There are a lot of things in the financial world I don’t understand. Some are due to my ignorance, such as retirement plans or hedge funds. Others simply don’t make sense.
One such example was having my tax return rejected from the IRS year after year after year. It was only recently that I learned this was due to the fact that someone had already filed a tax return using my social security number.
I made countless calls to the IRS, and although they were eventually able to identify the person who had been using my social security number fraudulently, they refuse to tell me who that person was.
Without that information, I was left spinning in a world of chaos. Without that information, I was unable to file a police report for identity theft or recover any damages. It took the IRS 9 months to send my refund, something that most people receive in less than 2 weeks.
So, after about a decade of this situation, and going through the motions year after year, to provide alternative forms of Income verification, I think I am well within my rights to be a little agitated.
This year I planned to file for an extension since it was my understanding that several other related issues are being investigation so I could finally put an end to this madness.
Now I don't have much money, in fact I don't have any, but I find white collar crime despicable and repulsive.
When taken into account the substantial cost to society, not to mention the havoc it wreaked on my life, I respectfully think that maybe you should not assume that someone is making false claims just because you don't think it sounds "right."
Lots of things don't "sound right" however that doesn't mean they aren't true. Gotta go now, I have a date with eBay to auction my social security card to the highest bidder. Clearly, it is not worth anything to me so long as the authorities fail to do their part in ENFORCING the laws associated with Identity theft.
Sure, it is easy to blame the victim as being irresponsible or somehow negligent in these situations, however I will refer you to some fascinating research that has been done on the emotional consequences of Identity theft. The cost is far more than just an issue of financial discomfort; it is something that can ultimately leave you questioning your own identity.
It should be noted that Identity theft is a criminal matter, so whatever costs associated with such events, the victim is not reimbursed for any of the costs associated with having their life disrupted by something that is ultimately completely beyond their control.
It happens more often than you think, and it is a complicated, intricate, and time intensive to resolve such crimes... To be continued...
“Hey, sounds like me! I’m headed towards ruin quick. Hope all is well.”
Post From Ned V:
“I’m not good, Elyssa. Very depressed. I was such a different person when I knew you. But maybe I will be different soon.”
Reply from ElyssaD:
God, Ned, I wish we could talk. Based upon what I’ve read through your interviews and posts online it seems you are going through the same emotional chaos I was experiencing that first year we met in New York.
A friend just checked himself into a psych ward after a suicide attempt, and I feel so helpless. I care and respect you both so much. It is funny because I always thought if I could just finish that damn book I was working on ten years ago… or law school, my Ph.D.- any number of things- everything would be okay. I’m confused because you finished your book, Rob finished law school… yet I finished nothing.
A few weeks ago I “lost my shit”, so to speak. Then I read your interview and was completely blown away. I used to be the crazy one! Now I have my sanity back, but nothing else.
Having been through several crises myself, I formed the philosophy that when you see someone in crisis they become so overwhelmed and confused they do not know what to do, or how to dig out of the hole they have dug for themselves. I decided rather than asking, just figure out their first step and give it to them, no questions asked, no thank you necessary.
How many people have said, “Call if there is anything I can do!” and when you actually call, you receive nothing but disappointment and regret. I decided never to ask somebody what they need, mostly because even they don’t know.
When I came to the realization a few weeks ago that my transient existence is so tangential no one would notice if I never took another breath, I tried to figure out what I needed. I started going through my old journals to see if I could identify the missing element of my life. That “thing” that would simultaneously make it all goes away and come together so I could be a whole person again.
That thing is a figment of my imagination. I used to think it was being loved by a man. I had that, and it wasn’t it. Then I thought it was having money. I had that, but it wasn’t it either. I thought it could be having health insurance- still, no. Perhaps it would be having that “oh-so-critical” Ivy League degree. I have that, and it still wasn’t the solution. None of those things could have been “it.”
In truth, the thing I need most I lost long ago.
Hope.
Perhaps I never really had it at all. I guess some things can’t be bought, learned, earned, or acquired.
I think of the long twisted road, and I remember one of my favorite childhood movies with a girl named Dorothy so determined to find her way home after a great storm. Disillusioned and distracted, Dorothy would not yield to the many obstacles that had been placed in her way. Determined to meet the great Wizard, she stuck to one path.
Yes, there were detours, obstacles, and the Wicked Witch of the West. Each of these obstacles may have taken her, yet she never once lost sight of the road home. She believed in one thing: The Wizard, and his ability to bring her home. Having great faith and determination, she never strayed far off the path of righteousness. Dorothy had a clearly defined goal, a means to get there, and a bright yellow brick road to guide her. Through her determination and unyielding faith, Dorothy never once doubted she was on the right path.
In the Wizard of Oz, the yellow brick road may have been Dorothy’s path, but her determination and blind faith was able to bring others along the road to enlightenment. The lion found his courage; the tin man got a heart. The scarecrow got some brains. Even Dorothy got what she needed most.
