0 comments/ 9781 views/ 0 favorites Dance Without Sleep By: quinnhemmingway Tori Amos' "Silent All These Years." That was the last song I heard before I was placed in a psych ward. Most people referred to it as a "nuthouse" or a "loony bin." I thought that those terms were rather crude. Case Number 65-667-767. Max Alexander Colvin. Hospitalized three times for acute depression and suicidal thoughts. Suicide attempts were unsuccessful. Patient ingested a large doze of a prescribed antidepressant. Substance in question, "Zoloft." Subject showed signs of obsessive compulsive behavior. Seemed to be suffering from low self-esteem and brief bouts of mania, which affected his mood from time to time. In other words folks, I was absolutely crackers and I needed some serious professional help. And helped I was. At the Amelia Winterson Clinic For The Mentally Disturbed. Although, the part about the mentally disturbed was omitted from the plaque on the front gate. From what I heard, the term "mentally disturbed" wasn't appropriate for Lincoln Park. I had a habit of shortening things. Phrases, words. The "Winterson Center" sounded much nicer. It went over better at social functions and family gatherings. Our hospital used to be a therapeutic day school. It had that smell, that compressed, armpit like smell that was made worse by the generic floor polish that was applied to those hardwood floors, the ones that were found in a privileged public school. The third floor was untouched, the flip top desks were still lined up in rows of three and "Old Glory" was still bowing down to the blackboard. The pink crayola chalk was still on the silver edge, along with the erasers that hadn't been cleaned in god knows when. There were five floors in our building. Our schoolhouse, if you will. The girls slept on the fourth floor and the boys slept on the second floor. The second floor and the fourth floor looked exactly the same. Each floor was painted lavender and each floor had three doors on the right. Three doors on the right and three doors on the left. The maximum capacity was twelve girls and twelve boys on each floor, twenty four psychotics in all. There were two girls to a room and there were six rooms in all. There was one minor difference. The boys ward had one window. It was in my room, the room I shared with Robert, one of my fellow lunatics. The girls ward didn't have windows at all, only heating vents. All of us, (boys and girls,) had heating vents. We all had desks. The desks stood against the wall and each desk had a lamp on it. Each lamp was shaped like a giraffe. The bulbs were as dim as shit. They barely gave off any light. Not enough to read by. The floors were granola colored. Were sticky, cold, and poorly washed. They had bleach stains on them that were shaped like Wisconsin. The nurses station was on the first floor. All the nurses wore turtlenecks. They had beige pants that were creased rather perfectly in each leg. They wore Doc Martins. Their shoes had spaghetti colored laces. Johnny was the day guard. He had sculpted arms and an under whelming gut. He was the guy that announced your presence and your purpose to the nurse that was on staff. He whistled an Eric Clapton tune while he waited for the door to buzz him in. The door buzzed, Johnny whistled. He did a curtsey as he waved me by. He flashed me an impersonal smile. A smile that dripped of detachment. I went ahead, saw the nurse station that looked like a Photo-Mat booth from the nineteen eighties. The phone behind the Plexiglas rang, the clock that was on the wall above the Plexiglas ticked towards eleven AM. "Got another one. Mr. Max Colvin." Johnny smiled, took a breath that told everyone about his ambitions. This "psych ward" wasn't for him. Guys like him always breathed like that, especially when they hated their job. In his eyes, this whole nuthouse scene was downright monotonous. Johnny had dark skin, thick cheeks, a nose that was shaped like a cornstalk, and a diamond stud in his left ear. He slid a manila envelope under the hole, and then he shifted his body weight onto his right leg. I moved towards the day room. He looked at me with an aire of suspicion. There was an olive green couch along the wall, opposite of the slightly open window that had its chicken wire screen down. A brunette with long fingers was eating a packet of sugar. She had an orgasmic look in her eyes when she swallowed. There was an all American boy sitting next to her. He sniffed his nose more often than usual, liked the way his fingers felt when they ran through his blond locks, which were sculpted in a mushroom style dew. A rail thin girl with shoulder length black hair was sitting at an almond colored table. She was crossing and uncrossing her legs as she wrote in