Pietro and I are the youngest of seven children, with just a year between us. I still remember what our father used to say whenever Pietro withdrew into himself: "Don't torment him." We understood that Pietro occupied a special place, and that awareness made us sense his fragility.
Our father left us to be reunited with the Lord when I was eleven. Pietro was deeply shaken by his death. I was too, but I didn't feel I had the right to show my grief. After that, Pietro closed himself off more and more. When adolescence came, he lost his way. His schizophrenia emerged: detachment from reality, loss of drive, bulimia. I lived through it all in a state of revolt. Without fully realizing it, I resented him for not being the ideal brother I'd dreamed of—the one I would have played tennis with, gone on trips with, had those intense discussions about things that captivated me back then.
A wounded person can make those around them fragile.
When Pietro was admitted to a residential home for two years, it felt like relief. When he came back, I was struck by his immaturity. He looked up to me and tried to imitate some of my activities—especially my work as a scout leader. His attempts stung my pride. I avoided him, and at the same time I blamed myself for being a bad brother. My feelings toward him swung wildly—tender one moment, aggressive the next—and I suffered for it. That's when I understood clearly how a person suffering from mental illness can render fragile everyone around them.
I was blessed to meet a priest who lifted my guilt away. He told me: "Your reactions are normal. Don't dwell on it. Go on vacation with your friends without worry. Don't force yourself to love Pietro, but give time to the Lord. Let Him love Pietro, not you bearing a burden you can't carry. First, be patient with yourself." Pietro found a prayer group that sustains him. We are becoming real brothers now.
- Filippo R., 1993
(O. et L. n. 100)