Living Falling Down

I auditioned for American Idol today.

It’s okay, I’ll wait for you to stop laughing at my expense…Are you done now? …How bout now? All righty then.

I managed to get a rare perspective on this year’s auditions, not necessarily from the front lines, but just a enough to the left to get a whole different picture than anything I had heard of thus far. This wasn’t because of any major event, or some Cinderella-esque turn of fate that left me in the limelight, but rather a lot of smaller instances that left me in back row center, giggling insanely at the wonderfulness that humanity can accomplish.

As I’m not currently writing this blog from a Hollywood Studio apartment, you can guess how far I managed to get into the actual competition, but I am thrilled at the experience and would gladly saddle up and drag everyone I know back next year. Is it because I’m a glutton for punishment? I am, but that’s not the case here as the whole process was painless, exciting, fun and an incredible ego-booster, and I didn’t even pass the first round.

Allow me to explain:

Two days ago my family and I showed up at the Amway Arena around 8am to register for the show, along with about 3,000 other hopefuls. There was music playing in the line (courtesy of the contestants), news cameras everywhere, and in a rare Floridian event a wonderful breeze blowing that cooled everyone off and resulted in a crowd of genuinely happy people. I had expected to be waiting in line for several hours (and had brought provisions of sugary snacks and playing cards accordingly) but in reality I was waiting for about ten minutes. Ten minutes. Then an American Idol employee (Hello Patrick, you wonderful man!) struck up a conversation with my party and moved us over to a special shorter ADA line that was out of the sun and where stunningly attractive EMTs were standing by. If you’re wondering why I would need to be in a disability-accessible line, reference back to the previous blog post on POTS. Florida Sun + waiting in line + uncontrolled excitement makes for a rather wobbly and purple-looking Heather. In this line we waited for another ten minutes tops while enjoying the company of afore-mentioned Adonis EMTs before we experienced the glory of American Idol costumer service - a one-woman registration parade who came out and took care of all of our paperwork without requiring us to go inside (I would NOT have made it up all those stairs) or wait in the heat any longer than necessary. I do not know how that woman managed to carry all of those stickers, papers and things without losing any in the wind (I have a sneaking suspicion the wristbands had found a convenient pocket in her bra) but with the utmost courtesy and care she took care of us in a whopping total of two minutes.

Let’s pause and take a look at the math here, folks. 3,000 people standing outside the Arena, I counted 20 employees (maybe more maybe less) working the crowd, and yet those spectacular people managed not only to pick out those in need of help in no time at all, but safely had them on their way in less than twelve minutes. We expected to be there for a minimum of three hours (we arrived at a slow point of the day in terms of contestant traffic) but ended up being there 22 minutes, half an hour if you count driving, parking and staring open-mouthed at the giant American Idol sign while squealing like prepubescent children.

Now, while Registration day was all about efficiency, Audition day was a massive block party with free wandering serenades and the best people-watching known to exist.

Parking was terrible, as expected, and we were forced to walk a long way to the Arena, but when we arrived we were not pushed into the crowd of 18,000 outside who would proceed to do commercial promos and crowd shots with Ryan Seacrest for 2 hours (sad I missed it, but considering all the complaining I heard about the heat it’s hardly a deep sadness). Instead, we were escorted to the ADA entrance where two overworked yet exceedingly cheery Idol employees (Mario and Amanda, King and Queen of Multitasking) were singularly responsible for over a hundred contestants and their families in wheelchairs, on crutches, carrying canes, and in one case sporting a pair of lovely purple feet. Even though there were only two of them for the great mass of us, and contestants could not travel anywhere unescorted, we only waited about five minutes before we were brought into the still-empty arena (and blessed air conditioning) where we were the first in the stadium to be seated and were practically catered to by a butler who looked like the Monopoly man. Our comrades in arms (and one very large cast) quickly became our friends and immediately we began swapping rumors and intel on the auditions, which we were all nervously excited about.

