4/14/98 Working on my taxes from 1992 to 1997. I spent the morning in the IRS building weeping, while collecting information forms, only to be told that because of my accident, I should go to an actual tax accountant who specializes in the arts. I should also depreciate my losses, my wages and earnings from 1993 up to 15 years into the future. But I don’t have enough information due to the accident, to file. To file an extension, even though I’m supposed to have back years paid, is impossible. The woman at the free tax helpdesk patted me on the shoulder as I wept, saying she understood. She understood. Perhaps that was more important than anything else. Not that it matters in the larger scheme of things. I’m doing all of this for such minute amounts of money. Draconian.
I’ve been at Neil since Easter Sunday working on my taxes. A fit of weeping yesterday afternoon depleted me. I had worked so hard and got nowhere. All the foibles of a dyslexic threatening to sink me. The complex labyrinth that is the IRS schedule and forms, the sheer volume of information is debilitating.
The rules change from year to year, according to Congress. So no rules need apply. It’s all bets are off. I had to get different forms for each year. 1992 is being mailed to me. To do, California tax forms. My plate is so full I’m at the point of not dealing with it at all. I’m not used to this copious weeping. Agony, frustration, fear, rage myriad of emotions bursting forth. The taxman, and he taketh away.
4/15/98 I’ve been working all morning on my medical stuff stuff which will help with the insurance. I had breakthroughs right and left. A desperate call to do it Tobey Kaplan via Neil‘s urging, for some tax information on deductible categories where I was stuck. She also gave me the name of her CPA which I will have to use, even the IRS suggested it. All in all, my experiences yesterday with the IRS were very positive, considering. No one chastised or criticized me for not paying my taxes. Neil said it’s like going to confession, except there, you get to hide out in the dark confessional. I was on display for the world to see.
The other perk was a job lead at Markham school, Tobey said there is matching money. So I also called to Tureeda to see if I could approach schools, as Micaela wants to observe me. So things are opening up a bit. I’ll have to call some other CPITS people to see if there’s a nibble or two. I should ask Tobey‘s advice on upgrading jobs etc. She’s in much better position than I, with a junior college job, and other jobs as well. Still 1/3 of her income comes from CPITS.
After days of struggle, I finally finished my taxes. Neil walked me through the figures and, as I suspected, I owed them nothing. It was a minus win situation. Primarily due to my medical bills. But I have to pay my Social Security regardless. Done.
4/16/98 Now I’m facing the blank page with both anticipation and with nothing to say, having made a perilous journey through the tax maze, and having suffered I was elated to be done with it. We were mad hatters dropping off our precious cargo. There was a comraderie on the street, a common experience we shared as we lined up in front of the post office. One black man, seeing our goofiness as we raced to the mail bins to beat the 6 PM deadline, only to discover it was 7 PM, said it’s tax time! To which I replied yeah, hours of work to prove that I don’t owe anything. Neil gives me a bear hug to congratulate me on completing my taxes, saying see you survived it.
A woman walking her envelope to the bin burst into a smile thinking he was addressing her. I insisted on dropping a letter into each bin, there were four of them. He said hey that one was an express mail drop. I said I didn’t really care. I wouldn’t even put my return address on the envelope I was so mad. He had to do it for me. I said, trust me it’ll get to the IRS, no matter how funkily it’s addressed, it’s that big. I said, even if it were to get lost in the mail. I’d still get it back. Giving my zip was enough to ensure a return, but his sense of pride propriety with scandalized so my envelope was compromised by conformity, my address on the outside, a mental image of fuck you on the inside.
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