A Cruel, Kafkaesque Catastrophe, Courtesy Of The US Government

Strap in; this is a long one that has been a fight since 2009. I grew up in Wyoming, but I live in California now and have since 2018. My mom passed when I was fifteen in 2009. When my mom passed, I got survivor benefits. The government gives you monthly pay as a form of child support for the now single parent — in this case, my dad.

When I was a kid, we were religious about the paperwork once a year. When I hit my eighteenth birthday in 2012 but hadn’t finished high school, I applied for an extension, and after many hours in the office and on the phone, I was granted benefits until graduation.

When graduation hit in 2013, I filed the paperwork to get my benefits terminated, I didn’t want to deal with overpay. All was good and I went on to be an adult with a diploma.

Somehow, despite all of this, I was charged an overpayment. Like many people who have to deal with the US government for any period of time, I decided I didn’t want to fight this. I paid it back and moved on with my life.

Since all of this, I have moved to California, held down many jobs (AKA paid into my Social Security fund for retirement), received benefits (virus, unemployment, and so on), and paid bills in CALIFORNIA! This is so important. Also of note: I handled all of my benefits for the last year I was getting them. My phone number was attached to the account, and I have had the same phone number since I was thirteen. I am twenty-eight now.

I was sleeping in on my day off, planning on going to the beach later with my partner and my cat — yes, we take our cat to the beach — when my phone rang.

Dad: “Hello, [My Name]. How are you?”

Me: “Unfortunately, I am awake an hour before I actually wanted to be, but I’ll survive. What’s up?”

My dad and I have low contact; he never calls me.

Dad: “I got a call from the Social Security office. They want to talk to you. You’ve told me not to give your number out without permission, so I am going to give you the number they want you to call.”

Despite my issues, I am willing to admit that my dad is an intelligent guy, unlikely to be scammed, but my twenty-eight-year-old millennial brain immediately went “red flag”.

Me: “Are you sure it’s not a scam? Because if you woke me up on my day off for a scam, I am going to be very cross.”

Dad: “I Googled the number. It’s the Social Security office in Cheyenne (Wyoming).”

I took the number and called them immediately. The office — which had literally just bothered my dad — was closed. In my sleep-addled brain, I failed to take into account that with timezones they would only be closed for three more minutes, not another hour. I went back to sleep.

Twenty minutes later, I got another phone call. Cue me getting out of bed because, clearly, I was not going to sleep anymore.

Dad: “Did you call?”

Me: “Yes, it was closed. I will call soon.”

Dad: “They called me again.”

Me: “Okay, I’ll do it now.”

I called the number, got through the automated process, and got an agent. I explained the two phone calls my dad had gotten, gave them all my information, and so on.

Agent #1: “Your account is closed.”

Me: “Yes, I know. I want to know what is needed to get the issue dealt with.”

I was put on hold for half an hour. They picked up again, surprised I hadn’t hung up, and put me on hold again. Finally, the agent came back and told me I had been underpaid. He said if I gave my bank information, I would get a check direct-deposited. Cool. I gave my information and updated my account with my new address and current (only) phone number.

Four business days passed, and I called on the fifth; I had been told it would take two business days. I got an automated machine and then, finally, an agent, and gave them my whole life story (Social Security number, birthday, full name, and so on).

Me: “Hello. I am calling to check on a benefits underpayment. I was told it would clear on Thursday. It’s Friday.”

I heard the clickety-clackety of the keys of a computer.

Agent #2: “Your account has been closed since 2013.”

I explained again what I had been told, and then they verified my information.

Agent #2: “Okay. Are you still at [address I have not lived at since 2013]?”

Me: “No, I’m in California, which I told the last agent.”

Once again, my address was updated.

Agent #2: “Now, we have this phone number: [my dad’s phone number].”

Me: “No, I have been at [my number] since I was thirteen, which I also updated with the last agent.”

So, all of my information had been updated twice, and surprise, surprise, my bank information was nowhere to be found, so I handed that over, as well. Now, I was watching my accounts for fraud just in case. Having been burned, I gave them the weekend and Monday because I got called in early.

