"The other day I was peacefully reading my book waiting to go to dinner, when the officer in the bubble (the central control room that manages the building), otherwise known as the "bubble man," called for me. My heart thumped a little because I couldn't imagine why he should want me just before dinner. (Like well conditioned Pavlovian pets, we learn quickly that some bells and whistles bring food and some unpleasant shocks. I felt a heightened sense of unpleasant shock on the way). However when I approached him, he smiled and said I needed to go to the medical building and pick up my meds.

I scrunched up my face at him. "Meds? I don't take medicine. I probably need to, I probably should but I don't." He stopped smiling and said he didn't know anything about that but I needed to go and pick up my. meds.

Not one to. argue with authority, I went on my merry way. I decided as I went that my therapist, whose name starts with an M, may have called for me. I walked in the door boldly and headed for her office. Her office was dark and no one was around. A little more uncertain, I turned in a new direction and decided that perhaps my councilor, whose name sounds a little bit like meds, might have asked to see me.

I waited until she was finished with her line of clients and then popped my head in. No, she had not called for me she was heading home. The section of the medical building where I was bumbling around was dark and eerie. Extremely bewildered and rather anxious, I am an inmate wandering around unsupervised in an area that looks closed. I don't know where I am going. I don't know where I am supposed to be. I don't know what I'm doing and I am afraid that if I am challenged by an officer, I'll spend some time in the holding cell while everything gets straightened out. Going to the holding cell is not fun and I would miss dinner.

As I stood there dithering, what to do, I spotted a very friendly kind officer. I called out and raced towards her. Fast-talking, I explained everything and she suggested I ask the bubble people in another part of the building.

My confidence a little restored, I at least had a direction and someone of authority weighting my steps, I set off for the "residential bubble." Two seconds later I realized I didn't have a clue where I was or where residential was. I was lost.

Being lost in prison isn't as ridiculous as it, sounds. At a different prison I nearly walked off the grounds trying to find the school building. There are many buildings, many hallways, many doors, many rooms and it all has a maze like sameness. It is easy to get turned around. I also have to admit that I have no sense of direction. Before prison, I would get lost going to the grocery store and would have terrible anxiety about getting home again. I had to find a route and stick to it and even then, if I started day dreaming I would get lost.

I did finally, accidentally, find the residential bubble and there discovered that I was picking up mail that had itself gotten lost on its way to me. My heart rate returning to normal, the clenched knot in my gut loosening.

I realized that it had been many years since I had been so thoroughly lost. I used to be accustomed to lumbering around in a fog. In recent years, however, I have begun to have a little clarity and direction. My navigation has improved. Nonetheless, my adventure in the medical building showed me that I still have so much geography to learn." (Elizabeth Haysom, Fluvanna Review, June 30, 2005)

Elizabeth Haysom is presently incarcerated at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women in Troy, Virginia. This column is one of a series, published under the general heading 'Glimpses from Inside.'