When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching, they are your family. -Jim Butcher

Over the course of my short life, I've found myself to be something of an amateur philosopher. The truth is that I'm always deep in thought, forever in search of the answers to those really big questions. I wouldn't say that I've got it all figured out. I just try to figure out what's right, what choices led to better circumstances, who to love and who to let go.

But as of lately, I have been struggling with an ailment that's somewhat serious. It's an issue that seems to be a common and disheartening theme within my life. I am eternally love sick, branded with the curse of loving too much, forgiving too easily and allowing things to virtually consume me. These feelings are troubling and although I have sat and thought on them many of lonely nights, only one thing remains to be true: Love is an alluring and treacherous epidemic. One that can be dangerous and painful. One that can be an epiphany and bring to light things that you may have never known. Or wanted to know.

My friends, I come from a long line of warm hearted, hot tempered Calabrese Italians. In my family, we had sauce religiously on Sundays, listened to Frank Sinatra like it was the gospel, and weren't allowed to cuss in front of my grandmother. We said, "Salud!" before every meal, drove giant Cadillacs, and listened to our elders tell stories about old New York City and the poor days, back home in Italy.

My great-grandfather was an ice man with big hands, a bigger temper, and a faded tattoo of his mother on his forearm. My great-grandmother barely spoke English, swore that soap operas were real, and told my grandfather, who was born on October 1st, that he came with the rent.

"She told me I came with the rent," he would say with his raspy New York accent and warm hearted chuckle. Then he'd offer me some Sin Sin while I watched him perform tedious work on cookoo clocks and shiny, diamond encrusted Rolexs. "The loneliest man in the world is a watchmaker," he would wink at me from his work bench, "because no one else in the world understands what he's doing."

Love and understand the Italians, for the people are more marvellous than the land. -E.M. Foster

As I sit here with a rocks glass full of Jameson whiskey and some good Ray Charles on the radio, I sit back from the table I inherited from my dad's mother, my beautiful chameleon eyed grandmother. My grandmother, I think to myself in drunken solace, was barely five foot tall. She was a tiny little person but perhaps one of the strongest people that I've ever known. She did raise three boisterous boys and a tough as nails, Pinot Grigio sipping Italian girl, after all. My grandmother played a huge, irreplaceable role in my upbringing and to this day, I am beyond flattered when my friends and family tell me that I'm her spitting image. I worry that I'll never be half the woman that she was. I worry that I'll never be as strong and beautiful.

My dad, aunts and uncles remember my grandmother the same way that I do: such a tiny person, always in heels (until the day that she died), cooking for forty Italian family members on the weekends throughout her married life. She was a singer that was offered the chance to run off with a forties show band. But instead, she stayed at 33rd Street, between 1st and 2nd, married Dominick Visceglie, and had four olive skinned babies. She was bright and funny, classy but tough, a great cook and talented singer by ear. She was my second mother, my second home, and my heart. And I was always her favorite, her doppelganger, and her protege. Time has a way of blurring the lines but I seem to miss her more everyday.

After a good dinner one can forgive anybody. Even one's own relationships. -Oscar Wilde

The thing about my grandmother is she made everyone get along. I remember when I was little, there was some typical Italian family feud going on. I was maybe seven years old and glued to my grandmother (as usual). She put her arm around me, "Come on," she whispered against my cheek, "Grandma will show you how to make raviolis." She walked to the refrigerator and I heard an oink from the plastic pig eternally stationed inside as a reminder for her to stick to her diet. She pulled out an orange Chek, which may as well have been a million dollars because I was never allowed to drink soda. She opened it, put a straw in the can and handed it to me. "Don't tell Grandpop or Mommy I gave you this," she pointed at me in warning and smiled.

Ten crazy Europeans literally screaming in each others faces, slamming doors and throwing things and what's her solution? Don't get riled. Don't let them upset you. Get in the kitchen and cook because it'll all be over soon. Tomorrow you'll laugh about it over strong coffee and chocolate biscotti.

No yelling, no cussing, no holding onto things. What a wonderful, wonderful way to be: nurturing rather than breaking others down. Forgiving each other. Loving each other. Because when it all goes to hell, when the shit hits the fan, all you've got is your family. Because they have to love you, no matter what comes.

