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When Is a Disability Not a Disability?

When it's depression.

By Joelle WhitePublished 4 years ago 5 min read
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photograph copyright 2017 Joelle White

His formal diagnosis was in 1989, but he had been struggling far longer than that. Depression continues to strangle his potential and smother all joy. Counselor after counselor, doctor after doctor, every medication known to man, two hospital stays—nothing has diminished half a century of torment.

He tried. God knows he tried to provide for his family. In 2008, the bank he worked for collapsed. It's been nothing but hand-to-mouth existence for his family ever since. Moving from job to job in an attempt to run away from dysfunctional supervisors became a way of life for him. The two employers who were decent couldn't keep him on. One of these let him go because he never asked for help with the project. Because of the scars from his past he was scared to ask, and so he struggled when he could have been learning and growing. There was a contract job terminated early due to a Dragon Lady boss. Another contract job simply ended when it was time for it to end. He has now been without a job for a year.

He tried. God knows he tried to get another job. He is quite skilled in his field, has been since junior high school. For every 100 jobs he applied to, he would hear back from only one. In nine months he had only five interviews. He'd shine brilliantly in the technical interviews. But it's hard to have a sparkling personality when you're depressed. One look at his gray hair, haggard face, and hands trembling from the side effect of yet another ineffective medication... Three times out of five he was dropped like a hot potato. Only two potential employers had the courtesy to notify him that they didn't choose him.

"You're not a good cultural fit."

Of course he isn't a good cultural fit. He's disabled—he needs to go to the doctor frequently, he needs to work from home sometimes, he's often cranky, and sometimes he can't function due to lack of sleep. Every single job application he filled out asked, "Do you have a disability? If so, check all that apply." He checked all that applied.

As the money ran out and the family applied for food stamps and scrounged for sidelines, he applied for disability. After all, every single employer said that he's disabled. If society didn't want to employ him, then it was time to ask society to support him in a different way. Right after applying for disability, he was committed to a mental institution after he broke down crying at a doctor's office. His wife left desperate messages for every social worker involved. She didn't know when or even if he'd come home. But not even that was enough to convince social services that he is disabled.

Three months later, social services denied his appeal and said that it would take a year before he'd be able to have a hearing.

The only hope he has is to keep working on his own project, hoping to someday sell it. Meanwhile, the family is caught between a rock and a hard place. Selling the house is a Band-aid fix—their mortgage payments are about the same as rent on a two-bedroom apartment. If there's one thing they've learned it's that rent goes up faster than income. They could possibly live six months on the equity from their house. The instant they sell, food stamps will cease. They'd have to keep moving into cheaper and cheaper apartments from year to year. They could do this except for one thing. One of them is autistic, and if there's one thing that autistic people need it's stability.

But this adult child's social worker hasn't been helpful either. Among the list of resources the social worker provided was a parking lot where people are allowed to sleep overnight in their cars. That is NOT at all helpful for an autistic adult. Emergency housing could be provided in three month's time - accelerated because of the autistic child. But the instant the family sells the house, hey presto, they have resources and don't qualify for that emergency housing.

The ironic thing is that the able-bodied members of the family can and do earn money from caring for the autistic one. The autistic one needs some supervision, and is so hopelessly naive that an independent life is not possible. However, the pay is pitiful simply because the family doesn't have to help their loved one with toileting, dressing, or grooming. Never mind that if they were paid for everything they do, they wouldn't have to worry about the father. The autistic one is on Supplemental Security Income, but if one divides the absolutely essential household expenses by the number of family members, SSI covers only half that portion. This family is beginning to forget what it was like to have enough income.

And of course that pressure does not help his disability. The disability that is not a disability. The disability that keeps him from getting and keeping a job, and the non-disability that keeps him from getting an income from the social services that are supposed to help prevent homelessness. Religion, medication, and counseling do not work for him. After half a century he is not cured. Employers disdain him and social services tell him to bug off. What's a man to do?

Get a job?

He wants to work. He has skills—valuable skills. He has talent. He does not want to be mentally ill. He enjoys the challenge of what he does. All he needs is a boss who will respect his skills, who will treat him well, and who will make reasonable accommodations for his illness (here's a hint: he actually does his best work while he's at home). Is that too much to ask?

Apparently it is.

I don't know how this story is going to end. This man is my husband. And oh, by the way, conservatives, I was a stay-at-home mom, a good one—and this is how God rewards me for being faithful to my husband and supportive of my family. I have a job (and a couple sidelines), but my resume is not impressive enough to get a better paying job elsewhere—as evidenced by the dismal lack of results in my own job search. One child has only ever landed gig jobs—even grocery stores reject her applications. It's hard to be self-sufficient when all the doors are slamming in one's face.

Here's my challenge to conservatives. If you don't like it that we're on food stamps, employ my husband and my child. They don't drink, they don't do drugs, and they don't smoke. They've never committed any crimes. They're good workers. Give them a chance.

Here's my challenge to liberals. Put your money where your mouth is. We don't want to be on any public assistance, but if it's that or a tent under the highway, we'll take it. And we'll try to get off it as fast as possible. But don't dangle the lure of hope in front of us, only to snatch it away.

Let's see who helps us first.

depression
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