a journal. Its paper was unusually thick and it was bound with rubber bands. Her tongue protruded her teeth. She saw me watching her. She turned her head to acknowledge me. She made an "ummmmmmmmm" sound and closed her eyes. Her shoulders wiggled, her head swiveled. She was grooving to her own beat. A beat that only she only heard. Johnny made a motion with his index finger. He asked me for one more moment, and then he cursed me under his breath. He stepped behind me, put his hand on my shoulder. I felt his Cheeto breath on the back of my neck. "You'll meet them later." Johnny smiled at the light skinned nurse with the purple nails. He dismissed me with his eyes. I was just another scared little boy who had taken the road less traveled. I had to admit, he wasn't that far off. "What's the secret to this place?" I asked, thinking about his height, how he towered over me. I wondered if my voice had any chance of reaching him, if he was even listening to me. I just saw a head, a huge head. His nostrils looked three dimensional. "What was the question, kid?" he asked, rather annoyed. He smiled at the day nurse and she flashed him a smile that said, "leave the kid alone." "What's the secret to this place?" I asked again, like some pre-schooler in a cheesy holiday commercial. Johnny looked at me, and I looked at him, and he looked at the day nurse. She wondered about him. Was he being difficult or was just he being indifferent? The players: The girl with the sugar fixation was named Glory. She was hospitalized for an eating disorder. Namely, anorexia nervosa. The only thing that she ate was sugar. Sugar for lunch, sugar for breakfast, sugar for dinner. Even the feeding tube didn't change anything. Glory still ate sugar and she still refused to eat anything else. In the morning she ate sugar. In the evening she ate sugar. At bedtime, she took her nighttime sleeping meds. She took her meds, she drank the water, she ate some more sugar. Glory was an angel. She never talked and she never caused trouble. There was a blond haired guy with a mushroom cut. His name was Robert. He talked fast and he talked often and he talked like a junkie and he made jokes that weren't funny and he sniffed his nose every few minutes and he had the mood swings of an addict. At once he was happy. At once he was mellow, withdrawn, and disillusioned. Incidentally, he was a cocaine addict. Although, he hated that word. The word "addict." He was hated by all of us. The stupid bastard was so lucky. He had a dad that really cared about him. The asshole took it for granted. He didn't understand that someone had to pay for the hospital. His father was deeply in debt. The "Winterson Center" was his latest creditor. Diana was the girl with the journal. Like Glory, she was on the unit because she wasn't eating. Unlike like Glory, Diana managed to avoid the feeding tube when she was threatened with it. Diana's mother visited her every once in awhile. She was intent on lowering her daughter's self-esteem. Diana's mom was alot like my father. She had to put someone else down in order to feel good. Saturday was visiting day. Parents and patients gathered in the day room and when there weren't that many chairs available, the patients sat down on the floor. I remembered one occasion. Diana was sitting by the window ledge. The window was open but the chicken wire screen was down. She was blowing smoke through the chicken wire and her mother, who had some sort of inferiority complex, had trouble sitting still. "This is what I'm paying for?" "You don't have to pay for it," Diana used to say, trying to pretend that her mother's disdain didn't hurt her. "You threatening to check out again," her mom would say, annoyed by the phone in the nurses station. It rang and rang and the ceiling tiles creaked and they hunched forward and Diana's mom thought of the check, the one that she was going to stop payment on. "It's not a threat," Diana used to say. "Oh Diana. Suicide is such an original idea." Group: We had group therapy on every other Thursday at Noon. It was lead by Nathaniel Sawyer, PHD. His hair was mostly gray, though some black hairs had managed to hold their ground. Dr. Sawyer had this awful ponytail extension that was reminiscent of road kill. It had a plastic look and it was to gray to be real. It hung obediently at the base of his neck. As was his custom, the good doctor was always late. He always had a pack of Camels in his shirt pocket. He always wore a shirt that was wrinkled at the bottom. His shirts had brown iron burns near the small of the back. The good doctor's eyes were bloodshot, which lead me to one conclusion. Our fearless leader was into chemistry when he wasn't boring us to death in group. I mean, group was totally unnecessary. I had