The Mirror World of Melody Black

18

A SECOND LETTER: THE MOST ASTONISHING THING IN THE TATE MODERN

Dear Abby,

So here I am again: another letter that you might never read. But Barbara said I should go ahead and write it anyway. She thinks it might do me some good. I’ve no idea if that’s true, but it’s not as if I have a lot of other options right now. And I suppose it’s liberating, in a way – writing a letter that will probably end up in the bin in a few hours’ time. At least I don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing. I figure I can just tell you exactly what’s been going through my mind over the past week, good and bad. And if, by some small chance, you are reading this – if you’re well enough to read it – then perhaps this is still the best way to go about things. There’s no point writing something dishonest, right?

Last night was a bad one for me. I was up until God knows when thinking about us, trying to work out where and when everything went wrong. Because things have gone wrong. That’s the conclusion I’ve been forced to draw. You won’t see me, you won’t talk to me. If you don’t want me around now, of all times, then what exactly does that say about our relationship? The truth is, I’m not sure how much longer I can go on like this. I don’t want to leave you, I really don’t, but more and more, it feels like the choice is out of my hands. You’ve already left.

For a while, I tried telling myself that perhaps this is for the best. Because if I can’t be there for you right now, as you seem to think, then what future can we possibly have? Just more of the same: endless ups and downs which neither of us can do a damn thing to prevent. We’d be better off apart. It stands to reason.

Except, of course, it’s not that easy. I’m reminded of that old cliché – one of your favourites: you can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family. Well, whoever came up with that should have added that you can’t choose who you fall in love with either.

So do you know what I ended up thinking about last night? I was trying to list all the reasons we’d be better off apart, and instead I found myself remembering all the details of our first date. You took me to the Tate Modern and made me grade all the paintings A–E. It was a little terrifying, to be honest, or it was at first – less a getting-to-know-you than a weird cultural initiation test. I remember asking you if we couldn’t just go for a quiet drink instead, and you told me no, for two reasons: 1) Taste in art was much more revealing than taste in alcohol. 2) You were flat broke, so we had to do something free. Shortly after that, we had our first ever argument – over Francis Bacon’s Seated Figure. I graded it C and you went apoplectic and started waxing lyrical about how it was one of only three pieces in the gallery that was beyond reproach and deserved an A++ (along with Souza’s Crucifixion and Dali’s Metamorphosis of Narcissus). But the truth is, I’d pretty much stopped looking at the paintings by then. I only had eyes for you, and I came really close to telling you that a couple of times. But I couldn’t, of course, not on a first date. It would have sounded too much like a line.

Well, it wouldn’t have been a line. So I can tell you now, three years after the fact in a letter you won’t read. You were astonishing that day. The most astonishing thing in the Tate Modern. After just a couple of hours together, I already knew that my life would feel much, much poorer without you in it.

And you have to know that a big part of me still feels that way, three years down the line. It’s just that things have got a whole lot more complicated.

Early on, I used to think we could get through anything. Actually, no. If I’m being honest, what I thought was more naïve than that. I thought that I could get you through anything, that it was just a case of unconditional support, of drying your tears and patiently waiting for things to get better. But back then I had no idea how draining it can be, trying to look after someone who, at best, doesn’t appreciate the effort. God, that sounds harsh, set out in black and white like that, but I don’t think it’s a judgement you’d contradict. I remember you telling me once that depression is a completely selfish condition, one that takes away your ability to engage with anything beyond the fog in your own head. You have nothing to give, no energy or emotion that isn’t turned inwards. So when you’re at your worst, it’s not a case of being there to dry your tears. There aren’t any tears to dry. There’s just this void, this empty shell that can’t be reasoned with or comforted.

Then there’s the mania, which is every bit as intractable, with the added problem that half the time I don’t even know how best to support you. Yes, I’ve got better at spotting the early warning signs, but at what point am I supposed to intervene? You’re feeling brighter, happier, creative, energized – perhaps for the first time in weeks – so why would you want any of that to stop? And why would I? I don’t want to be the person who’s constantly holding you back, smothering that spark that makes you you. But we both know how quickly things can slide. Energy turns to hyperactivity, thrill-seeking, spiralling hedonism, self-destructiveness – at which point it’s far too late to rein you in.

There was a time when I used to be an optimist. I used to think that things were bound to get easier in the future, however distant that future might be. Even when crisis followed crisis, I was always able to convince myself that now, finally, we’d been through the worst. We’d hit rock bottom, but now you were going to get the help you needed, and things would have to improve. I felt that way last year when you burned yourself and had to be hospitalized for forty-eight hours. I felt that way after we’d got through that awful couple of months when you were starting then stopping the lithium. But I don’t feel like that any more. At some point in the past few weeks, I’ve stopped believing that things will get better rather than worse.

So where does that leave us? God, I wish I knew. I’ve been writing for more than an hour now, it’s just gone midnight and I’m still no clearer about anything. There’s just this jumble of contradictions that seems to amount to one giant no-win situation.

I still love you, I still miss you. But I’m no longer sure that’s going to be enough.