Emancipation!
What was supposed to be a stopgap measure became a 19-year-long dependency that supported my well-being at times, but also affected my confidence and my ability to fend for myself.
On February 3, 2015, I walked into my local Social Security office. I was there to end a way-too-long chapter of my life that began when I was 35.
In 1996, I succumbed to a massive episode of major depression. Unable to function or drag myself out of bed in the morning, I couldn’t show up at work most days. If I did cobble together the courage and energy to go, there were often spontaneous tears as I sat at my desk trying to focus on whatever task was in front of me. I couldn’t see beauty in anything.
When I told my girlfriend that life seemed unlivable, she drove me to a local hospital, scared and unsure of what else she could do to help me. I agreed to go because I felt numb and hopeless. She says I expressed suicidal thoughts. I don’t remember that, but I don’t doubt it either. I’d never been hospitalized for anything and had no idea what to expect. I chose a hospital where a friend worked as a nurse on the psych unit. At least there’d be a friendly face for comfort. I was angry and defiant, sneaking cigarettes in the shower stall in the bathroom of my room. My stress levels were so high that I couldn’t imagine getting through it without smoking, even though it was against the rules. I met with a psychiatrist whose accent was so thick I couldn’t understand him, and I stayed only one night. I signed myself out against medical advice.
I couldn’t pull myself out of the mire. Nothing made sense and nothing was working to alleviate my distress. Meds weren’t working and therapy wasn’t working. The suggestion that I consider ECT (shock treatments) was appalling to me, and I flatly rejected it.
A concerned relative let me know that I could apply for disability. She was sure I’d get it and offered to help with the application. She and my mom got it done together. I was most certainly disabled at the time. I needed money, medical insurance, and some relief from the pressure to keep going day after day. It was clear I couldn’t work. In 1996, it was easier to receive benefits and the waiting time for an answer wasn’t as long. It was quickly determined by the powers that be, that yes, I was indeed qualified to receive help. I was given a year of retroactive payments in one sum and was told I would receive a monthly payment and was added to the Medicare rolls. Not enough money to live on––though it helped––until it didn’t.
I took that chunk of money and broke up with my girlfriend because I felt incapable of loving anyone, and regarded myself as wholly unlovable. I moved into a small cottage in the woods with my dog and my cats and did lots of yoga. Relying on my monthly nut from SSD and help from my parents when I needed it, I supplemented my meager income with off the books part-time jobs to get my bills paid. Sometimes I felt like I was on vacation, but most of the time it was a struggle, and I was ashamed of needing the aid, confiding in very few people about my circumstances.
What was supposed to be a stopgap measure became a 19-year-long dependency that supported my well-being at times, but also affected my confidence and my ability to fend for myself. I counted on the benefits, and was frightened to let go of my safety net. I felt trapped.
A few people said, “Don’t ever go off disability, what if you get sick again?” I was ruled by a fear of recurring depression and allowed the voices of the people who loved me to take over, not trusting myself to overcome or cope with my diagnosis. What if I do get sick again? What if I can’t take care of myself? I adopted the label of mental patient and made peace with it, sort of. There was a part of me that felt like I might be gaming the system. I felt guilty, compared myself to others who might have been worse off than I, but ultimately, I knew I needed the support. I was terribly hard on myself, thinking I should just get it together and get on with my life. It wasn’t that simple.
As time went by, I drifted in and out of what I thought of as the “real world”, applying for trial work periods granted by Social Security. Claimants could try re-entering the work force without the loss of benefits for a limited block of time. I did try but would get pulled back under the weight of the depression, giving in and giving up. I was hospitalized twice for the ECT treatments I’d vetoed years before; they helped break the depression cycles but left me with short-term memory deficits. Frustrated and disempowered, I accepted the side effects, grateful for the relief I did receive. It’s not something I’d ever like to do again, but, if need be, I’d give it serious consideration if nothing else was working. I don’t see it in my future, though, given where I am now in my recovery.