I am not a social person by nature, it is a trait I have had to learn and still struggle with, but apparently if you place people next to each other in a Colosseum-sized arena and tell them that they’ll be allowed to sing publicly social interaction becomes not only natural but enthusiastically pursued. During the two hours it took people to file into the arena and take their assigned seats, I made at least a dozen new friendships and somehow picked up the magical ability to start conversations with total strangers with only a smile. Seriously, you would have to cram 70 hippies into a van with politically-charged folk music and three megatons of weed in order to get the same level of cheer and good will towards others that I saw today.

You might think that this was because everyone knew the cameras were on and thus were presenting their best behavior, however I would like to relate some instances that occurred not only when the cameras were off but no where in sight:

1. I walked through a door and a woman pointed at me dramatically and said “Look at her! That’s the best smile I’ve ever seen!”I don’t know about before, but it was certainly a bright smile after.

2. A rehearsing girl struggling and slaughtering (and I mean ripping apart note by note, stabbing them and leaving them in a ditch to die a horrible, slow death) a Carrie Underwood song in a corner was not only applauded but was then set upon by not one but THREE professional voice instructors who had her singing like Miss Carrie herself in under three minutes.

3. A young man darted through a crowd and dove in prince charming fashion to open a door for an older woman wearing a medical germ-proof mask without being asked, and followed this chivalrous act with a string of compliments. (To this man I would like to say thank you. If you could have seen the smile on her face you would understand why.)

4. The first person to audition and receive a golden ticket was applauded by the crowd. The first person to audition and fail received a standing ovation.

5. In a two minute walk through the concourse, I counted seven times in which I saw a complete stranger walk up to a practicing singer and not only offer their praise, but their help if the singer so desired it. There was no competition, no survival of the fittest. Every person who got through was celebrated as though they were personal friends with everyone in the crowd and the only time I heard a negative word spoken about another contestant was when these words were uttered, “Did you hear that? She was brilliant!…I hate her!” I would like to add that that comment was followed with thunderous applause from the speaker.

Yes, it was a forum of peace, love and happiness the likes of which I have never seen, and in some way it restored my faith in a dwindling humanity. For if we all can come together for a common goal and support each other the way I saw strangers uplifting each other today, then I believe the Cockroach Overlords might have trouble exterminating us after all.

On a final note, in the off chance that someone from a Google search finds this blog and shares it around, I would like to take this opportunity to speak to some people I met today:

1. To the woman who spent the entire day shushing me and complaining that I was making it impossible to hear what was going on (when I was speaking in a normal tone of voice in the back row of an ampitheatre filled with over 18,000 other people) I would like to ask that you take a chill pill. Also, I heard your daughter sing and it was quite lovely.

2. To all those who spent time and effort making signs referring to “Poker Face” only to find out that they had changed the crowd song to “Heartbreaker”, I feel your pain. I spent months dilignetly learning nine different songs only to be allowed to sing four lines of a chorus.

3. To the two producers who were so intent on rushing through my group’s audition so that they could go on their lunch break that they not only didn’t listen to us but actually rested on your hands and sighed: I don’t blame you for being exhausted or dismissive, especially considering how many people you have to hear, and I do not begrudge you your decision to let all of us go home empty handed, it’s your right and I’m no David Cook. However, if you’re going to tell someone that they’re just not good enough for you, common curtesy dictates that you are supposed to look at them when speaking and avoid waving your hand like you’re swatting an annoying fly. I wasn’t hurt (I had successfully completed my goal of auditioning without passing out) but the others in my group seemed offended.

4. To the Girl in the Yellow Dress: As comical as it was watching you grab the butt of your super-short dress with a fist and hold it down whenever you walked up and down the stairs, I would still suggest wearing an outfit that did not suffer the risk of full-backwards panty viewing whenever you take a deep breath.I apologize to whatever fellas might find fault with this plan.

5. Finally, to the girl rehearsing in the bathroom stall next to me who started in with a full-volume belted version of “At Last” right as my cheeks hit the can, I would like to award you the LFD Comedic Timing Seal of Approval. I nearly peed myself laughing. Luckily I was in a venue that could handle such calamity.

Now we just wait and see if I show up on tv. In the meantime, I want a cookie.

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If you were to look at me, even if you looked closely, you would think I was fine. I’m not.