On Tuesday on my lunch break, I called again, hidden in the manager’s office, which I asked to use for the sensitive information. I went through the automated machine again and once again gave my life story as I got through to [Agent #3]. She had an attitude from the second she answered the phone, but I tried to be pleasant; I have a code against yelling at people. 

Me: “I am just calling to make sure my updated information has actually made it into the system and that my direct deposit will be set up.”

Agent #3: “We can’t help with direct deposit; you can only do that in person. Is your address [current address in California] or [old address in Wyoming]?”

Me: “California. I am sorry, but I have been on this call twice before and I have been helped.”

Agent #3: “Obviously not. Is phone number [my phone number] or [my dad’s phone number]?”

Me: “[My phone number]. Ma’am, I am not lying; I called on [date #1] and [date #2] about overpayment and gave my details and bank account information.”

Agent #3: “I don’t have your bank account information. You probably called a scam number.”

Me: “I called this same number we’re talking on now.”

Agent #3: “You’ll have to go to the Cheyenne office to get this sorted.”

Me: “I live in California.”

Agent #3: “Well, those are your options.”

I have an embarrassing tendency to cry when I get frustrated or angry, so I was working on controlling my voice. I didn’t want this awful woman to think she’d made me cry. Also, all of this had brought up the loss of my mom — not a good feeling.

Me: “Can I talk to your supervisor?”

I don’t usually do this, but she had officially run to the end of my patience.

Agent #3: “I’m the supervisor this morning.”

I hung up.

So, on my next day off, I went to the office — in California. (Sorry, I had this argument for weeks, like I don’t know where I live and work.) I got there at opening, waited for an hour and a half, and got to an agent.

Agent #4: “Your account is closed.”

I head-desked — not literally but I promise that desk looked mighty promising. Cue a long — very long; you are probably no longer reading — explanation. Cue frowns from the agent, some clicking, and her stepping away. A supervisor came over, frowned at the computer, and asked me to go sit in the waiting room for a specialist.

The specialist was very friendly and helpful.

Specialist #1: “Your account for survivor benefits is closed and can’t be reopened, but when the mistake was found, we opened a second account for you attached to the first. Since the second account is only getting one check, it’s temporary. We sent the check to [old address in Wyoming] back in March.”

Dear readers, it was July at this point.

Specialist #1: “It was returned, so we called [my mom’s old number]—” *WTF?* “—and then [my dad’s old number]. When we couldn’t reach anyone, we put the account in termination. Details can’t be updated to a termination account except in person.”

[Agent #1] and [Agent #2] lied. [Agent #3] was right. I kind of hate her for it.

We updated all my information, again. For those keeping track, that’s three times.

Specialist #1: “Now, we can’t put bank account information on this account because of its status, so you will get a paper check in three weeks, or you can go to the payment center in [City twenty minutes away] to get it anytime before the check arrives.”

I waited three weeks and then tried to call to get an update. No one knew anything. Surprise, surprise.

Finally, after week four, I drove to the payment center. I just wanted to be done, take the money, plant a flower for Mom, and maybe go back to being a functional human; my mental health had taken a hit for all this.

After a full hour of waiting in the sun and forty more minutes in the muggy, not at all air-conditioned waiting room, in August, I finally got through to see yet another agent. Well, they were a specialist because that was a note in my file. We went through the whole song and dance again, and then she popped off with this.

Specialist #2: “Do you have proof that you need this money today?”

Me: “I wasn’t told I needed it. I was told I could come in at any point before I got a check. I have no check, and my partner and I would like to use this extra money on a vacation we have planned.”

We had already saved for this vacation; we had reservations, tickets, and money for food and souvenirs. The only thing the Social Security money would be used for would be an extra cushion (which we did need when my partner ran into wrongful termination a month later).

Specialist #2: “You need proof that you will lose your home or house or have utilities shut off if you don’t get these funds in three days.”

I was fortunate enough to not have any of these. I asked for an update, and she now said I’d receive the check six weeks from this visit. I walked back out to my car, cried, and drove home.

A week later, the money was direct-deposited into my bank account — which they’d said they couldn’t do. I am still livid, but it helped us survive while my partner found a new job, and we were able to move out of that small apartment to one closer to both our jobs.

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