Senator, I know you think people on disability are scammers, and people on disability who claim anxiety are double-dog scammers. I hope this little narrative helps you see another point of view.
Dear Senator Paul,
I am one of the people who you say is gaming the system by receiving disability for anxiety. Because I am a relatively new recipient, and because of the level of my anxiety, I could picture you pulling my application from the top of the stack, pointing at me and declaring, “J’accuse!”
I began receiving disability payments for anxiety and depression in September of 2014. I receive $1900 a month. At age 57, I have worked since 1973, thirty of those years in marketing copywriting. I have paid over $61,000 into the Social Security system, with my employer paying over $62,000. There are reasons why my payment is what it is.
When people learn I am on disability, they react in one of two ways: “My God, I didn’t know things were that bad.” Or, from the people who really know me, “How great for you!” They know of the economic struggles I and my family have gone through since my last full-time marketing job ended in 2010. They remember receiving yet another request for a job reference, as I held three different jobs between 2012 and 2013. I can find jobs, I just can’t hold jobs.
I have gone through sporadic treatment for depression since the 1980s. I never had the time, resources or inclination to engage in ongoing therapy. Anxiety didn’t take root until my freelance business, which I began in 2010, started to founder. Having to appear prosperous and professional while inwardly struggling is the height of cognitive dissonance.
In 2011 we lost our house to foreclosure. My spouse’s parents generously allowed us to move into their house with our teenage son. We tried to be grateful that we had a place to go, that I had a pension that allowed us to move, get situated in our new digs, and keep the household afloat until we found work.
I tried to accept the mantra of the “new normal,” but it was hard not to compare life to the old normal. My first two new-normal jobs were in home health care. It would take forty hours a week – assuming I could get that many hours – to equal what I received in one week on unemployment.
My Left Arm
I have a crooked left arm that was the result of something that went haywire at birth. When I had a desk job, my arm was nothing more than a curiosity. People assumed I’d broken my arm and the doctor didn’t reset it properly, or I was extremely double-jointed, or I’d had a stroke. In home health care, a crooked left arm hampered me in lifting, carrying, transferring. The idle curiosity became a major liability to others and to me.
Finally, I was a cook in a halfway house. It seemed like a perfect gig because I love to cook and I had written for an addiction treatment center. I was moving up the ladder financially, making 12 dollars an hour instead of nine, working 32 hours a week instead of 17. But I quickly discovered that working directly with manipulative, law-involved addicts is way different from creating marketing materials for the treatment professionals who work with said addicts.
What’s more, my raise in pay and hours was eaten up by the car repairs I’d been postponing. Family members loaned me their vehicles, some of which had their own mechanical issues. For a couple of weeks I was driving a different vehicle each day and forgetting which keys I was supposed to use and where they were. I forgot keys at home. At the store. In doorlocks. I was written up again and again.
The program director asked me one day, “Are you okay?” I answered automatically, “Sure, sure.” But the question made me wonder if I really was. I made an appointment for an anxiety and depression screening. My doctor prescribed a low dose of Sertraline. A variety of crises related to my 2010 job elimination bubbled up. My dosage increases couldn’t keep up with my stressor increases. When my family practitioner felt my anxiety was beyond his expertise, he referred me to a psychologist. And since I’d been fired from the halfway house, I had the time to devote to therapy.
Inside The Anxious Mind
Senator Paul, let me try to explain what goes on in the head of someone experiencing severe anxiety. You doubt everything you do so you’re paralyzed into inaction. You feel everyone is talking about you. You’re not good enough, fast enough, young enough. You feel there’s no way to catch up to the technology, the software programs and the people who are ahead of you.
I had panic attacks when I was driving in snowy or foggy conditions. (We live in the country and road markers are easily obscured.) In town, I panicked when people stood too close in front of me or walked too close behind me. I longed for Abe Simpson’s old job as a night watchman at a cranberry silo.
What are the sources of anxiety in your life, Senator Paul? The only one I can think of is a hot mike catching you with your foot in your mouth. And you probably aren’t all that anxious about it. You’ll just say “I misspoke” or “It was taken out of context.” And your anxiety obviously isn’t disabling you, because you’re still working.
And about that bad back of yours? Comfort yourself by thinking about how many people with bad backs should be receiving disability but aren’t. When my father-in-law was in a nursing home, I was talking to a PCA who came to work with a bad back. I asked if she could have taken the day off. She said “I couldn’t do that to my coworkers,” because they were already at a bare-bones staffing level.
If people receiving disability because of anxiety frosts you off, Senator, rest assured that mental illness is one of the hardest things to prove to a disability board. The reason: people with mental illness often go off their meds or discontinue their appointments. The company I hired to represent me said they would take my case if I kept up my treatment regimen. They handled the document dumps. They promptly and professionally answered my questions. They helped me keep my ducks in a row. Instead of waiting years for approval, which is common, I was approved within five months. My reaction seesawed between “Hot damn!” and “Damn, I must really be bad off.”
The company’s commission was 25% of my initial five-month back payment. I don’t begrudge them a single dollar.
The minute my disability check hits the bank, I pay the monthly bills. Auto insurance. Utilities. Satellite television. You say satellite isn’t a necessity? Tell that to a senior whose favorite stations are the Game Show Network and INSP. The same with Internet service. If you’re a job seeker without internet, you are ska-rewwed.
After the bills are paid, I divide what’s left by the number of weeks until the next disability payment. That’s what we live on. My spouse’s part-time work and VA payments fill in the cracks. We don’t live large. But large enough to no longer qualify for food support or gas vouchers. If you cut disability by 20%, Senator Paul, you’re only going to have to make up the difference somewhere else. Poor hungry people don’t just disappear, as much as you would like them to.
Fueling The Economic Village
Senator Paul, I know you roll your eyes at the idea of “it takes a village.” But every disability dollar helps fuel an economic village. Mechanics, storekeepers, gas stations, and hair salons that get to cut your hair more frequently than every six months. My family was even able to have a Christmas of sorts, which further fueled the economic village. Before disability, I had gone through unemployment programs, dislocated worker programs, diversionary work programs, and low-wage jobs. With disability, and my son’s Social Security, we have hope for a future. College no longer seems like an impossible dream.
Shoulda-Coulda-Woulda
I can hear the trolls now. You should have had more money after working so long. You should have done this. You shouldn’t have done that. Save your shoulda-coulda-wouldas, folks. I’ve flogged myself with them more than enough times for all of you.
After trying on job after job like ill-fitting suits, I realized there is nothing I can do better than writing. I plan on volunteering my services to the organizations that have helped our family through hard times. I am grateful for everything that has been available to me. I will pay it back through my recovery – and via an amazing, quick-witted son who will change the world in some way.
Senator, I know you think people on disability are scammers, and people on disability who claim anxiety are double-dog scammers. I hope this little narrative helps you see another point of view. Oh, one more thing. If you do suspect disability fraud? Which, claims processors say, is about one percent? Then by all means report this rampant practice. I’ll even give you the contact information. It’s http://oig.ssa.gov/... or call 1-800-269-0271.
Thanks for listening.
Sincerely,
maricleshappen