When I lived with my parents, I watched my brothers and sisters leave home, get jobs, build lives. I had nothing. Then they got married. I felt abandoned. They were happy. I was miserable. I had nothing real going for me. Everyone made decisions for me because I couldn't manage on my own.
That's when the anxiety began. My parents felt lost too. They didn't know how to help anymore. They'd already done so much for me, but I wanted to do things my way. I was proud—stubborn, really—and I wanted to manage by myself. But I couldn't. I needed help, and I hated needing it. When I finally had to accept it, I'd react badly, go silent, shut down. Everyone suffered, but that anger was the only strength I had. When my brothers and sisters came home with their children, I felt like an outsider. I'd lock myself in my room, write letters and poems, trying to forget I was alone.
For years, I was angry at everyone around me.
I wanted to get married—to love someone, yes, but more than that, to escape my loneliness, to open up my world. I fell in love easily. I'd see an attractive girl, well-dressed and nice, and I'd fall hard. But I never told them anything. I didn't trust myself enough.
My parents never talked to me about sex—or maybe they did and I don't remember. I was too afraid to ask questions. I figured it out on my own, from books. It disturbed me. It hurt. Falling into bad solitary habits only leaves you feeling sad and doesn't change anything. You're left with anxiety and confusion. You stay alone.
Years have passed, and now I know—or at least I believe—that marriage isn't for me. It takes so much. You have to care for another person, for children, and I couldn't do that. I'm not capable. Yet I'm still in love. Constantly.
A few years ago, I moved into my own small apartment. It was a turning point. I needed my whole family pushing me before I could take that leap. At first I didn't believe I could do it. I felt lost. I had to handle everything myself and I made plenty of mistakes. Now it's good, and I wouldn't go back for anything. I'm at peace living alone. Little by little I made friends—couples mostly. Some help me with things around the apartment. Others invite me to their homes.
I used to have a television. I'd watch anything, especially things that troubled me sexually. Gradually I understood it was hurting me. I don't have a TV anymore.
I spend my time with my job, drawing, writing letters to people. I'm part of a choir and a Fede e Luce community. There they asked me to join the team that prepares our meetings. I love that. They trust me, and I can actually help.
My parish has been a real anchor. I lead the singing, and I help choose the songs for the liturgy. I love singing more than anything—it's the most beautiful thing in my life. At church I feel welcomed, and that makes me want to be generous. I help move the pews, adjust the microphone. Suddenly I'm surrounded by friends. But it's still hard to come home to an empty place. Some days are good—I feel happy. Other days the weight comes back. I think nobody loves me, that I have no one to love. I don't have anyone to be tender with. That's difficult to bear. Thank God I have friends who help.
- Girolamo, 2003