Women's Psych Ward
On that July day of confusion and discord,
I entered the women's psychiatric ward.
A place I'd been in before,
receiving a calming shot in my buttocks
on the floor.
I was delirious with my panicked
psyche,
thinking I was in Purgatory.
Wondering if I'd ever be in "the world" again,
frightened, but wanting a new friend.
Asked for a Gideon's Bible,
not given one, wanting mental revival.
Some younger women there,
some elderly like me-
from behind a closed door,
wails of despair.
Complaints about lunch from a
demanding patient haughtily,
while contemporary music played
on the dayroom t.v.
Arts and crafts,
classes with therapy staff.
Me being obnoxious sometimes,
wanting to be in the nurses's station,
not knowing what was going on in the nation.
A hummingbird outside my window-
in such a serene summer twilight,
at times feeling lonely in my room at night.
My thoughts racing like Thoroughbreds,
comfort of coffee with less anxiety,
and sane coversation instead.
Missing my family,
new medications coursing through me.
A walkway on our ward-
for women to exercise and daydream,
better than wanting to scream.
I made a temporary friend there,
gave her my phone number-
but when I got back into the world,
she never called, but I didn't despair,
sometimes a friend is a friend for
measured hours,
a companion lasting as long as a
bouquet of fresh flowers.
A women's psych ward-
not always duress,
but a stepping stone for this poetess.
To be with others who suffer but strive too,
in our own realm, surviving through. ~
Copyright ©
Regina Elliott
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