldn’t want to lose that. What I absolutely do need to work on is accepting the time for what it is, moment by moment. Half an hour ago I was shivering in a waiting room with sweaty palms and pits, head spinning, chest contracted. Which is all very silly, because the worst thing that was happening to me at that particular moment in time was that the chair was a bit cold on my bare legs, and that doesn’t really warrant that sort of bodily response now, does it?

  I’m being asked to spread my butt cheeks apart. I’ll wrap this up.

  Ultimately, you will be okay, and you can learn from your pain. Use it for #art. Also, try looking at it from a different angle – sometimes you can choose to laugh through it. Create your own anaesthetic to tint your memory with brightness, and you will come out stronger, smarter and smoother. Or maybe that’s just when you’re getting waxed.

  BECOMING WOMAN

  Here’s something I’ve learned. If there are quite a lot of people raving on about something, their point is probably valid, and you should probably listen and believe them.

  I really wanted to side with the men when I was a little girl. What were all these angry feminists doing? Calm your shit, ladies. You’re creating a hate cycle – you get angry, men start hating you, you get angry at mean men. Isn’t it obvious? Just be chill; if you’re on their side then they’ll be nice to you.

  (. . . what a fucked up way to live.)

  I’d grown up with men in white vans honking their horns and shouting pet names out their window while me and my friends walked back from the bus stop. I was taught (by men) that my worth was in my looks, my sex – and so, though it made me uncomfortable as a fourteen-year-old to know that these older men were looking at my thighs, I again tried to side with the winning team and ‘take it as a compliment’.

  I stopped being a little girl, but I noticed that I didn’t stop being treated as one. Men enjoyed leaning and talking over me in meetings, or spewing out information about topics I wasn’t interested in and didn’t care to know much about. I felt stupid because I was being made to feel stupid. I think the worst part is that no man really does it on purpose – it’s a subconscious, engrained tactic to assert their dominance and power.

  I couldn’t count for you the amount of times I’ve had unwanted sexual contact and felt the overwhelming reaction of guilt and shame.

  Once it was on a train. It was crowded and bumpy, and a hand kept reaching up my skirt and stroking my knickers. Every time it stopped I wondered if I was dreaming, but whenever it was happening it was so real, and horrible. I wasn’t sure if it warranted a scene, and I was with my little sister and my mum so I didn’t want to make them upset. I felt sick, panicked and dirty, and I blinked back tears and forced a smile.

  Another was by a friend. He asked for hugs all the time and I gave them when he pouted. We shared a bed on a holiday with another friend but this boy insisted on sleeping next to me. I lay like a rock, my stomach sinking with discomfort, while his hands rubbed up my legs and the lower parts of my tummy. I buckled up the courage to whisper a ‘stop’ in the silence, and he retreated and rolled over. I immediately felt guilty, but five minutes later his hands were back. I stared into the face of my other friend who was sleeping, begging for him to wake up and save me because I couldn’t figure out how else to end this.

  Mostly it was by my ex-boyfriend, the man I was in love with for two years. He’d grab my hands and place them where he wanted. I’d pull them away and try to laugh it off, but he’d frown and turn cold, asking me why I didn’t love him any more. My hips were grabbed and I was pulled on top; I’d shake my head and try to find a way to say no without making him angry. But everything he was saying made sense. What kind of a woman was I if I didn’t want to please my man?

  * * *

  As women, we have fought for our right to vote, to work. We can become astronauts, doctors, filmmakers, wrestlers, whatever. But it’s harder to do that in a world that favours men, and especially when we’re all damaged from the trauma that being female will bring. I grew up in a world where mothers told me to ‘watch out for men trying to get into your pants’. I was advised to pack a pair of flats if I was walking home from a party so I could run away. My friend carried a rape alarm from the age of fourteen. If you’re female, these tactics will not be unfamiliar to you.

  And yet, despite all of us experiencing constant patronising, sexism and abuse, I am so proud to be a woman, because we are so strong. We push onwards, and we fight with love and empathy.

  I feel so sorry for the little girl who felt that the only way to survive was to shut up and suffer.

