﻿ Journey to the Field

A difficult life.
Work, though menial, was satisfying
With dreams, clear and vivid.
I was determined to make life one of accomplishment and pride.

Then came challenges, interference, lost opportunities,
The loneliness of being away from family and friends.
The failure of a life never quite good enough
Creating despondency and havoc.  

An unwelcome rush of unknown people
Demanded travel to a place where
The weight of my worry could be contained,
Sparing society from a confrontation with confusion, desperation and despair.  

Now mingling with other sent away souls,
All placed together where few people go,
And from where fewer ever leave.

Pacing, panic, never ending.
Explosions of emotions, wild and uncontained,
Countered with the solitude and loneliness of isolation.

Time passed, measured only by the sound of doors closing, and
The count of meals eaten.

Surrounded by horrors, how does one heal?
Submerged in baths too hot, and water too cold.
Spasms from wicked wires on temples.
The numbing shock of insulin depressing life’s sweetness.
The emptiness of tranquilizers dulling worlds.

And when it ended, the field was waiting.
Alone still, yet buried amid thousands.
I am numbered and nameless among the others who,
Like me,
Yearned only to be free.

Jane Weber
November 12, 2009

In recognition of those who died in psychiatric hospitals and were buried and forgotten in their cemeteries.   

Journey to the Field