Group at noon and then I had a therapy session at two. When group ended my verbal wad was usually blown. My therapist and I usually engaged in a staring contest for sixty minutes. I looked at the clock, saw the hands as they convened at the number twelve. It was a sight. Sawyer was sitting there with his black composition book and his lucky bic pen, and his purple squeeze ball that he always carried in his left hand. His legs were crossed and his gapped, yellow teeth flashed proudly when he smiled. The bastard was actually on time. I couldn't believe it. He gave me a therapeutic smile. The smile that all the new people got. Sawyer wanted to come across as a tireless worker. The caring warden of the lunatic asylum. The man who wasn't looking for an emotional connection. Sawyer coughed. He looked at Diana. He wondered what she was smiling about. Glory felt for her sugar packet under the couch. She looked like she was constipated, and then she sighed rather contentedly when she felt the flimsy white paper of the Domino sugar packet. Robert sniffed his nose, did his best James Dean. He looked at the clock, wondered when this pointless exercise was going to start. Sawyer scanned the sacrificial lambs, was suspicious of Diana's smile. Sawyer looked at me and he wondered why I wasn't smiling. He scribbled a note in his composition book and I noticed his hands. They moved like a symphony conductor. "Glory, do you want to start?" Glory clapped her hands, looked at the clock. She mumbled an expletive under her breath and looked up at Webster. She cursed him with her eyes and she wondered what the hell he wanted from her. "Not today doc." She shook her head, flashed Sawyer a smile. The smile was rather informative. She, Glory Skyler, had nothing witty to say. Sawyer sighed a disappointed sigh, scribbled in his notebook. He cursed himself. He knew that Glory wasn't going to talk. Diana told me about Glory. She had never shared anything in group. Glory only spoke when it was absolutely necessary. Diana raised her hand and Sawyer's mouth froze. His lips were suspended in mid-sentence. His feeble little mind was flooded with quotes. Quotes from the psychology book that he had studied in college. Her eyes closed, her head did a sexy little shimmy. Diana threw her shoulders back and sighed. She wondered if she was capable of playing it straight. "May I speak, Jackson?" "Go ahead," Sawyer nodded. He wondered what Diana was up to. "Who's, the ne-wwwwww guy?" "Well, he's..." "He's definitely not a Sera," Diana remarked, giving me a territorial look. A look that told me where I stood. She wanted me to know whose turf this was. Diana grinned, crossed her arms, leaned back on the couch. Sawyer collected his thoughts. He went over his battle plan. His battle plan for the rest of the group. Sawyer looked at me with pleading eyes. Since I was new, I was supposed to save him. Glory picked up her head, shot Diana a dirty look. Glory wanted this madness to end. Diana's semantics were just going to prolong things. Sawyer was working till three. He had no place to go. "Play it straight," pleaded Robert, trying to offer constructive criticism without pissing Diana off. She stuck her tongue out at Glory, dismissed Robert with a wave of her hand. "Does the Sera, have an opinion?" Diana inquired. She looked at Sawyer and Sawyer looked at me. She reminded me of a professional interviewer. Her fingers were on her chin. Her eyes gave me special attention. They told me something. My words really mattered. "He can't be a Sera. A Sera is always female." Glory chimed in. She spoke rather softly. Diana conveyed a sense of mock surprise. Her mouth was wide open. It refused to close. She wanted everyone to laugh. In her mind, this situation was absolutely absurd. Glory Skyler had finally spoken. Her words were unsolicited, a gesture of unbridled spontaneity. Robert, (the coke addict,)looked at Diana. Sawyer looked at Robert and Sawyer begged him not to laugh. Robert did laugh. He laughed and then Diana laughed. Diana laughed and then I laughed. Glory shrugged and looked at Dr. Sawyer. She wondered what was so funny. "What did I say?" wondered Glory. "You spoke!" chirped Diana, waving her finger rather dramatically. The gesture reminded me of Bob Barker. Bob Barker and the showcase showdown. "Hallelujah," nodded Robert. He wondered about this moment. Was it ironic? "Can we..." "May I say, you're doing a hell of a job." Diana grinned, tried to turn her put down into something else. I always remembered her grin. It stayed with me. It stayed with me after I left the ward. I didn't know what the hell her grin meant. I knew one thing though. I wanted to see it as often as I could. Sawyer scribbled in his notebook and looked at the clock. It was only