  GRIEF

  I saw my dead grandpa lying in a coffin when I was seven years old. His skin was pink, plump and cold, and I cried because I was supposed to and because everyone was so sad.

  My cat died when I was ten. We wrapped his little body up in a blue towel and buried him in the garden. I sobbed heavily when I woke up every morning for about two weeks.

  My granny started to get ill when I was beginning my GCSE year. She had told me that one day she would be gone, but she would point to the sky and say that she would always be there, with God, looking down on us. I prayed to this God every night, begging him for more time. ‘Please at least let her see Hedy turn five years old,’ I’d whisper in bed. ‘I’m not ready. I’m not strong enough.’

  At the end of each hospital visit I would squeeze her hands softly and tell her I loved her. As we walked out of the ward I would stare back until we turned the corner, desperate to hold on to the sight of her for as long as possible, just in case it was the last time I would see her. This was our routine for the next two years, but exam time got heavier, and visits and late night bargaining with God became less frequent.

  I bounded out of school with my friend Neb. We had recently become closer; he had lost his dad a few years before, and it was helpful to talk to someone who knew about the hospital visits and the terrible atmosphere at home. From the gates I recognised my mum’s car, and I was happily surprised at the idea that I would be given a lift home instead of having to get the bus. I skipped towards the window and knocked. My mum sat, hunched, staring into nothing.

  Neb’s hand appeared on my shoulder. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Call me later,’ he said and squeezed, and hurried ahead. He definitely knew before I did.

  My face fell.

  I got into the car, my head spinning.

  She had got worse, I guessed.

  Mum just shook her head.

  ‘No,’ I yelped. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t strong enough.

  But this was it. We clung to each other and cried loudly as I tried to take on the weight of reality in my brain. There was so much guilt, regret and anger. My last visit had been two weeks ago. Why hadn’t I been in for so long? Did I tell her all the things I wanted her to know? Why didn’t I say goodbye?

  We drove home, and I shouted at God in my head. ‘Why would you do this? I hate you. I begged you for it to be okay and you gave me nothing.’

  * * *

  My friend Josh hadn’t come into sixth form for the last few weeks. He and I were two of four students from our A level music class, and we’d all banter with Mr Butler, playing ‘Für Elise’ on the crappy school keyboards and moaning over the time signatures of our set works. He would show me the shapes of chords and then pass me the guitar, helping to hold my fingers down on the frets to limit the buzzing while I strummed. He would let me quickly scribble down his notes from the homework I didn’t do while keeping a lookout for sir to come
into class. He would take the chair with a crack down the middle that pinched legs if you leaned a certain way so that us other three would be comfortable. But that chair had remained empty for a while, and we all frowned and shrugged at each other when we’d walk in and he wouldn’t be there.

  We heard the word everyone dreads to hear, but immediately with a ‘don’t worry’. Apparently it had been caught early, and there was a high chance of a full recovery from this type of cancer.

  I started to talk to God again.

  Six months later he came into school in non-uniform and with a bald head, but we didn’t talk about it. I sat on the cracked chair and we played guitar, filling him in on what he’d missed.

  Two weeks later me and my friend sobbed into each other’s shoulders in the girls’ loos by the vending machines. I thought about shouting at God again, but it felt like no one had ever heard me at all.

  * * *

  We have all heard of the stages of grief, but I had never realised just how prominent the ‘anger’ part of it would be. Loss just didn’t make sense! There was no good out of it! There was no reason, there were no new chapters; it just fucking sucked and that was it. The world had lost good people, and had damaged the good people who were still in it. So the confusion manifested into anger, and I became furious at religion for glorifying something so unfair and painful.

  I don’t know anything about the universe. I don’t know if there was someone or something listening to my begging and screams, and I don’t feel like Granny and Josh are watching me type this from comfy clouds. But I know that all things in the universe come to an end, and because we cannot predict or choose when that will be, we have to make the best out of it all. There is no point in fear, guilt or anger. Destiny simply doesn’t care, and what will be, will be. Forgive yourself for the goodbye you didn’t get to give; remind the people you love how wonderful they are to you. Death is horrible enough, so deal with it with kindness.