After my third hospital stay, I got the pleasure of the Elder Protection Agency breathing down my neck. Someone had reported my car accidents, the pending charges, and rumors that I was driving under the influence of marijuana. Apparently, I’d been labeled a danger to myself, so an advocate showed up at my door.
She asked questions I didn’t want to answer. Was my rent paid? No. Were my utilities about to be shut off? Yes. Did I have food? No. Did I have a plan? That one almost made me laugh. A plan for what? I had no money to fix the bills, no money for groceries, and I was out of work on unpaid leave for at least another month. My future looked like a blank wall.
The advocate offered nothing. No resources, no suggestions, no support. She just wrote everything down and told me I’d be “under their care” for the next month. Care for what? She couldn’t help me. She didn’t even pretend to try.
She called twice a week, asking the same questions, getting the same answers, each call dragging on for fifteen pointless minutes. If I let her go to voicemail, she’d keep calling until I picked up. Then she contacted my employer, my children, and even my neighbors, questioning all of them. When I found out, I was furious. No one needed to know my business, especially not that I was being monitored for possibly being unable to care for myself.
Now everyone she contacted checks on me. Constant calls asking if I have food, if I’m okay, if I need anything. And after the assault incident with my son, even more advocates started circling. Every time one of them calls or shows up, I want to scream. If they can’t offer help, why won’t they just leave me alone?
I had to clean up the mess myself. I found a food pantry that delivered, so at least I wasn’t hungry anymore. But the utilities and rent? Those required money — the one thing I didn’t have. Being poor isn’t a good look, but I’m starting to carry it with a kind of pride. No money just means I have to be more creative. I know I can fix things. It’s just going to take time.
K.
Read more about the mess I’ve been trying to survive, →
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 