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Alyssa Lee Clear

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Dorothy Mort

February 23, 2017
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I feel guilt for saying this, but initially I couldn't help but find fault with the victim in the case of Dorothy Mort. Some background: Dorothy Mort was suffering from at the very least, depression and anxiety. Things only got worse after her abusive father committed suicide. Her husband called the best doctor he could find, Dr. Claude Tozer, who was also a war hero and acclaimed Cricket player. Soon, Dorothy seems to be feeling better, but her and her doctor are writing rather amorous letters to one another. They may or may not have been intimate in other ways. After some time, Tozer breaks off the affair, supposedly to marry another woman. Dorothy fatally shoots him and then attempts to kill herself. It seems she narrowly missed her heart, then attempted to overdose on laudanum, but is eventually found, treated and taken to trial. She is acquitted on grounds of insanity, and spends eight years in Long Bay prison hospital before being released and sent home. 

The accounts on this vary so much. I first watched it reenacted on Deadly Women, where they heavily imply the affair was sexual, and while condemning Tozer's bedside manner, also claim that Dorothy fooled the jury and "got away with murder." Something about that didn't sit right with me, because I thought ... he was still her doctor, we have no idea just how ill this woman was. Then I found many articles where he was called a "dallying doctor" and described as handsome and a charmer. That didn't do much to sway my thinking, it only strengthened it. I attempted to read a book called "Mrs. Mort's Maddness," but I'll be honest, I couldn't get through it. I grew impatient. Then I found an article from The Sydney Morning Herald by Malcolm Knox that concluded with "There were no rights and wrongs, only a final tragedy and ruined lives." 

He points to mental illness as the biggest factor here, and notes the possibility that Tozer may very well have been suffering from undiagnosed PTSD. Far from the playboy depictions, Tozer had been engaged to a woman who tragically died of influenza a few months after his return from the war. His father had passed while he was away. The woman he told Dorothy he was engaged to marry was completely made up. He just knew he needed to end the relationship, and presumably, he thought this was the best way to go about it. He was obviously, tragically wrong. 

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It seems as if Dorothy and Claude may have found kindred spirits in one another, united in their depleted/fragile mental states and recent losses of their fathers. I felt so much sympathy then for Dr. Tozer, who it seems truly cared for Dorothy, and was battling his own demons. Dorothy was very lucky in this situation. Her husband was more than devoted, standing by her through everything, acknowledging her illness, and welcoming her home when she was deemed stable. She went on to live a quiet, uneventful life with her husband and children, and even outlived Mr. Mort.

It really calls to mind just how differently things can go when you have a strong support system. Even the judge and jury were willing to recognize Dorothy's mental illness, allowing her to get treatment and live a relatively stable life. With Claude Tozer, the mere possibility that he may have been afflicted with his own illness is only just being raised, nearly a century later. Provided he really was suffering from PTSD, he was far from shunned, but being revered would have had its own share of problems. It can be difficult to recognize mental illness --even, and oftentimes especially, in oneself-- but this is why self reflection is so crucial, as is dismantling all of the stigmas and preconceived notions we harbor about mental illnesses.

This was a deeply personal one for me, as I had to pry open some old wounds and revisit the thoughts that ran rampant in my head during the deepest points of my depression. You really can't speak from the perspective of a sick mind without poisoning your own a little in the process. Of course, I know that mental illness manifests so differently in each of us, and I strongly believe in the importance of making those experiences visible. So if there's a femme fatale you feel that you relate to, or just anything you feel like sharing, please feel free to contact me, and I'll try to cover some different experiences in future stories. 

xo,

Miss Arsenous Apple Pie

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Tree climbing in heels, Christmas edition ❤️🎄👠 . . . . . #alwaysinheels #nevergrowup #heelsforever #climbingtrees #treeclimber #treehugger #fromthe60s #60sstyle #vintagestyle #santastyle #vintagefashion #vintagewardrobe #thrifted #thriftedwardrobe #thriftedstyle
It was our entire life, going up in flames. Cork, silently suffering while I frantically searched for help, help that would never come, help that was never there. That never existed. I’d been watching him burn alive for years now, screaming at
It was our entire life, going up in flames. Cork, silently suffering while I frantically searched for help, help that would never come, help that was never there. That never existed. I’d been watching him burn alive for years now, screaming at him to care, to realize I loved him, the children loved him, to realize he was brilliant and strong and capable, to stop wanting to die. He had so much to live for. Our lives were full of meaning. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands between his legs, his eyes empty as they started at me, silently begging: “stop trying to save me.” ... #pinup #pinupgirl #lemonprint #backseam #vintage #vintagestyle #vintagegirl #femmefatale #storytelling #truecrime #crimedrama #depressionawareness
I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and ref
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and reflecting it back into the darkness. A futile attempt at illuminating something so much more vast and encompassing then they could ever be. After the shattering of glass, the frantic scrambling through the bushes, the screams into the nothingness surrounding me, there was only silence. I was the only one making noise. That stagnant night air had wrapped itself around the car like a blanket, like the blanket wrapped around Cork, who, the entire time, had been silently burning alive, too sedated to move, too sedated to feel, too sedated to scream.
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weeken
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weekend, but I do hope you will.’* I couldn’t have loved the man more. But he never could see it — not the love and admiration I harbored for him or all the wonderful qualities in himself that made me love and admire him. He saw all his faults and shortcomings. He saw my overspending and blamed himself for not making enough money. I loved Cork so much, but none of that love could ever make him love himself. Do you know how difficult that is? To see someone you love and cherish just ... falling apart ... right in front of you. *Fabricated: Lucille’s father recalled the note Cork sent to Lucille & it’s general sentiments, but the exact wording isn’t documented.
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I can’t deny that. There was just ... always something more. A dress that made me feel beautiful, a home that felt special, another man that looked at me like I meant something. That’s always been my downfall, I guess. Nothing is ever enough. I want it so desperately until I have it. Then I don’t know what to do with it. I convince myself that this time it’ll be different, this time it’ll satisfy me, this time I can stop looking. Just this once. But then I have it, and I’m still empty, and something else comes along and catches my eye and I start the longing process all over again.
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good&rdq
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good” or “bad?” A court decided I was bad, as did a prosecutor, a couple detectives. But you take the fragments of a terrible accident, and the fragments of an imperfect life, an imperfect marriage, an imperfect person, you toss them into a binder and you read the worst parts of it all. Anyone can seem terrible when you only look at their flaws, can’t they?
Here’s a hastily-made hyper dramatic “trailer”/bts for my upcoming story, based on the life & trial of Lucille Miller. Look out for it after the weekend! 😘 In the meantime, a little background on the premise of Lucille’s story & Arsenous Apple Pie in general: Now’s as good a time as any to address this. These stories, while rooted in true crimes, are told from a perspective I couldn’t possibly understand. I pull from films, from interviews and articles, from observations and life experiences, and I try to create stories that do more than describe a crime. The crimes become a lens through which we view human experiences, taking the most severe actions & emotions present in humanity, exploring the deepest and darkest aspects of our minds, and ruminating on the things that push us to that place. That being said, I don’t always believe in the guilt of the convicted women I portray — something I try to make clear when appropriate. Nonetheless, they’ve been pushed to an extreme place, and are facing tragedy, demons, or a cruel court of public opinion. I believe there is always a great deal to learn from researching these cases, especially when you attempt to mentally put yourself in that position. In the past, I’ve told stories from the point of view of someone suffering with depression or some form of mental illness, as it’s a perspective I’m acutely familiar with. With Lucille, I decided to flip it, & show a person deeply in love with and hopelessly trying to save a husband suffering from depression. Much has been written about Lucille Miller, including “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream,” a highly-regarded essay by the great Joan Didion & “A Mother’s Crime,” a touching piece for the Los Angeles Times by Lucille’s own daughter, Debra Miller. Many people harbor opinions on Lucille’s crime, her character, and her life. This was true when it all went down in the 60’s, and remains true to this day. For better or worse, this is not one you’ll have read before. 💋, Miss Arsenous Apple Pie
Epilogue: And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate. I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woma
Epilogue: And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate. I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woman. But again, facts be damned, right? History wants what it wants, and all it really wants is a good story. So many lives, reduced to nothing but grocery store gossip and dinner party conversation starters. In a rare instance where someone seemed to realize the gruesome nature of a trial becoming mere entertainment for the bored masses, Arthur Brisbane of the San Francisco Examiner asked, "Does a great State deserve to have on its records the first hanging of a white woman, or a black woman, either?" It all depends on who you ask, Arthur, it all depends on who you ask.
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel better by insisting I loved their attention. Stoic, uninterested, and defiant in court, I "giggled" for the press and "entertained" in my jail cell. They truly seemed to have convinced themselves that not only did I enjoy the attention, but that they were somehow doing me a favor by making me into a celebrity. Or perhaps they just saw this as the pinnacle of their careers and weren't concerned with mere fatal casualties. Facts be damned, they wanted a good story, and a good story needs a good ending. A good ending, it seems, never does include a living antagonist.

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