As most of you know, I’ve been working through some issues from childhood. I’ve been surprised by how real and raw reliving some of those experiences has been. I’ve re-experienced a number of traumatic episodes that I’d forgotten about. One good memory that I have is of a weekly in-patient therapy group that was facilitated by Dr. Larry Davis. It was 1985, and I was 12 years old. I was the youngest patient in an adolescent psych unit for youth ages 13 to 21.
My entree into that facility is one such traumatizing experience. For two weeks I sat on a chair and faced a wall from 6 am to 10 pm. I slept in the hallway. I was watched while I used the bathroom and showered. I ate all my meals at that chair in front of the wall. I was only allowed to attend on-unit activities. One of those was Dr. Davis’ group. I liked him instantly. I don’t know anybody who didn’t. He was laid back, and he listened. Not at all like my prick-of-a-psychiatrist who asked me if I masturbated while he was writing up the papers to send me to LaRue Carter for a year. No, Dr. Davis was one of the good ones.
Dr. Davis died today in a plane crash. I only got to see him one hour a week for four weeks, but he was a beacon of hope for me.