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."