Accepting my disability has not made the pain and struggle disappear. Take my emotional life, for example. My body, my emotions—they are alive inside me, and at certain moments they erupt in ways I cannot control. (...)
I owe a debt to my mother and grandmother, especially my grandmother, who spoke to me with far less embarrassment than my mother could muster. She explained what happens between a man and a woman when they feel physical attraction, and she made clear that the sensations I experienced as a teenager were entirely normal, nothing to be ashamed of. I should not be ashamed of wanting to kiss someone, of feeling the desire to be beautiful and desirable to a man, even with my disability. One day Rita sat in her usual chair—the place where she dispensed her most important advice—and said to me, "There is nothing for you to be ashamed of. You may still be young, but your body is already a woman's body. It is right that you feel these things: the closeness of a man, the flush in your cheeks, the urge to embrace him, to feel desirable in his eyes. It would be wrong if you did not."
"But I'm in a wheelchair."
"That has nothing to do with it," she answered with a smile full of wisdom. "Instinct is instinct, and a woman feels it."
"Are you saying that between a man and a woman, at first it's only instinct?"
"When you first see someone, yes. When I saw your grandfather for the first time, I liked him immediately for his appearance. Only later did I have time to discover his ideas, his values, to appreciate and respect him for those. But to be honest, the moment I saw him, my eyes fell in love—not my heart. That is why it is so important in the relationship between a man and a woman to distinguish infatuation from love."
"What's the difference?" I asked, more intrigued by her words.
"The difference, my dear, is this: infatuation fades, but love does not. If you fall in love with someone only because they are beautiful, because they dazzle you with their appearance and nothing else, sooner or later you realize the spell is broken. But when you truly love, you love not just the body—you love the mind, the soul, the ideas, the convictions. And that love does not fade. It never fades."
"What about sexual relations?" I asked.
"It is much the same. If you do it only as a physical act, it may satisfy you in that moment, while you are doing it. But afterward you find yourself disappointed, bitter, discovering that what you did was satisfying only to a point—it was not love. But if you do it with love, at the end of the act you are deeply happy and fulfilled. You nestle beside your man thinking how fortunate you are that he chose you. And in the morning you wake up full of energy, like new."
(...) "Grandmother ... I don't think I will ever have experiences like that."
"I would not be so sure. It is true that in your case it is harder. But if someone truly fell in love with you, they would love everything about you—your body and your limitations too."
"Grandmother, you explain these things to me, but no one talks about them with other disabled people. Why do you think that is?"
"I believe it is embarrassment. It is not hard to imagine that people with physical disabilities ask themselves the same questions you have asked me. But sometimes it is difficult for family members to understand that. So they stay silent, and the subject becomes taboo. I think that is a mistake. Everyone has the right to understand their own emotions, so they can learn to manage them. By not talking about it, we only increase curiosity and risk. I am convinced that talking is the best way."
"Will we talk about it again?"
"Whenever you need to."
"You know, talking with my mother isn't as nice as talking with you. I feel embarrassed with her."
"Of course! She is your mother! I felt embarrassed talking about these things with her too. But I don't feel that way with you—maybe because I'm your grandmother."
"Then it will just be you and me, talking alone."
"And I will tell you everything you want to know. But don't be afraid: you are a woman, and thank God, you are as alive inside as anyone I know."
When she explained all of this to me, I felt truly better. I understood that despite everything, my body was working as it should. There was nothing wrong with it, no abnormality. It was normal to feel these sensations even though I was in a wheelchair.
From Un volo di farfalla,
by Rita Coruzzi, 2010 Piemme, pp. 140-142)