I check the time, surprised: God, it's still five o'clock. Maybe for him it's always five; now he's coming to you, wanting to light a cigarette; you almost wish you'd ever smoked.
There, he turns on the lights; is he calling you, maybe? Your eyelids are heavy, in a half-sleep you don't want to ask yourself questions.
Maybe Saverio is looking for some freedom of his own? That's fine, he's walking, there—he's going downstairs. He already knows (after a day) that he'll find the doors locked in the end, the gate locked.
We protect ourselves from thieves (and, in a way, from his escapes).
You don't tell a man: "You're good if you behave."
Least of all Saverio. Much better to see you real, to watch you get up and walk out when you want, to ruffle your short hair.
Who knows why so many see you as absent, but you carry a smile right on your lips; maybe it's not true that you don't care about anything, maybe it's enough that you not feel left out.
Last year, the one who loves you most—Delia (thanks to her we got to know you)—came back from a walk in the woods and gave you a nest she'd found on the path. She said: "Saverio has no nest."
Did we want to be the branches? Could we have been?
Your unconscious habit would draw you to our drawers, but we knew—we hid nothing there, and your pockets were the safest place to find everything again. We smiled about it, you know. Forgive us, anyway, for the times we doubted, and you had nothing to do with it, and we could have avoided it.
But how much you filled our hearts, watching you joke with us, tickle Carlo's feet while he slept...
No, your home is not the psychiatric clinic: your home, like everyone's, is where you meet people who care about you a little.
One morning (I was awake, but barely, even though I was on my feet) I caught you coming out of the chapel: there, where one day you had spoken as a prophet, you'd come back at dawn, alone. I looked inside—nothing was missing; how foolish I was!
You could only have added something.
We watched you climb over the wall, walk away; but we didn't fear you were fleeing: why shouldn't you come back? Maybe you just wanted to push away the fear of not being free. You'd fall asleep wherever you happened to be, you didn't need "your own bed"; but how could we fear something? You told us in the end: "Everyone here is a friend."
For centuries, the mentally ill have been cast out as "different," deemed beyond recovery and dangerous.
The question of family is fundamental: family is where primary relationships take root, where each person develops, where we are educated, where we live our most meaningful experiences. Often mental illness arises precisely from troubled family relationships.
One thing is certain: law alone, however good, cannot overcome the marginalization of mental suffering. This, like other forms of marginalization, can be conquered only if society—civic and ecclesial alike, and individuals within it—grows in a culture and a practice of solidarity and welcome, a will and a love for human relationships that are not exclusionary but communion, able to offer the weakest among us support, protection, friendship. We need a necessary alliance between professionals and ordinary citizens. It is especially in this field that the word "therapy" must join with the word "welcome."
In building this new culture, the Christian community has a vital role, working through catechesis, liturgy, education, and community groups—and inventing concrete ways to give these "new poor" the breath of humanity.
- Mario Damiani, 1988
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