If You Want Trouble, Find Yourself a Redhead

I haven't blogged enough this year. Not sure why, it just hasn't happened. So, I really wanted to do something but wasn't sure on what topic I should expand. In the past, I have put out feelers and have gotten back suggestions such as creepy clowns and an explanation of my disdain for birds. Other times, I have just scanned other people's blogs looking for a title (not the content) and then just expanded on it. In fact, that's how I ended up doing my 11 Lessons Learned in 2011 and the like.

This afternoon, I figured I'd try that tactic again and about 6 blogs in, I came across the above title "If you want trouble, find yourself a redhead". It ended up being a blog about dogs of all things and I have no idea how that even relates because none of the dogs were redheaded. But, I thought to myself, "Eh, why not?"

We redheads get a bad wrap. We really do. I mean, apparently, the blonds have all the fun, the brunettes make all the money and the redheads, well, we are just angry. It feels a little bit like a conspiracy against the gingers of the world. And it's not fair.

Yes, it is true, I have, over time, developed a fiery disposition. But, I wasn't always like that. As a little kid, I was as meek and shy as they get. I mean...look at me.

In a family of 6 kids, I was embedded between 2 girls; one nicknamed Patti Perfect, the other one sporting the name Gunk-a-berti. I'll be honest. They kinda scared the shit out of me. Patti Perfect, was, well, perfect. She was blond, petite, naturally brilliant and used to just break out into a full run in the front yard and do a back flip. Gunk, on the other hand, was hell on wheels. She cussed like a truck driver, screamed "Cookie Monster" because she could, and called the Catholic priest who came to bless the house "Dad" when my mother attempted to hurry him out of the house with "Goodbye Father" for fear Gunk would drop the F-bomb at any moment. I just tried to stay out of the cross fire by talking to my imaginary friend "Peter D. Ciliberti". (What kid with 5 siblings has an imaginary friend???)

I guess, it is true that I showed hints of fire as a young child. But only when provoked. I was forced to pull Gunk's hair out when I was 4 because it was the only way to get her to stop harassing me. And I do remember a full on brawl with my brother Michael in the early years that included a broom (Although I can't remember why or how. I just remember we were in the hall near the bathroom. It could have been a full on rumble between the four youngest of the group).

The above picture is right around the time I ripped Gunk's hair out

Maybe it was the hormones of adolescence that truly exposed my fiery disposition. Although I can't say that it is correlated with my red hair, since I was born all docile and shit. I will say, when I think about it, I did start acting a little bitchy around 14. But who doesn't? Yes, I headed up a crew that threw disappearing ink on a 23 year old Algebra teacher's white sweater and then admonished her for leaving the classroom to cry about it. Yes, I attempted to cut my favorite shirt off my sister because, as I told her, "I'd rather not have it at all then for you to wear it." And yes, I actually pushed a guy who was bullying said sister (that would be Gunk) into a locker and threatened him even though it was well documented that he was on steroids. Maybe, I was just crazy. Maybe, the red hair had nothing to do with it.

But people like to blame my red hair. I don't even think they use it as an excuse. An excuse would be "Well, if only she wasn't redheaded she wouldn't have told that girl in her Group Processes Grad class that she "didn't want or need to be her friend because not everybody ends up friends"". Instead, it's more like, "Did you hear what that bitch redhead just said to the HR rep?"

As an adult, I have earned the reputation of the bitchy, fiery redhead. And there are times, I can totally own that shit. I'm much less filtered than I ever have been and I don't have much trouble standing up for what I believe in. But when think about who I really am, I see an overly empathetic person who never wants to see someone make a mistake. And maybe that means I think I'm always right. But I think everyone thinks they are always right. If you have an opinion, whether informed or not, you believe yourself to be right. I don't have to agree with your opinion. And I probably won't unless I have the same one or you have a compelling reason why I should change my mind. I also see myself as someone who has developed a great sense of humor in light of a lot of shitty stuff that has happened in my life. I can out-laugh most people, even when I am having a really bad day. And I give my family full credit on that one. It's in the genes. We are a very funny bunch.

So, maybe you should find yourself a redhead if you want trouble. In the meantime, I'm going to figure out what that has to do with a blog about dogs.

Thoughts on Father's Day

Spoiler Alert: This is June, which means I am forced to confront the 30th anniversary of my father's death (June 18th), my brother's birthday (June 26th) and the 3rd anniversary of his death (June 30th). Short story...it's not my best month. I starting getting anxious about a week ago and based on past experiences, it will continue until the last day of the month, when I hold my breath and remember that I've made it this far. Again.