Throughout those years, I worked hard to get well with a series of psychiatrists and therapists. In 2011, my dad died and left me some money. A cushion. I was still receiving money from SSD, still getting Medicare. It was time to get braver and change my life. I was tired of struggling, I was tired of feeling afraid every time I received a letter from Social Security. My heart rate would amp up before I opened them, worried that I was being cut off or that I had done something wrong.
I wanted to try to build my own business. Working very part-time in a bookstore, and volunteering at the local LGBTQ center, I was taught how to manage websites. I loved the exacting detail of the work, coding was a puzzle solver’s dreamscape, and I was a puzzle solver. I learned how to use design software and started a small business. I always wanted to be a designer. I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t try.
One day I realized that I was taking care of myself and was earning too much to be considered disabled.
So, on that February day in 2015, I drove to the Social Security office, took a number, and sat and waited. Finally called, I stood up with my bright orange book bag strung over my shoulder. It was filled with documentation of my income, and I walked to the next available window with a blinking light and said hello to the woman sitting in her bullet-proof glass cage. Her nameplate read “Miss Robinson.” She asked what she could do for me, and I announced that I thought I was making too much money to still qualify for disability. I said I was finished.
She looked at me, cocked her head and said with a brusqueness only a government employee can convey, “You don’t tell us when you’re finished. WE tell YOU when you’re finished.”
She asked me for my records, and I slid them through a slot at the bottom of her window. Going over them, turning the pages with the spiky tips of her 2-inch-long green lacquered fingernails, she entered my data, those scary green nails clicking and clacking with every keystroke. After five minutes of scrutiny, she frowned. I noted her color-coordinated green lipstick, a perfect match to her nails, and appreciated her aesthetic. Looking up from her monitor, Miss Robinson stated with all her authority, “According to the system, you are no longer entitled to benefits.”
Smiling the biggest smile I could summon, I looked at her and said, “Thank you, this is the happiest day of my life.”
She looked at me as if I was out of my mind, (I wasn’t!) and said, “No one is happy to lose benefits, ever.”
I said, “Well then, guess I’m your first. This is a special day for me. May I take a photo of you?”
She grudgingly allowed me to take her pic, shaking her head a little at this crazy lady on the other side of the glass, and smiling at me just the tiniest bit. It’s not a great photo, but I think she’s beautiful. I kept the little paper ticket the machine spit out when I arrived at the office. Number A99. It lived on my fridge, under a magnet for about 8 years, evidence that I was free from an ingrained belief that I couldn’t take care of myself. The day came when I didn’t need that slip of paper anymore, and I let it go.
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Or pay what you can afford, once or more often, and thank you so much!
I was a single mom at 19 and needed to be on public assistance, aka Welfare. It was the early 1990's and the welfare program was in the political spotlight. Negative terms, like "Welfare Mother," whispered shame in the back of my mind.
Still, I needed to survive. My son needed to survive. Besides a very small amount of money and food stamps, the program paid for my medical care so I could get counseling for my childhood trauma, and for my childcare so I could go to college. I didn't want to stay on welfare, but without an education, I'd struggle to find a job to provide what I needed AND pay for childcare. Without therapy, I would have failed all of it, trapped in the vicious cycle of generational trauma.
I was able to get childcare and attend community college. I was able to graduate with 3 AAS degrees in Natural Resources and obtain a job with the USDA Forest Service. The day I graduated, I called my case worker and told him I no longer needed benefits. He was confused, then offered to give me a stipend for my logger boots required by the job. I passed on the offer, since I had already used a portion of my student loans to purchase some. He told me he was so proud of me and wished me luck.
Today, I make a good living as an IT Applications Administrator, landing in IT at the right time to grow and learn with it. (I am still working on figuring out how to write full-time.) That little boy is 34 years old and still proud of his mama.
Thank you, Nan, for sharing your Emancipation story so I could share a tiny bit of mine.
I like puzzles. I like how you solved yours. Bravo!