A friend encouraged me to share my family's story in this column—a place where we talk about trying, hoping, trying again, and succeeding. That's exactly what happened to us. My sister has a handicapped daughter, Luisa, who is twenty-six. Luisa has mild intellectual disability, but enough to create serious behavioral problems and put her in dangerous situations.
Luisa has an older sister and twin brothers a year younger than she is. They are lively, brilliant young people, surrounded by friends and activities. Luisa had none of that. She never finished school, never found work, and until recently, never had real friendships. Even when her siblings tried to include her among their friends, she was never truly accepted—only tolerated. To anyone who didn't understand her deeply, that was understandable. She talked without stopping, created problems, and would suddenly withdraw into her room for reasons no one could fathom. But the worst was her behavior with boys. She would decide that one of them was her "boyfriend"—often more than one at the same time, whether a family friend or someone she'd met by chance—and she would bombard them with requests, letters, anonymous notes, phone calls, crude pranks. The waiting for replies. The effort to find someone's address. Walking across the city to see their house. Talking to the doorman. Hoping they'd come out.
I heard about a Fede e Luce group. It was easy to bring her there—she was so hungry for human connection. She was welcomed warmly, but the first months were hard. She fell "in love" immediately with one of the young men, and the old pattern started again: chatter, constant calls, rejection, running away, coming back. Then the miracle happened. Those friends, especially that young man, showed her real affection. He explained that he was in a relationship, but that they could still have a good and honest friendship. The others understood what lay beneath her needs: the sexuality wasn't as overwhelming as it seemed. What she really wanted was to be understood, not merely tolerated. To be recognized for who she was. To be treated as an equal, not as someone to avoid. A friend among friends. Happy.
Since she joined that group, despite problems that remain, Luisa hasn't talked about a new imaginary "boyfriend." Now she talks about activities with friends, Sundays spent with them, people in need who move her, work plans for the future.
Jean Vanier was right when he said that the troubled sexuality of a handicapped person can often be balanced and made whole through genuine affection from those around them.
A Friend, 1993
We're waiting for your story: write to us