What can you do to promote world peace? Go home and love your family. -Mother Theresa

And perhaps it's that I take this mentality too much to heart that ails me. I've been wronged many times by those very close to me, those who claim to love me and in the beginning, I get cold and angry. Angry that I've let those that I love take advantage of me over and over. Cold and bitter to the point that it hardens my heart. I swear, in classic Italian fashion, that I'm done doing this. I'm done letting people take advantage of how much I truly do love and sometimes inexplicably, care for them. I'm done, I tell myself. I am finished with all of this. I am finished with you.

Then I drain what's left of my Jameson and I go to sleep.

And then I wake up and think to myself, "You're being crazy. You can't stay mad forever. Let it go and make some raviolis." I've always been really good at forgiving and letting things go. It's never been my style to get angry at all, much less stay that way. Life's short, capire? You've got to love your family, even when they literally and figuratively flip the tables. Coffee pots can be replaced. Loved ones, not so much.

But here's the other side of my brain, friends: Where is the line? I mean, there are truly some dodgy, crotchety people out there. Some of them are even closely related to you! How do you determine what to let go and what to hold onto?

Dilemmas like this make my stomach hurt and my chest tight. And I cry because I know that Grandma Arlene would know just what to say and the enticing smells from her kitchen and the wafting Dean Martin from my grandfather's work bench would be an instant comfort.

But Dom and Arlene aren't here to guide me. It's just me.

That's what people do that love you. They put their arms around you and love you when you're not so loveable. -Deb Caletti

Those moments where you don't feel a bit like yourself, when you feel like walking away from those big pieces in your life once and for all, how do you determine when it's right? How is it not considered just giving up? I mean, how do you just walk away from someone you love? Someone who held you while you slept and kissed away your tears? Someone who kept your secrets and listened to your ailments? Or in some more severe cases, someone who raised and nurtured you? Someone who taught the child version of yourself right from wrong? Someone who so purposely gave you life and breath?

At times like these, my mind starts playing that old Al Green song, "I'm Still in Love with You". It's such a sad song. Love, friends... Love can make you sick. Love sick: a penetrating, magnetic pandemic.

However infectious, there are times when I feel that love isn't worth the pain. But then I tell myself, no matter how tragic these fights and situations can be, where would I be without them? The proverbial dysfunction, no matter who insane it can sometimes be, has made me the tortured musician that I am today. (Sort of like Amy Winehouse meets Carrie Fisher, minus the drugs and electroshock therapy. And obviously the katrillions of dolla dolla bills.)

Moral of the Crazy: Writing this blog makes me think of the first Addams Family movie with the ever scrumptious and Spanish, from Spain, Raul Julia. You know, the one where Gomez and Fester have that huge fight, Fester goes to the Bermuda triangle in a bout of anger and then he gets lost? And while there's obviously more to the story because it was cast with A List actors, what ends up happening is years later, Gomez and Fester still harbor that ancient animosity over whatever stupid fight took place. But because it's a kiddy movie, they do eventually make up. And I don't want to ruin it for you but it turns out that Fester actually had amnesia when they found him in that tuna net.

But friends, that's not real life.

People hurt your feelings and sometimes, they even do it on purpose. People say things in anger that they can never take back. There are times when those people, even those that allegedly love you, commit acts that are just so terrible there is truly no way to fathom them. Sometimes things are meant to stay broken. Some things cannot be repaired and some silences are deafening.

One of the most applicable lyrics I've ever heard is from a Sister Hazel song: "I'd rather spend a moment with you than forever with anyone." The truth is love is dangerous and family can stray. But I think that in almost all cases, the love is worth the trial. With the fraction amounts of suffering comes a lifetime of memories that are irreplaceable. And you won't truly appreciate them until it's too late.

I wish everyday for one more meal with my grandmother. One more classic Italian cooking lesson. And I will never make that mistake again.

Take care of those you cherish and nurture the ones who need it. Teach those who have forgotten how to love and forgive those who are incorrigible. Because one day, they won't be there.

If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance. -George Bernard Shaw

The Crazy version of Dear Abby:

Need advice on something vital or love induced? Have some gossip that you desperately need to share? Want to swap idiot boyfriend stories?

Share your stories with me at: katemeyer@verizon.net with the subject line Crazy Face and be anonymously featured in my blog!