Stunned silence. Apparently I'm disabled.
Okay, so this is fucked up and hilarious and completely, unexpectedly awesome.
I wrote about being denied for disability here: Time and tide, and a complete lack of surprise.
Except . . . the letter wasn't a denial letter. It was an acceptance letter. The most backhanded piece of mail I have ever received, one that masqueraded almost perfectly as its opposite. It said, in one line buried in three pages, "we have determined that you are disabled." But it then went on to say that I was not eligible for help, so no cookie for me, and that is what the whole rest of the letter was about, and so I didn't really understand what I was seeing, because all I was seeing was the big red NOPE where the money I desperately need should have been.
So we talked to a lawyer, and the lawyer explained that this is what happens when they don't have current financial information on you, because they've dragged their heels so long they can no longer use the info they requested from you at your initial application. They want new proof of our liquid assets, that's all.
We called the Social Security office and talked to someone there about it and yeah, that's the truth. I'm approved, contingent upon my ability to prove to their satisfaction that I need their money, but they aren't arguing that I'm not crazy.
We now have an appointment to go see them on April 12th, though that might get moved or shuffled about, I don't know.
The important part is that I haven't been determined to be eligible for financial aid.
But I have been found to be disabled by the state.
And that's . . . that's the big one, isn't it? The hard one? That's the part I was fighting for, and so afraid of? The thing that never happens, that I knew would not happen: they admitted I was disabled with my first try.
I mean, I . . . I did it. I didn't even know I did it, but I did it. And . . . I don't . . . I just . . . I feel so incredibly weird about the whole thing, and there is a lot to unpack. I have complicated feelings about it, and I am afraid of the restrictions that will be placed on me because of it -- there are some, regarding how much money you can make or whatnot, and I don't know what those are, and won't, until I talk to the people in April. I am still afraid this will be taken away from me.
But they want me to bring my bank account and routing numbers for direct deposit, guys, and it just . . . it could be a real thing. And I don't . . . I don't . . . really? I mean . . . really?
It's too soon to be really super-happy about it, because we don't know about the financial situation and how much help I will be eligible for, if any. But I want to be happy. Because this is . . . huge. Isn't it? This means no hearing in front of a judge, no lawyer fees, no more testing, no medical records, no notes from doctors. This means no warpath, less bracing myself for more of what I've been getting, which is kicked. This means 75% less fighting. I was ready to do it. One hundred percent, I was ready to do it. And I probably won't have to. Not the way I thought I was going to.
I don't know what to think. I don't know what to feel. But that, over there in the corner, that little, fragile, half-invisible thing, that is identifiable hope. And I don't want it and I'm trying not to feed it, I'm trying to ignore it, but it's there, no matter how unwelcome. Not hope for the long term, not hope that I will someday become rich and powerful and have an army of minions in neatly-coordinated suits. Hope that, in a year, I will be able to go to the doctor or the dentist without waiting months and months. Hope that I will be able to live a life less devoid of a meaningful future. Hope that I will be safer, and less afraid. Less afraid. Less afraid.
Less afraid.
Fucking hell, I have spent literally most of my life feeling unsafe. "Less afraid" is all I have ever fucking wanted.
X-posted from Dreamwidth. Comment count:
I wrote about being denied for disability here: Time and tide, and a complete lack of surprise.
Except . . . the letter wasn't a denial letter. It was an acceptance letter. The most backhanded piece of mail I have ever received, one that masqueraded almost perfectly as its opposite. It said, in one line buried in three pages, "we have determined that you are disabled." But it then went on to say that I was not eligible for help, so no cookie for me, and that is what the whole rest of the letter was about, and so I didn't really understand what I was seeing, because all I was seeing was the big red NOPE where the money I desperately need should have been.
So we talked to a lawyer, and the lawyer explained that this is what happens when they don't have current financial information on you, because they've dragged their heels so long they can no longer use the info they requested from you at your initial application. They want new proof of our liquid assets, that's all.
We called the Social Security office and talked to someone there about it and yeah, that's the truth. I'm approved, contingent upon my ability to prove to their satisfaction that I need their money, but they aren't arguing that I'm not crazy.
We now have an appointment to go see them on April 12th, though that might get moved or shuffled about, I don't know.
The important part is that I haven't been determined to be eligible for financial aid.
But I have been found to be disabled by the state.
And that's . . . that's the big one, isn't it? The hard one? That's the part I was fighting for, and so afraid of? The thing that never happens, that I knew would not happen: they admitted I was disabled with my first try.
I mean, I . . . I did it. I didn't even know I did it, but I did it. And . . . I don't . . . I just . . . I feel so incredibly weird about the whole thing, and there is a lot to unpack. I have complicated feelings about it, and I am afraid of the restrictions that will be placed on me because of it -- there are some, regarding how much money you can make or whatnot, and I don't know what those are, and won't, until I talk to the people in April. I am still afraid this will be taken away from me.
But they want me to bring my bank account and routing numbers for direct deposit, guys, and it just . . . it could be a real thing. And I don't . . . I don't . . . really? I mean . . . really?
It's too soon to be really super-happy about it, because we don't know about the financial situation and how much help I will be eligible for, if any. But I want to be happy. Because this is . . . huge. Isn't it? This means no hearing in front of a judge, no lawyer fees, no more testing, no medical records, no notes from doctors. This means no warpath, less bracing myself for more of what I've been getting, which is kicked. This means 75% less fighting. I was ready to do it. One hundred percent, I was ready to do it. And I probably won't have to. Not the way I thought I was going to.
I don't know what to think. I don't know what to feel. But that, over there in the corner, that little, fragile, half-invisible thing, that is identifiable hope. And I don't want it and I'm trying not to feed it, I'm trying to ignore it, but it's there, no matter how unwelcome. Not hope for the long term, not hope that I will someday become rich and powerful and have an army of minions in neatly-coordinated suits. Hope that, in a year, I will be able to go to the doctor or the dentist without waiting months and months. Hope that I will be able to live a life less devoid of a meaningful future. Hope that I will be safer, and less afraid. Less afraid. Less afraid.
Less afraid.
Fucking hell, I have spent literally most of my life feeling unsafe. "Less afraid" is all I have ever fucking wanted.
X-posted from Dreamwidth. Comment count: