The following was posted to Facebook this morning by my wonderful and courageous daughter:
“So as usual I filmed a rough version of myself doing the number for tonight as a reference and to make sure key stuff looks good.
Maybe it’s that part of my wisdom is gone with the 4 teeth pulled or something, but in analyzing my proportions, I realized what I am now is less than what I thought I was at damn near 90 pounds, and still wasn’t happy.
In hindsight, I lost too much time to a disease that is too shamed upon and not fully recognized by society, yet all too common and strikes all genders, races, and ages. Back then I couldn’t see that I looked sick and terrible. I don’t even know how my now hubby saw anything in me when we met…appearance is nothing when it comes down to the physical wreck one puts their body through when faced with any type of eating disorder.
I look back on those years and think how I could have done better. Mistakes that would not have been made if I wasn’t consumed with said disease. But hitting rock bottom and powering through to a life not consumed by self destructive thoughts 24/7 has made me the strong woman I am today. A roll with the punches, fight for what I believe in, follow my dreams and screw the haters kinda gal. Without that struggle, I would not have the awesome things in my life right now that at my low times I tend to forget. Honestly, as my bandmates say, I have more than 9 lives because I’ve used up 20 at this point.
For those that stuck through this status, thank you. For those that are struggling with an eating/body image based disease or issue, I am a message away. Every now and then I go all preacher masokiss here on FB because I know someone, if only it be one single person, will read it and maybe get a tiny spark inside of them to fight to become healthy. It only takes one instance to go from feeling invincible to being damn near a death bed. Life is more than how you look, or how you THINK you look.
Live for the moment. Live for yourself. Fuck that negative voice in your head. Give a middle finger (or two) to the haters. #staystrong”
I am reminded of a comic strip I saw in the daily paper, where a dog chasing his tail finally caught it. The cartoon dog made a great exclamation of delight as a result. The following cell pictured him in exactly the same place, tail still in mouth, the Sun having gone down and the Moon high in the dark night sky. The “thought” bubble over his head said “NOW what do I do?”.
For more than a moment, I could relate to that after reading the highly anticipated correspondence from the bureaucrats regarding an SSI claim. Then again, I had a funny feeling about how it would turn out. The claim was made at the encouragement and suggestion of the medical insurance company through the Department of Public Welfare. They provided an advocate to expedite the process, in fact. The claim was put in just prior to the triple bypass procedure that ultimately and wisely I decided against.
By way of cross-indexing all all of my medical records against their criteria, it was determined that I was fully able to return to the work I had done most of my adult life. They were very clear about this as fact, further saying that my condition had improved to the point that I should be able to re-enter the work force at this age and continue where I left off as if nothing had happened.
What may be the classic irony and circular logic is this fact:
Had I undergone the bypass surgery, the probability of becoming qualified as disabled up to the normal SSA age of retirement claim would have been upward from 80% positive.
I am confident that this is a fact. Everyone I have spoken to that is familiar with the system backs this up. In my dealings with every involved agency over the past few years, I am not the least bit surprised. I’ll be most happy to be rid of it all finally and hopefully. If I can find a job at this point, that is.
One of my first jobs was cleaning a restaurant. That has to be the very definition of a thankless pursuit. That much I did learn, but I did take pride in it and always wanted to please the owner, and be noticed. There was a guy there that showed me the ropes and taught me things I could use to advance myself within the enterprise. His name was Louie. He was a big, barrel chested Italian fellow with red hair. He was a catch-all kind of guy for the owner. He could do just about anything that needed doing. One time he was mowing the lawn and tried to start the mower on straight gasoline. The owner figured out the problem of why it wouldn’t start and told him he needed to mix oil with the gas before putting it into the tank. Louie added the oil to the tank, hoisted the entire mower and shook it in the air, owner shaking his head and laughing. It was like that.
Louie carefully showed me how to make coffee in the giant urns one morning. I took a cup of the fresh brew out to Frank the owner while he was sitting in the main bar, going through receipts that morning, looking over his half-rim glasses. Frank was pleased.
The very next morning I had just finished cleaning when Frank arrived. He asked for a cup of coffee. I went and made a full urn of it- exactly the way Louie showed me and served it to Frank, awaiting a positive response. Frank took a sip, spit it out all over the place, and accused me of trying to kill him. Louie came rushing in to see what the problem was. As it turned out, he neglected to tell me to empty the caustic lye urn cleaner that was cooking away overnight and rinse it twice before making an urn up. He rightfully took the hit for me on that one. I went and got the mop and bucket and re-cleaned the floor in the bar.