twelve fifteen. We were far from done. The Lingo: Girls were nicknamed "Sera's." Only females were known as "Sera's." That was an unspoken rule on the unit. Of course, Diana always broke the rule. She called everyone a "Sera." "Welcome to the room, sister Sera." That was Diana's greeting. She always said that to me. She said it to everyone in fact. Glory always objected to the greeting. She thought that the word "Sera" was being misused. Glory never acknowledged the greeting. Robert didn't either. Although, he thought that Glory was being overly dramatic. Robert hated conflict. A "frontliner" was someone that had to be constantly watched. All the frontliner's, male or female, were on suicide watch. When you were on suicide watch, you were placed on level one. Level one was the lowest level on the unit. There were no phone privileges on level one. The staff confiscated your shoelaces when you were on suicide watch. You couldn't eat with metal utensils when you were on suicide watch. These were all safety precautions. No death by hanging. No death by cutting. Hence, shoelaces were confiscated. Hence, the utensils were plastic. When you reached level two when you were taken off suicide watch. On level two your phone privileges were reinstated, but you weren't allowed visitors. You weren't allowed to use the bathroom without supervision. Level three was the highest level. Visiting privileges were reinstated, walks around the courtyard were permitted. On level three, you were allowed to eat with metal utensils. Oh yah, your shoelaces were returned. Actually, they were placed in your possession box. Your possessions were returned when you left the unit. During my stay at the Winterson Center, no one reached level three. Diana and I got as high as level two, and Robert was on level three for a day. Then he failed his piss test. After Robert got to level three, he earned himself a day pass. During the pass, Robert relapsed. He relapsed on coke and he blew off curfew. Robert missed his curfew and he dropped a level. It was that simple. It was my attitude that kept me on level two. I refused to be therapeutic. I took my meds, but I didn't do the work. I talked to my therapist when I wanted to and I rarely spoke in group. I called the art therapist a "fucking loony." As for Diana, she didn't say much in group. Mostly, she read the newspaper. Sometimes she read a book during art therapy. She liked Jay McInerney. The staff didn't know what to do with Glory. I mean, she wasn't that much of a problem. Glory never ate though. Glory was supposed to eat. That was her goal. She was supposed to put on 15 pounds in six weeks. Of course, Glory dropped more weight. She kept eating sugar. Subsequently, she was forced fed with a feeding tube and she remained on level two. On the ward, only a person with behavior problems was supposed to be dropped to level one. That was the staff's policy. There was a white board on the right side of the nurses station. It looked like a grilled cheese sandwich. The names were listed in the following order. Glory Diana Robert Max Level 2 Level 2 Level 2 Level 1 The first three names were written in red. Red symbolized the second level. My name was written in green. Green symbolized newness. I was the newest addition to the "Winterson Center." Therapy: My therapist was named Ginny. She wore a rather gothic shade of eyeliner around her eyes. It accentuated the blueness of them. Granny skirts were Ginny's trademark. She wore these baggy sweaters that engulfed her body. Her face was disjointed, and the bones meshed in an uneven sort of way. She talked like a therapist. Every sentence came from a psychology book. Ginny's body had a coat hangar sort of look. It curved abnormally in the strangest of places. Ginny's office was rather basic. Light blue walls, a dirty white window blind that desperately needed dusting, a pop tart colored bookshelf that had tiny holes in each of its sides. A red desk featured a generic brand of laptop, a cracker shaped clock radio, and two manila folders that were stacked neatly on either side. The clock ticked, the heating vent hummed. Ginny leaned in closer, clapped her hands together. She flashed me a smile. It was supposed to be reassuring. Ginny sighed, looked at me with awe and wonder. "Why are you here, Max?" I laughed and I wondered if some bullshiting was in order. I thought therapists were like mobsters. In other words, they came with smiles. In other words, you couldn't trust them. "I took pills Ginny." There was my answer, simple and direct. I was proud of myself. "You can do better than that," she laughed, sitting straight up. Ginny brushed the lint off her skirt, the granny skirt that she was drowning in. I knew one thing. Ginny wasn't going to let up on