I used to know my name, sometimes
I almost remember it, hear my mother
calling me in a dream, but it's gone
come morning. Nurse tells me she
remembers it always and will tell me
anytime. Mother put me here young,
thought I got auntie's sickness or maybe
some badness from grandfather's brother
who ran away. Nurse says it's brain wiring
gone awry and I'm not to believe it's my fault.
Fragmented, fuzzy memories of the man
in my room at home float in and out in ways I can't grab.
Nurse says the treatments scramble things a bit
and keep me from remembering. I wonder
just who that helps? Somedays I worry
they'll forget my name when nurse is gone.
Margaret, at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, has a stunning, moving story of the Willard Asylum in New York and two projects to photograph its remains. One by photographer, Lisa Gordon, who has photographed the buildings after their closure in 1995. The haunting photo above is hers of a Willard grave marker with only the number 95 to identify the person buried there as was the case in 5,776 out of 6,000 patients who died at Willard from 1869- 1995.
And the other project is by photographer Jon Crispin who is photographing the 400 suitcases and their contents that were discovered in the attic of the Asylum after it became a prison in the mid 90's. It's called "The Willard Suitcases". Follow Margaret's link to see some of them.
Margaret also included some poems from the Diary of Anna Anderson who was hospitalized at Willard. Please go and read Margaret's post- you'll be glad you did. It's important that we not forget these people who did nothing more that have a mental illness outside their control or behavior deemed unacceptable by their families.
