A Man in Limbo
I usually can't stand the endless stream of encouraging talk—words meant to lift me up that end up as useless drops of water on a tilted marble floor, leaving no trace at all.
Some days, crushed by despair, I feel the threads that bind me to life snapping one by one. This hopeless state only reinforces my helplessness as frustration piles on frustration.
In this season of suffocating anxiety and relentless sadness, I'm trying to share my personal story of suffering in these pages, piece by piece. I'm the father of Lia, a twenty-seven-year-old who has struggled with psychological illness for the past fifteen years.
There's no point rehashing the rocky, exhausting path through public institutions and private specialists—years of failed attempts and bitter disappointments. It's been a demoralizing experience. The professionals have been almost uniformly inadequate, often lacking even the basic humanity that should be a prerequisite for such delicate work. I've learned firsthand how unprepared many psychologists are. I've lost all respect for them.
Law 180, which the idealistic legislators hoped would ease the burden on people with psychiatric disabilities, has in reality made things worse. I've seen it aggravate patients' conditions and sometimes drive their families to despair—even suicide—by cutting off essential care. There are no adequate facilities, no efficient treatment centers accessible to anyone but the wealthy. We need group homes for people with specific intermediate needs. The list of grievances could go on, but I'll stop here.
Still, this long story of personal suffering has one purpose: to offer something constructive, to help everyone who reads this magazine.
We all live trapped in a bubble of inescapable loneliness.
These notes aren't meant as a complaint or a catalog of pain. They're meant to build something. I want to invite every reader to share your own struggle—to tell the story of your suffering, your experiences, the weight you've carried over the years. Our stories may seem small, written on thin paper, but they're precious because they come from real pain. They can also be something we need desperately: a chance to speak as witnesses to desperation and rage, to exhaustion and oppressive burden, to inner fracture.
Later, with the editor of Ombre e Luci as our witness, we could meet and perhaps form an association that might lead to something useful and real.
I hope this modest proposal finds support, and in the meantime, I hope the twilight I'm living through becomes less painful.
Franco
Francesca Left Out
I'm Immacolata, Francesca's mother. Thank you for sending me Ombre e Luci. I didn't know it existed, but reading the issues you sent, I realized I'm not alone in fighting for my daughter's rights.
My story and all its heartbreak began the day Francesca was born: August 27, 1988.
...Last year I enrolled her in school for the first time with 12 hours of support per week. Overall it went well, even though her support teacher wasn't specially trained. Another teacher from Avellino helped Francesca and really cared. This year I had the same teacher again, with 18 hours a week, and with all the problems we were facing, I reached out to the "Facing Disability" Association, but in the end got nothing. All I got was more stress for our family.
...Under Law 104/92, a socio-educational center opened in our town. For two years it was a lifeline for us parents, even though Francesca couldn't attend regularly. But on January 30, 1998, it closed. The new administration botched the funding proposal to the Molise Region and it was rejected. Now these kids are stuck at home.
Last September, I learned the parish priest had organized a meeting with mothers of children making their First Communion in '98—and I wasn't invited. I went to the meeting place early and spoke to the priest alone, asking if my daughter could make her First Communion. I pointed out that once again my child had been left out, excluded. He said it was because she wasn't on the fourth-grade class list at school (Francesca is in third grade). I wanted to believe him, but only so far. He said he'd have to talk to the bishop because there was a problem and he couldn't decide alone. I agreed. Five months later he came to my house and said the bishop had given permission—Francesca would make her First Communion with the other children. On March 21, the bishop came to my home. He remembered meeting Francesca before, asked how she was doing, if she was eating well. I thanked him for saying yes, and he told me that parents would do the catechism, not Francesca. I was happy with both visits—the bishop's and the priest's. But then, the Saturday before Easter, my cousin came and told me that on Holy Thursday the priest had presented the First Communion children to the parish. He didn't mention Francesca's name. He didn't invite me to bring her to church on Holy Thursday. I never expected that from him. I cried. It hurt then and it still hurts, because he didn't accept my request with his heart—only as a charity case to feel sorry for. He left her out once or twice. And the other mothers left me out too. They all chose the dress together. I didn't get to choose. Why? Because Francesca is different, and she'll be different on her First Communion day too, because I had to buy her a different dress from the other girls.
Immacolata
Francesca did make her First Communion with the other children and received a special blessing from the Pope. We stand with you, Immacolata, and we want to hear more from you.
Enough. Now?
I'm officially retired now. But what kind of retirement is it if I've worked my whole life and now I'll depend on my husband again? So here I am, packed off into a whole new round of "occupations."
When I visit my mother-in-law in her Alzheimer's care home, I help the other residents walk and eat. I've also volunteered to help with group outings.
The last editorial did me good: the company of all of you, extraordinary Italian volunteers, will always be missed by me.
Annie
A Guide and a Help
I really hope your important work at Ombre e Luci is rewarded with many subscriptions, because all of us can gain so much from your precious guidance and information. My family and I find in you not only dear friends but a guide and support for our daily journey.
I'm Gianni's mother, and I wanted to thank from the bottom of my heart, through our magazine, all the friends at Fede e Luce in Rome who give Gianni the chance to spend some wonderful weekends there. They welcome him into their homes and help him with his daily needs with such joy and openness. When Gianni comes home, he brings such peace to our whole family because of how he's been welcomed, and all the celebrations he's shared with friends those days.
Adriana and family - (San Lorenzo Community, Albano Terme)