To write this testimony, I began by retracing the long chronicle of Stefano's illness—from the first alarming symptoms around age fifteen onward. I recalled our initial rejection in the face of his incomprehensible behavior, the guilt we felt, often magnified by what psychiatrists told us. The cycles of crisis followed by recovery, the moves from hospitals to care facilities, the attempts to return to high school, the shift toward more modest hopes. After so many trials, we had to admit it: we were worn down, fragile, irritable, withdrawn. What was hardest of all was the constant dread. Stefano would vanish for two weeks at a time in the surrounding area. We would find scraps of paper where he wrote about suicide. He would turn the house into a battle zone. The doctor would say, "He's the prototype of a schizophrenic." We would be told about electroconvulsive therapy, then hear, "There's not much we can do for him. Take him home."
After so many trials we were worn down, fragile, irritable, withdrawn
After so many trials we were worn down, fragile, irritable, withdrawnOur marriage was shaken by zones of turbulence. New challenges loomed after more than twenty years together. Stefano's illness ran beneath every interaction we had, depressing us both—though we scarcely admitted it. We faced our limits, our weaknesses, our disagreements. Until then, we had usually seen eye to eye on the small domestic problems that every family encounters. Now we were out of sync. We reacted differently to what was happening. Stefano did not respond to my wife the way he responded to me; we were not equally involved in his illness. Our worry for him was constant. We could no longer taste the small daily joys—walks, concerts, travel, plans. We isolated ourselves, avoiding friends because we felt set apart from them. My own work suffered. Everything I had once done with passion began to feel hollow, even ridiculous. Days started without momentum, unfolded in sadness, and I dreaded the evening—facing both our sorrows together. It was a tunnel. But if a tunnel has an entrance, it has an exit too. Gradually I came to see that not everything was dark. I had reluctantly accepted Stefano's illness and all its implications for his future. At the same time, I felt a strange relief, because now his troubling behavior had an explanation. I also admired the courage with which, after each crisis, he set about rebuilding his life—each time with a bit more realism. During the countless visits to psychiatric hospitals, I discovered the world of mental illness, a world that frightens so many people. I learned that this world had its own riches. I saw that mutual help there took on an almost gospel quality. I saw that the mentally ill keep intact certain aspects of their humanity, and that drawing close to them became more natural. Our other children each responded in their own way, but without bitterness. We could count on them to step in during emergencies. We were also blessed to meet a priest who connected us with a support group, so we no longer felt so alone.
I discovered that the world of mental illness has its own riches, that mutual help there often takes on an almost gospel quality, that the mentally ill keep intact certain aspects of their humanity, and that drawing close to them becomes more natural
I discovered that the world of mental illness has its own riches, that mutual help there often takes on an almost gospel quality, that the mentally ill keep intact certain aspects of their humanity, and that drawing close to them becomes more naturalStefano's illness tested my faith in God. What helped me was discovering a God close to human suffering. I wrote down this verse from Psalm 33: "The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit." Reading it, my anxiety for Stefano eases. This is why I feel so drawn to the image of the crowning with thorns—standing between the fleeting glory of Palm Sunday and the eternal glory of Easter. Even in the midst of the storm, even in what seems a dead end, Christ comes to meet us. He comes to love us, to share our burden, to understand. That is where we are. Nothing in Stefano's situation is resolved. His last attempt at a work-based day program was, once again, a failure. I still torment myself: "How will he live? Where will he live?" Yet the anxiety we carry has become less suffocating. We live one day at a time. Slowly, small joys recover their flavor: eight grandchildren have arrived; Stefano searches for a card-playing club; he signs up for regional drawing classes; he buys a computer with his pension. We have found anchors to keep the illness from crushing us, ways to live with it, to make peace with it.
- J.P. Walcke, 1988, from Ombres et Lumière no. 79
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