I was on a train to Milan, riding in a crowded compartment. Near the window sat a young man, perhaps twenty years old. Within minutes, his behavior caught our attention. He would stand for no reason, sit back down, touch the window, open a newspaper, close it. Every movement came with sharp blows—slaps, really—against his thighs, his suitcase, the glass. At first, he seemed merely restless, a bit nervous. We let it pass, and one by one, we made small comments, trying to ease the tension his unusual behavior was creating in the compartment.
The ways suffering shows itself are sometimes bewildering, uncomfortable, unsettling
Behind my book, I watched him, trying to figure out what was wrong. What was agitating him so much? A suspicion had taken root in me—as in the others—and as the hours passed, they left one by one. When I was alone with him, I ventured a few questions. Where was he headed? Did he want to read one of my magazines? Did he need something? I was nervous about how my words sounded—they didn't feel quite right. Usually on trains I prefer silence, a little reading; I answer only when someone asks too many questions. Now I was the one asking him.
I sensed he was suffering, but I couldn't understand why. Was something wrong with his mind? Or was he simply anxious about something that wouldn't leave him alone?
After my hesitant questions, he began to talk—and talk. The frantic gestures stopped at once. He told me about a strange illness that none of the doctors he and his parents had consulted could explain. "They spent their entire fortune on me! And we're still nowhere. It's been like this for nearly seven years. My girlfriend is leaving me. She cares about me, but her parents are afraid!" Nothing neurological. Nothing psychological. Nothing. Just that sometimes he couldn't control his limbs—they moved on their own. "So I hide it," he said. "I stand up, pretend I'm looking at something, try to make sure no one notices."
At the end of the journey, he thanked me for listening and for encouraging him by telling him about other young people and children...
Often, other people's behavior puzzles us. We wonder: Why does he act that way? What's gotten into him? What's wrong with him?
It happens all the time with children, who can drive their parents to exasperation with their strange inventions—all to get attention or to test how far they can push the adults around them.
But when we see strange behavior in someone who isn't a child anymore, what attitude should we take? How do we tell the difference between childish behavior persisting into adulthood—a tantrum—and gestures or actions meant to tell us something: "I'm in pain. I'm suffering. I'm afraid. I don't understand. I don't know how to say it. I've tried but... I'm shy. I'm furious. I'm in revolt!"?
And behind it all...
Our brothers and sisters who can't speak, who struggle to express themselves, send us these wordless messages all the time. Sometimes, even those who could speak choose to communicate through attitude or gesture instead. After all, we do the same thing.
There are withdrawn attitudes: turning inward, shutting down, stubborn silences. "He's so well-behaved, never causes any trouble." "Oh, his son might as well not exist. He never talks about him!" "I keep quiet. I've got nothing to say." "If only he would speak, I could understand what's inside him." "I don't know if he's suffering. He never says anything!" And behind it all is a whole world waiting to come out: shyness, fears, insecurity, disappointment, complexes of every kind.
There are restless attitudes: instability, inability to concentrate, constant agitation, hyperactivity. "He can't sit still for a second!" "He looks at a toy for two minutes and throws it away." "He gets up ten times during homework!" "He thinks of ten things at once." "He rocks constantly." "He smokes, drinks, eats, talks, watches television, gets on the phone—there's no time to say two words to him." And behind it all is dissatisfaction, disinterest, reluctance, fear, a need to let off steam, repressed imagination, misunderstood genius, the need to see something realized...
The wounded person quickly senses the motives of the one who reaches out to her. She feels them, intuites them from the face, the hands, the tone of voice.
Jean Vanier
There are violent attitudes: aggression, anger, resentment, fury. From childhood, we're trained to strike the table whose corner we've bumped our head on. It comes naturally to us all to punish whoever or whatever has hurt us. How often do we unleash rage at someone completely innocent because of a wrong we've suffered. It's no wonder, then, that young people who struggle to express themselves show their inner turmoil too plainly—turmoil born of not being understood, of constantly comparing themselves to those who are "better than them," of the disappointment they cause their parents and teachers. The ways they show this distress are, it's true, sometimes bewildering, uncomfortable, unsettling. But it's too easy to ask yourself, "Why doesn't his mother do anything?" "Why doesn't she teach him to control himself?" without first asking whether anyone has ever helped that poor mother, or trying to see if you could do better. Without remembering those who, unable to show their distress to others, end up hurting themselves, turning the pain they feel inward because they can't express it.
To live together and communicate, we have words and behavior—looks, gestures, silence, laughter, tears. And it's through behavior that we all, disabled and not, express the world of emotion and feeling better than words ever could, especially when those feelings run too deep.
When he is silent, your heart does not cease to listen to his heart; for in friendship, every thought, desire, and hope is born in silence and shared with inexpressible joy
K. Gibran
It's important to understand this, so we don't give in too easily to fear or confusion when we encounter behavior that is strange or unfamiliar to us—especially from people who are more vulnerable and less able to use words and reason. We need to remind ourselves that in some cases it's wise and advisable to seek help from professionals—psychologists, neurologists, neuropsychiatrists. But it's equally important to remember that we all need to learn to understand, to reach out with hands and hearts, and to remember together that we all need education, always—when we're small and even more when we're grown—to bring to light, in ourselves and in others, all the goodness that lies hidden, all that needs to be channeled or simply understood. I can say personally that I have often seen myself reflected in the strange behavior of children and adults with mental disabilities. Their way of expressing themselves, more direct and less bound by our conditioning, has helped me—more than a little—to recognize in myself attitudes of withdrawal, restlessness, and anger. Not to mention how much their way of expressing affection and compassion for others has set me a great example.
Do I owe this teaching of theirs for staying beside that young man on the journey to Milan?
Fear, discomfort, impatience, the thought that "it's not my place," not knowing what to do, respect—these are often the excuses we make when facing someone who behaves "inappropriately," and we prefer to leave the compartment one by one.
And if one day it happened to us to feel abandoned?
by Mariangela Bertolini, 1987