me. "It's all Catherine's fault." "Who's Catherine?" asked Ginny, humoring me before she pounced on my answer. "She was a girl," I sighed, breathing a breath that was supposed to exude coolness, obliviousness. "And?..." urged Ginny, moving her hands in a circle. She was exerting just enough pressure on me. Ginny didn't want to be the heavy. A therapist never wanted to be the heavy. Ginny had all the bases covered. "And..." "Yes, Max." "She's gone." I smiled. My hands fell against my thighs. I threw my head back and I closed my eyes and I took a breath. I wondered if god was mocking me. Afterall, I had renounced Catholicism. "Can you be more specific?" Dance Without Sleep "No, I can't." "You can't?" she purred, challenging me. Ginny tried to come across as a guardian angel. She was the woman who held the key. The key to my sanity. The key to my recovery. "She left me, ok. She left me Ginny." Ginny was a misguided soul. I didn't blame Catherine for my meltdown. I blamed myself. Catherine, my ex, had nothing to do with my hospitalization. I took the pills. I went nuts. I was the obsessive one. Last I heard, Catherine was dating someone else. "So, it's this girl's fault. What's her name?" "Catherine," I said, almost inaudibly. I felt a tingle when I said her name. Her pedestal was rising. Higher and higher. "You blame her for this?" "For what?" "For your suicide attempt." "Let's not talk about Catherine," I begged, looking down at the floor. I adjusted my fuzzy blue house slippers and I studied the fibers of the carpet. I felt a heaviness in my head, felt a yawn coming on. The sleeping medicine I was on really worked. My head refused to stay up. I had to fight to stay awake. Then again, Ginny wasn't all that interesting to begin with. "Who?" wondered Ginny, watching the clock, adjusting her sweater. She tightened the fuzzy little donut that held her ponytail in place and she gave me a look. The look said, "you have to talk to me. Talking about it will make it better." "Catherine, my ex. The woman that I was in love with. "Is she a girl, or is she a woman?" "Does it matter?" "A few minutes ago, you referred to Catherine as a girl." "So?" "There's a difference between a woman and a girl, is there not?" "What's your point, Ginny?" I looked at the clock, stared out the window, heard Diana's singing beyond the door, which was closed. Glory was screaming for sugar and Robert, as was his custom, was sniffing his nose. He wanted his comb back, the one that his mother gave him. I took notes, started to visualize the trophy that Ginny was going to get. She was practically the greatest therapist of all time. God, Ginny was such a good listener. Well, at least she was something to look at for an hour. "Oh yes, Catherine. Catherine, the goddess who doomed your fate." "I never called her a goddess, Ginny." Interestingly enough, I had an idea where she was going. Ginny was about to dissect the theory of pedestal's. The pedestal that I had put Catherine on. Therapists always analyzed a person's motives, why people loved one another obsessively. I, speaking of obsessive love, fit that mold. I loved Catherine, loved her more than I loved myself. That folks, was not an understatement. That's how I ended up in the "nuthouse." Catherine: Catherine Ellen Augustine. You thought that it was the most beautiful name, the most romantic of names. You, yes you, were misguided. She was Kathy in the morning, and Catherine in the evening. You clung to her like some stray puppy dog. It was nice to be loved. You, yes you, liked that feeling. The feeling of being loved. You remembered her as a blond. She was about 97 pounds and she had a thin, slender nose. Her nail bed was painted red, cherry red. She was tall and she had slender legs and she had a rather graceful stride. Her hair flowed downward and it stopped at the small of her back and it wasn't sure what color it wanted to be. Brown or blond. You were reading "Girl, Interrupted" at the time. You thought that the author, Susanna Kaysen, was bright. She was witty and she knew where you were coming from. You enjoyed the theory about the mind. A "normal" person had the ability, courtesy of the right brain, to expunge odd thoughts from the sub conscious. For example, the left brain saw a tiger. The right brain saw the image, thought about its validity. It dismissed the image and then it consoled the left brain. The left brain was obviously in crisis. In a "sick person's" mind, the left brain saw a tiger. It was consulted by the right brain. The right brain, after some deliberation, made its decision. "The tiger," was not a figment of the person's imagination. There wasn't enough evidence to justify the hypothesis. The idea that the image in question was "abnormal." That was Susanna