This article originally appeared in Vol. 1 No. 2 (Feb., 1993) of the Facilitated Communication Digest, [p 2].

The story I want to tell is of me and Lanny. I was only fourteen when he came to my institution. We were good friends, but he could talk and I couldn't. When my friend Lanny got out, he told me, "Don't worry -- some day you will be able to talk and then they will let you out." I thought then that I needed to talk in order to be free. Now I know that freedom is mine by right, but then I thought it had to be given by those in charge, so I tried to talk every day.

The hardest part of life in an institution is that your right to privacy doesn't exist; so all my attempts to talk were seen, heard and mocked. Fortunately, my friend Mark did not mock me -- he told me he would give me a dime if I would talk to his mom. So I tried to tell someone I wanted to talk to his mom, but nobody understood.

Now I live away from there. My memories are bitter, but one sweet one remains, of the man who didn't mock my quest to speak. He, not the staff or the experts, is who kept me alive.

The most important thing people like Lanny and me need is someone to listen without scorn. That, and a safe place to be alone with your dreams...