Dorothy began her journey looking for one thing: To get back to where she began, to find her way home. Dorothy teaches us a valuable lesson. Yet she was lucky enough to know what it was she so desperately longed for... home.
I can’t click my heels three times to find my way home, for sadly I know not where home is. They say, “Home is where the heart is”. Perhaps that is part of the problem. For some of us, our childhood homes were not places of happiness for which we’re nostalgic. They are places from which we run, endlessly seeking our own magical place, hoping we come across a road that clearly guides us toward our destination.
Of course we will encounter challenges that take us off course, and it is up to us to find our way back to the path. Unfortunately, if you stray from the path too long, there is a point at which we lose our direction and faith. As I grew older, I realized my feelings of detachment went far beyond a dysfunctional childhood or a broken family life in which my sister and I never even lived in the same house for more than a year, only in the summertime.
No matter how long I have been in Nashville, in many ways I am still a stranger. A stranger, because homeless is a state of mind. In my mind, I think home is a place of acceptance, shelter, forgiveness, comfort and recognition. For most, going home means to reconnect in a way you are reminded you have something or someone, who will always have your back. Home represents more than a structure; it represents a strong foundation always available whenever you need to safety and comfort, and protection.
So this is my home. I don’t necessarily feel safe here, but I do feel consistent. I do not have to worry that I will be forced to switch schools, neighbors or friends every six months because my parents could not get it right. What they failed to realize is just how very wrong it really was. Changing schools, friends, siblings… even myself- just enough to fit in each time. But after 16 years of constant change, I never got the opportunity to find out anything real about myself. Even my name was changed when I moved--- my dad called me “Liz,” and my mother called herself any number of last names as she desperately sought to hold on to her youth, beauty and delusional fantasies of entitlement and sacrifice. I think she may actually believe her lies to be true.
I never had plastic surgery- couldn’t afford it anyway- but I do have a clear memory, vivid nightmares, and a place of my own. I also realize that until I can live free from fear and dependence I will never be able to know what it feels like to be at home. If home is where the heart is, homelessness is just a state of mind. Today I have some hope I might someday no longer feel as homeless as I do at home. Now I know more than ever that home is far more than a concrete structure or family property.
I will always feel a bit homeless at home. Knowing you are that which remains constant, regardless of any dreams I may have, I will never feel constant enough to bring a child into this world, despite my desire.
I envy those who feel they have so much in their lives they can trust without reservations that the world is a loving enough place to share with a child of their own. My mother told me long, long ago that I can never have children. She also told me last year I could not have a dog. My own mother does not think I am capable of raising a puppy.
Maybe she’s right- she put her fears into action when she donated my cat of 14 years to an animal shelter under someone else’s name. I adopted him back from the animal shelter 40 miles away after learning of her use of another person’s name so I could not find him on my own. I was without any ties, and here we are again.
Only a few days left to come up with a plan to take the two of us far away, to a place where we could be safe and live free.
I will not look elsewhere to find the essentials things healthy children receive that makes them healthy adults. I will never be “healthy” but I do wish I could give more than that which I’ve received. I regret not being the kind of community member I believe I could have been, and I’m not sure I will get over the sheer humiliation of having to live this way for so many years when I could have been doing many great things for society that I believe I could have accomplished.
I can’t regret needing constant reassurance, recognition, or validation. However, I will always question if things would be different if just one person took the time to show me I was worth it. To say I deserved more than that I could afford and recognize I do give so much in so many other ways.
Ways people cannot calculate, or see how badly the recipients needed my gifts. It’s the little things. It’s Cody, its Desiree- but above all, it was me.
Setting goals. The feelings knowing I was no longer subject to biannual custody disputes. The realization that homelessness is merely a state of mind. You see, it is that I doubt myself; I just don’t trust people won’t do horrible things, even if that simply means doing nothing at all.
I do have much love to give, perhaps too much. So much it often pours out of me in inappropriate sentimentality. I know when I need to keep to myself, when my anxieties start rub off on others and make them a bit anxious. I know from seeing the reactions to my anxiety, and it only makes me worse. It can be a curse; can be one of my worst attributes, but sometimes that sensitivity is a wonderful and god given gift.
Should that prevent me from getting out into the world? Just because how other people think I should be take a disliking to me? That’s not my job. I have spent more than half of my life in self-imposed isolation, and the other half wondering how I can be less annoying and high strung so others would want me around. The truth is, I am annoying, but I am also perceptive and very aware. Sometimes it is even on purpose.
I should not have to live in isolation because I have nervous tics or sometimes say the wrong thing. But regardless of what people seem to think about welfare recipients being lazy bums, guess what? Fuck you. Because of attitudes like that, I have chosen to keep to myself in case I really am so horrible to be around. So horrible my own parents think I would be better off dead.