And it's Father's Day. The same weekend I lost my father all those many years ago. I'd be lying if I said I feel a deep sadness 30 years later over the loss of my father. It's been 30 years. I was 11. It took me close to 20 years to recognize the impact his death had on me and that was 20 years of living in the fallout of his passing. And I assure you, I am of the very strong opinion that there were years of fallout. Even today. But he was my father, I loved him and his loss set the stage for many, many subsequent events in my life. Including how to parent my own child.

So, Father's Day has largely gone unnoticed and uncelebrated in my life. I give my mother much credit on these types of holidays in general. Mother's Day was not a particularly difficult day for me even though I'm only 1 year out on my mom. We were and are, a low maintenance auxiliary holiday family. Labor Day, eh.....Columbus Day...when's that? Christmas, Thanksgiving - we celebrate but the closest thing to china we ever used was Chinette. And I'm 100% ok with that.

But Max has a father. A wonderful one who deserves to be blogged about. I've said many times that God had a plan for me and part of that plan was Stephen and Max. Meaning as a package deal. Because without Stephen, there would be no Max. Not this Max anyway. In fact, I'm sure his name wouldn't even be Max because the only reason he has that name is because my mother needed Stephen to stop referring to Max as "Baby X" in the womb so she came up with the name herself.

And for all of those who scratch their heads and wonder why on earth I would feel the need to write about someone I'm not even with anymore (including the neighbor who told Stephen that our situation wasn't as "screwed up" as her and her soon to be ex's...btw....not even close....not even close), I will give a short refresher on civil responsibility and parenting.

While I recognize our situation is unique, in that Stephen and I never stood before God and family promising to love, honor and obey (which I would have refused to even say anyway), we did spend 7 years together before splitting our family apart. There were conscious and unconscious decisions made about how to do that. While we both knew we could no longer stay together, we also understood we were still a family unit. There has not been a single day since Stephen and I split up that we have not put Max first. Not a single day. Yes, we have fought (although he claims this is be an impossible task since I never let him get a word in) and have been frustrated with each other. We have differed in our opinions on how to handle situations related to Max. We have even gone so far as to shave his head without the other's permission...oh wait...no, that was just Stephen. But we have always put Max first.

I love that we have been able to, despite being apart, be a family. Early on, Max used to ask when or why we couldn't be together again. We never ignored his questions. We never told him he shouldn't be sad. But now, 3 1/2 years later, Max has settled into his unique family. He has 2 homes, goes on 3 vacations a year; one with me, one with Stephen and one with the three of us, as a family.  I know...that one blows everyone's mind. But its our normal. And its good.

And Stephen loves Max in the way every little boy should be loved by his father. They are playmates (which drives me nuts) but when Stephen lays down the law, the sheriff has come to town (which, again, drives me nuts). Stephen has high expectations for the my relationship with Max also. He holds motherhood just below sainthood, likely due to his own mother's passing when he was a teen. But it is a comfort to know that Stephen will always place my relationship with Max in its own category, just like I do for the two of them. As I've said before, we are blessed.

I was married many moons ago to a man who I believed I wanted to be the father of my children. I was devastated when that didn't happen. And now, I thank God everyday that it didn't.

"Small boys become big men through the influence of big men who care about small boys."

The Glue

Glue (n): An adhesive force or factor.

She was the glue. The thing that held us; bound us together. She was what made us a unit. A package. A family.

I can honestly say I only realized that in the moments after my mother's death as I sat next to my brother, a man who I, as an adult, saw once, maybe twice a year. As I sat and listened to him talk of the moment that my mother, reaching towards something, took her last breath; a moment I could not bear to watch, my mind was racing. Over and over again, I kept saying to myself, "I don't know how to be us without her." I never said it out loud. I couldn't bear to say it out loud. The "us" had changed so dramatically over the past few years. Us, without my mother, just didn't seem possible.

On the year anniversary of my brother's death, I wrote a blog filled with hope, love and a new understanding of what my life was supposed to look like. I had learned so much from a loss that was so profound. I spent the next 6 months truly coming into my own emotionally. I had a gratitude in my life that I really don't think I had ever experienced before. It was truly humbling.

So here I am, nearing the year anniversary of my mother's death and wanting to convey some deep, meaningful message of hope, love and understanding. And I'm here to tell you, I'm just not there.

The first few weeks after you lose someone in an anticipated death, such as cancer, there is an odd sense of relief. My mother's battle was quite short in the scheme of things; 3 months from diagnosis to death, but painful nonetheless. The emotional and physical toll of being diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer was devastating on a woman who had buried her parents, her husband, her son and all of her siblings. She became incapacitated almost instantly. She was afraid of living and afraid of dying.

The glue was cracking. And we all knew it.

The Ciliberti's are an odd bunch. Ask anyone who knows my family. We love fiercely. We fight fiercely. We defend fiercely. And we never back down. Never. So as the glue began to crack, we all did what it was we did. And we did it fiercely. My one sister cleaned fiercely. The other cried fiercely. The other took notes fiercely. My brother made calls and tried to stay calm fiercely. And I tried to hold it together fiercely. Because as fiercely as I tried to hold it together, I knew when it fell apart, it would be fierce.

The last hours of my mother's life were so devastating and filled with anxiety. She had come home on hospice the day before, upbeat, coherent and happy. 24 hours later, she was letting go. Completely planned on her part, if you ask me. Once they told my mother treatment was no longer an option, her priority was to come home to die. On her terms. Fiercely. Just like all of those damn kids she raised. So she did.

So when I walked in the house and saw my mother laying in the hospital bed that sunny Saturday morning, peaceful and no longer in any pain, I was relieved. But I also knew the glue was gone. And I had no idea what to do.

I have had some low moments in the last year. If you have had the pleasure of never experiencing the death of a parent, sibling or close friend, consider yourself blessed. Eventually, you will be there and everything I'm about to say will make sense.

Life has it's ups and downs. The highs make it all worthwhile. And the lows; well I just keep telling myself, they could be worse. Because in reality, they could be. I lost a brother. He was far from perfect. At one point when I was in my late teens and he was around 30, we had a fight and didn't speak for 6 months. He could get on my last nerve. And he thought I was a know it all. But he believed in me. I lost a father. He was far from perfect. But no child deserves to lose a parent at 11 years old. And I've lost my mother. She was far from perfect. But she was my mother. And when it comes to mothers, that's all that really matters.

I have watched my family systematically deconstruct over the past 12 months. It has been a process likened to another death. My mother was a buffer to the bullshit. And when you take away the buffer and the glue, you are left with tiny fragments that don't exactly fit the way they used to.

I grew up in a very enmeshed family. The joke was "once you marry or enter into the Ciliberti family, you never really leave." We never cleaved to our spouses, which is probably why we all suffered a divorce or two, with Ralph never marrying at all. But many of those ex's remained part of the Ciliberti clan in a way leaving many shaking their heads, asking "how did you do that?" And the answer is....I don't know. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't.

But for the most part, my mother, the glue, bound us tight. With high expectations for family loyalty in the midst of chaos and resentment. And we obliged her.

I sat through a training on trauma this week; my special little interest. I listened to much of the same information as I've heard multiple times in similar seminars. I've even developed a training on trauma informed care and advocate hard for the idea that so many kids who are diagnosed with ADHD are really just victims of trauma or chronic stress. But, this time, I started to really think about the idea that I am a trauma survivor and all that entails.

Loss has colored my world. But so has resiliency. For me, it is always a balance. A key to bouncing back from loss is not necessarily moving on in the traditional sense, rather its figuring out how to come to terms. Post traumatic stress develops when the experience of an event is such that we are so overwhelmed by horror or pain that the memory literally sears itself into the brain. The sights, smells, tastes, and sounds all act as powerful conditioned stimuli to set off flashbacks, anxiety attacks, nightmares. You can't control it. It just happens. I still feel a tinge of panic 3 years later if my phone rings around 10pm, the time my sister called screaming frantically that my brother was dead. I have memories akin to flashbacks as I round the curve just before the Antique Mall in Pennsbury Township, remembering how carefully I took that curve in the rain on the way to my mother's house thinking, "I can't wreck the car. My mother's son is dead." I still react very strongly to the sight of gladiolus and the smell of large amounts of flowers, a lingering memory of my father's viewing 30 years ago. I go into instant panic if I have to enter a funeral home. I have been known to literally run out of funeral homes. I never saw my brother or my mother laying in the casket because of the sheer horror of walking into the funeral home as an 11 year old and seeing a sight no one did or could have prepared me for.

I have come to terms with the fact that I have some level of traumatic stress. And that I shouldn't be ashamed or feel weak by disclosing that. I also realize that I have been able to keep going because I continue to talk about it. I continue to process it. I continue to write about it. And, the scariest part is that I let all of you see it. Because for years I was so afraid of what it would mean if I let it all out. And now, for the most part, I don't give a shit. I pop in and out of writing as my resiliency allows. When I go silent, I am either in a really good place or a really bad place. I haven't been in a good place lately, But then I remember that I need this. And that maybe someone else needs it. And those who don't need or want it can chose to look away. And that's okay too.

My mother was my world. She taught me more than she will ever know. I miss her.