I have what’s called an invisible illness, a sneaky disorder in which the patient suffers from the overworn phrase “but you don’t look sick!” Occasionally there’s the variation of “you must be faking” or “it’s all in your head”, but the stigma is the same. Unless I’m having a particularly bad episode, I look, sound and act like any other perfectly healthy 20-something.

I attribute this assumption not only to the invisible nature of my disease, but the fact that I am a spledid actor. I made a conscious decision when I was diagnosed that I wasn’t going to play it up for sympathy, or let the illness steal away my life until it defines me. As a result, I’ve made a habit of ignoring pain or discomfort and have several tricks up my sleeve for disguising what symptoms the average joe would be able to pick up on. I constantly monitor my body, making certain that I’m aware of what symptoms I’m experiencing and what that means in the grand scheme of things. I research my condition almost daily to stay informed on treatments, advances and techniques to make my life easier, as there is no cure. I am an expert in my own body, with its malfunctions and mistakes, and I use my knowledge effectively to keep hidden what is and maintain a look of normalcy.

It’s not that I care that people know I’m sick. I’m blogging about it, so secrecy obviously isn’t an issue. The trouble is how people treat me whether I am or not. If I’m having a good day and medication time comes around, people freak out when they see me pull 10+ pills out of my bag and start popping them. I’ve been accused of addiction, or dying and not telling anyone, and on one fateful occasion attempting to give someone else a heart attack. On the other hand, if I’m having a bad day and need to travel in a wheelchair or collapse in the middle of the room the accusations become about faking, overreacting, playing for attention or having self-destructive psychiatric behavior.

Truth is, it’s exponentially easier to deal with people who treat me like I’m fine. Granted, I get disapproving looks and snarky comments when I have to ride through a theme park in a wheelchair (it doesn’t help that I look like I’m 16) and hiding my condition adds to the general consensus of “faking it” whenever I do experience severe symptoms. However, this is to be preferred over sympathetic sighs, constant questions of whether or not I’m okay or being handled like a porcelain doll. I realize that I AM a porcelain doll, but that doesn’t mean I can’t aspire to be Raggedy Ann. Besides, it doesn’t seem fair to make the people around me join me in constant worry for my health and safety. I can manage that all on my own.

If anyone’s interested, this nasty little bit of undeserved kharma is called Dysautonomia, and I have a specific strand called Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome or POTS. To make a long medical history short, I experience syncope (collapsing and passing out) and the much worse near-syncope (nearly passing out and feeling like someone really needs to just put a bullet in you and end your misery).  These two are caused by my autonomic nervous system not working right and in turn not forcing my circulatory system to work right. The severity fluctuates on a number of factors (how much sleep I’ve had, if I’ve taken my pills on time, if someone over in Asia sneezed during a blue moon, etc.) and I have days of “I’m fine, I swear” and days of “Oh holy hells, who put that floor there?!” I deal with the symptoms as best I can - sometimes I get the best of them and sometimes they get the best of me.

If I didn’t make an active stand against my disease, I think it would swallow me whole. If I didn’t approach my live with humor and lightheartedness it would easily drag me down with it. That’s why I hide it - not to pretend that it doesn’t exist, but to prove that I can be stronger than that, that I can win a war against my own body breaking down. I can keep up my life, my goals and my desires regardless of how my body fails.

I might fall down, but I’m Living Falling Down.

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I’ve never written a blog before. I’m the type of person who likes to keep my private life private, and so I’ve never thought to share with the whole wide internet.

However, the allure of a blank canvas, or in this case an empty web page, is too strong to ignore.

I’ve yet to decide what I want to write about, whether it be opinions, information, or the random nonsense that seems to plague me through my day to day activities (such as the persistant question of whether or not hamsters would make effective ninjas) but once I do, I’d like to get this thing up and running on a weekly basis. It’d be nice to have a forum to express myself, and from what I hear, blogging is a lot like counseling without having to pay to sit on someone’s couch for half an hour.

So, we’ll see what I come up with, and, for the record, I think hamsters would make much better pirates than ninjas. It’s a lot easier for them to wear eye patches than hold nunchucks.

Ttfn,

Heather

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