It would be easy to withdraw. To leave everything behind and simply go live an isolated life, dismissing those around me and the constant judgment by societal standards from those who have no understanding. But, where would I go?
Ten years “down the road” and now more than ever, I realize I am truly and deeply “homeless at home.”
The letter below dated April 13, 2008 went unanswered. That correspondence along with many others who just pretend I don't exist.
Now I know exactly how much I mean to this City. PAY ME TO LEAVE!!!!!
There is nothing quite so disturbing as being invisible. Yes. I am homeless. I have lived through a shooting, an assault by a security guard at a medical facility, and with no other place to go, I rented a room in a house for low income adults who are SEVERELY FUCKING DISTURBED!!!!
Now I am deeply disturbed too. I am deeply disturbed that this is the best we can do.
At least I know I need help, and when to get it. Despite being owned by a CMHA [Community Mental Health Agency] and the recipient of both state and federal funds, the only rule in this house is don't call 911. In other words, when locked out or assaulted by one of the 3 other house mates, Mobile Crisis is OFF LIMITS. Now I know better than anyone that Mobile Crisis sucks, but when you are standing beneath a 6 foot woman holding a waffle iron over your head, 911, mobile crisis, IDGAF who intervenes, just someone do something!
I called the crisis hotline the other day. In all honesty, I just had no one else to talk to, my internets had been disconnected and sabotaged, the house phone locked up. I was just lonely (and locked out during a tornado warning)
But trust me, there is nothing quite like sticking me in a house with SSPMI (super severe persistent mental illness) that make me look almost normal and and a landlord with a no-call policy against Mobile Crisis and mental health helplines.
I have lost everything near and dear to me since I first offered to participate with the local police department after the shooting downstairs. That was in February.
Next, I lose Spotty because not a single person in Nashville has enough compassion to rescue an innocent animal that I rescued from one of clients several years ago. And you wonder why I'm so angry?
Don't worry, I know you want my silence, that message came through loud and clear.
You can take everything from me [actually, you already have] but you will not take my voice. And I can promise you this, my memory is long, and it is hot. Look it up assholes, hot memory.
Yeah... you did this. Now it's my turn.
Continue to sneak a peak every now and then.... your e-mails will appear on this page. Fuck you, and fuck you right back. Happy Anniversary, Elyssa. You have officially been a resident of this fine fucking state for exactly 13 years.
Kicking ass, not so much... taking names... you can bet your sweet ass I am!
[Another Unanswered letter to Metro Council]
April 13, 2009
Can you please tell me who I could speak with (preferably informally) about a situation with Section 8 and MDHA.
I have already spoken with Pat Clark, director of MDHA, and she has been an unsympathetic to the fact that there has been an ongoing problem with drugs and violence with children in the same complex.
Legal Aid / or pro-bono refused to will represent me since my parents are attorneys. They told me I would have to get the money for court fees and a court reporter from them. That just ain't gonna happen.
I am 36 years old.
I don't mean to be rude or disrespectful in any way-- you have been extremely kind and gracious towards me, I am just exhausted by this process and I think it is pretty easy to see that I am stuck between a rock and a hard place.
If there is someone in particular who works closely with the housing authority and utilities, kindly ask them if you can release their name to me(or vice versa) so I can make sure it on the record before I loose my section 8. The landlord is paid in full, but I still have to move by the 22nd.
.
Thanks so much. If there is anyone you can think please let me know. There is stigma and judgment that comes long with a person who lives in public housing, but can assure you it would not be my first choice.
Mental heathcare is a disaster in The State of Tennessee. Only to get worse by the current re-certification of The Daniels Class: 140,000 More PEOPLE to be cut since Governor Bredesen received a federal waiver for to trim the working poor of Medicaid.
I want to work. I deserve to be a contributing member of society, and forgive me for saying so, but I do actually believe I do have something to contribute.
Otherwise that is a whole lot of graduate degrees in psychology and mental health law and policy down the proverbial shitter.
PUT ME TO WORK!
Elyssa Durant, Ed.M. Nashville, Tennessee United States if America
Though slightly off topic, it deeply disturbs me that some states finger print Medicaid, Food Stamp and Social Welfare applicants.
I was shocked to witness this first hand in New York State while I was a graduate student at Columbia. My health insurance would not cover due to pre-existing conditions and I went bankrupt (financially, morally, and in every way that counts) spending over $152,000 in student loans trying to maintain my health so I could finish my PhD in public policy. A pipe dream now... I ran out of money (and faith in the system) the last semester of my degree.
As if they don't treat those living in poverty bad enough in America, must they send an underlying message that we are criminals as well? They sure treat us that way.
Please tell me what crime I committed. I would be happy to serve my time. At least I could count on being fed, housed, and govt. healthcare!
Elyssa Durant, Ed.M. Nashville, Tennessee United States of America
