I have been feeling a quiet despair lately about my niece Cecilia. A few days ago I spoke with the social worker who has been caring for her for about seven years, trying to help. I learned that Cecilia, who wants to work outside the home, has systematically rejected every suggestion the worker has made—except one. She accepted a job helping out at a riding stable. Unfortunately, this project, which had been in the works for more than six months, still hasn't gotten off the ground because of bureaucratic obstacles. It probably never will.
Cecilia is 34 now. She has a mild intellectual disability and serious behavioral problems that often show themselves in a violent push-pull dynamic with her family. She has no real job to speak of. She does odd chores at home, spends hours watching television, writing down her thoughts, summarizing them, sorting them by topic and category. She talks a lot about herself and her problems—to family, to anyone who will listen, even to strangers on the street. A long course of supportive psychotherapy has helped her understand something of her own limits and abilities.
Yesterday, talking with her, I felt that same quiet, hidden despair again—exasperation, too, and discouragement. Cecilia told me that a month ago, at the train station, she had met a man. She had seen him again in her neighborhood, always alone, sitting in the park. He spoke Italian poorly. He told her he was a painter, and he seemed kind toward her. Cecilia thought she was in love with him. I said everything an aunt, a friend, could say in such a situation. I reminded her of some painful episodes from her past that had begun exactly this way.
She smiled as she answered me. It was a bitter smile, but innocent.
She smiled as she answered me. It was a bitter smile, but innocent. She said: "I feel trapped. I can't work, I can't have my own house, I don't have a man." Her words filled me with a sense of suffocation.
For young people like Cecilia, there are mostly day programs. They stay at home, come and go as they please, often quarrel with family members, never manage to satisfy anyone. Parents, brothers, and sisters fear them and overprotect them. They want to move out, to have friends, to get phone calls, to be invited places. But it's all a dream, and so rarely does it come true.
They are often deeply unhappy. Often in serious danger.
Cecilia wants a small rental place of her own. She has even looked at a few. Then fear took hold, and she gave up. She couldn't figure out whether her personal budget would allow for it, and her family quickly talked her out of trying.
But how can we not talk her out of it?
How can we accept such loneliness, inactivity, isolation for her?
Even the social worker who had encouraged her at first later suggested she live with another fragile young woman like herself. Then the worker gave up. The meeting between the two hadn't gone well, and besides, without proper guidance, how could it have worked in the future?
My hope is that Cecilia will find a real home. A quiet place. A place where she feels at ease, independent, yet protected. A home with someone responsible for her—a figure she can talk to, who listens and supports her. A place with other people like her, fragile but full of possibility. A place where emotional intensity is not as overwhelming as it is in family, where Cecilia can show her beautiful, rich qualities. A place of giving and receiving, of speaking and listening. A place you leave each morning ready for the day's work and return to each evening for rest, for friendship, for genuine connection.
A real home. Her own.
- Maria Tonini, 1999