Kaysen's theory, it wasn't yours. You, weren't a plagiarist. "I love it," Catherine said, looking at the painting of the girl. The girl that was interrupted at her music. She was a pasty faced girl with a pear shaped cello on her left shoulder. Her eyes looked feverishly at the sheet music. It was placed neatly on the music stand. You noticed the woman with the aqua eyes. She was "The Adult." "The Adult" looked over the girl's shoulder and "The Adult" looked at the sheet music. She, ("The Adult,") had a helpful look on her face. You looked at it, thought of a passage from "Girl, Interrupted." Catherine thought that you were obsessed with that book, so you chose not to mention Susanna Kaysen again. You looked at the painting, wondered if your eyes were playing tricks on you. The painting went in and out of focus. It crumbled, shimmered, became transparent almost. You thought that you were crazy. "I want to marry you Catherine," you said. You watched her as she walked towards the Clemente piece. You heard the hollow sound of Catherine's heels. "Are you insane?" she asked, eyeing the crowd. She was self conscious about her voice, how loud it was. You remembered her stance. Her hands were on her hips. Her white blouse was tucked rather perfectly into a beige skirt. It was a sexy skirt, even though it stopped about 2 inches from her ankle. "I want to marry you, Catherine." She flipped her hair back and then she sighed. You were being ridiculous. "Oh Max," Catherine groaned, rather seductively. She put her hand on your shoulder and she looked into your eyes. Catherine kissed you on the cheek. Your blood became warm. You knew that she was the one. "Catherine, I'm in love with you." You grabbed her hand and then you stroked her knuckles. You turned her hand over and you traced the life line of her palm. You allowed your finger to roam. It roamed around the wide area of skin. Pink, freshly washed skin. "You're insane," she laughed, looking at the art lovers by the Monet. The light hit her face and the plainness of her skin was exposed. A few small pimples were present. You thought of your relationship as a china plate. From afar, everything seemed perfect. On closer inspection, there were cracks and blemishes and imperfections. The texture wasn't quite as beautiful. You looked at the painting and you glanced at Catherine's legs. They were adorned with fishnet stockings. She was the most beautiful woman that you had ever seen. You were only thirteen at the time. You were three years younger than Catherine. Epilogue: Glory was in therapy and Robert was in lockdown. He had failed yet another piss test. Diana was sitting at the table, legs crossed, pen in hand, notebook by her side. Diana's tongue protruded through her teeth and her eyes looked up from time to time. I looked at Diana. She looked towards the nurses station, and then she watched the clock. I looked at my slippers, and I made my hands into a chapel and I looked towards the window. The window with the chicken wire screen on it. The window was open and a few breaths of air managed to dribble through the screen. "What's the secret of this place?" I asked, looking at Diana and then looking away. I stared at my slippers again. She uncrossed her legs and she put the pen and the journal on the table and she looked at the chicken wire screen and she pondered her thoughts. Diana had probably been asked this question a million times. "Confession." "What?" She started to speak in a Freudian like accent. "You must confess your sins, dear boy." "And then?" "And then, you're cured. Ching!" Keep in mind, she still had her back turned to me. Her hands moved like a magician, like she was carrying the secret of life in the palm of her hand. I looked down at the floor and then I looked at my slippers. I saw the chicken wire screen again and I caught a glimpse of the black and white television. It was opposite the couch; the couch that was opposite of the table. The table that Diana used to journal on. "What if I can't think of anything?" Diana paused, pushed the seat back, moved towards the doorway, put her hand on the paneling. She watched the clock, heard the phone ring, thought about what life was like when someone wasn't telling you what to do. She went to the window, put her face to the screen, felt the dribble of wind on her face. Diana closed her eyes, enjoyed the taste of the outside. She sat down on the floor, put her fist on her cheek. "Repeat the question, Sera?" "You talked about confession." "Yah, so?" "Confession is the secret to this place, right?" "What the fuck do you wanna know?" "What if I have nothing to confess?" She laughed and looked away. I thought that she was bored or appalled by the question. I didn't know which. "Then you're a lifer, like me."