Today was so hard, and I was so weak

But I forgive myself

I don’t just forgive myself. I congratulate myself for 1) solving it (even if it did take my son basically commanding me to do so) and 2) salvaging the night by joining Clive Matson’s poetry class (yay for me!).

What happened?

Taxes. That’s what happened.

I’ve been in a morass of some sort, and I’ve been entrapped in it for years. Way too many years. You see, I’m terrified of taxes. I always was. Even before I got audited, which was one of the worst experiences of my life, I despised taxes. In classic fashion, I reviled, feared, and derided them, and the whole concept of the… custom? law? thing? that filing taxes is. Whatever.

I got audited many years ago, and it was incredible. Incredible as in unbelievable. Not credible. I, of all people. I laughed bitterly knowing that of everyone on the block I lived on, I had the least to give. You can’t get blood from a stone.

The fact that the IRS chose me to audit made me respect them even less. It was ludicrous. I only wished I knew how to pull a fast one on the IRS. Instead, I was so law-abiding as to be like a rabbit, just waiting, paralyzed, as the shadow of the hawk passes over. I thought, why would they pick the rabbit?

But pick the rabbit they did.

I could not afford help, and I decided early on it was too hard for me to sort. So, when I met a guy online that happened to be a tax attorney, well, you can imagine that he became a wee bit more compelling.

In fairness, I met him before I learned he was a tax attorney, so there must have been some basic compatibility. But, truth be told, he became way more sexy when his skill set became evident.

And help he did. I had to date him for six months, and it wasn’t so bad. He was impotent, but that was actually okay since I wasn’t in love with him anyway. He seemed to enjoy necking in the car well enough.

Watching and listening, however, as he manipulated and twisted the auditors around his little finger was amazing and appalling. From New Orleans orginally, with a sort of French bayou charm, he’d acquire a slight twang in his diction as he spoke to the chief auditor, or Grand Wizard, or whatever. It didn’t hurt at all that she happened to be female. But he would have been good with a guy too. It was all smoke and mirrors. He basically buttered them up, relaxed them, and then asked them to give me a break, over a series of calls, over a series of weeks and months.

Of course I’d broken no laws. I was simply so disorganized that I couldn’t prove they were wrong. Apparently when the IRS goes after you, our legal system flips around. You’re guilty until proven innocent. The IRS decided that all of the times I’d moved money in a panic from one account to another (I’d decide heroically to “save money,” then predictably run out and have to run over and get that money ASAP to pay a bill) were “deposits,” and they had some whopping sum, laughably, astonishingly large, that they said I’d “earned.” They called my real income income, and all of my transfers as well.

I couldn’t believe how stupid it all was.

God knows, I wished I’d earned that figure.

My point is, taxes are toxic to me and have been for a long time. After that nasty business (my tax attorney boyfriend got me off, by the way, for only a case of the wine served at Obama’s inauguration, donated by a friend) (and of course, getting to date me for six months), and I went on with my life.

But I never got over my fear of and vitriolic hatred for the IRS.

I went on with my life. The years passed. Hell, at least a decade passed. I got myself a tax accountant well-reviewed on a local parents’ site. I thought I was good. I chose to carefully overlook how each time she spoke to me, I was clueless as to what she’d said. How, when I asked for clarification, it only became more complicated and opaque. I chose to overlook the time she was late filing my return and “kindly” paid it for me, asking me to pay her back (highly unusual, said my son. Scammy, in fact, said my son).

I had told her I was allergic to taxes, that I needed an accountant I could trust. She took advantage of that. Things became more and more cryptic. Today, I was mired in a kind of hell (what fresh hell is this was the term that came to mind). My accountant had “amended” my tax returns for 2020, 2021, and 2022. I thought she’d done this to get more money back for me, but when I opened the email from her assistant, I saw that I owed EVEN MORE, somehow, than the orginal returns said I owed, and in one case (2022) owed A HELL OF A LOT MORE.

The wind was knocked out of me, and I had trouble catching my breath for the last two days.

The amount was huge.

I lost my job in November. I’m earning a little more than one-third what I was earning before I lost my job. And these figures were huge.

Worse, they made no sense.

I was reeling.

I complained to my son.

He got mad at me.

“Mom, you’re going to have to figure this out. This is on you. Be an adult and work on it, even if it takes you an entire weekend. This happened because you let it happen.”

Of course, he was right. Ever so right.

I got on the phone, and guess what? I spent the entire day on hold waiting for the IRS, with only a few minutes of actual speech with an IRS agent. Twice, the call was dropped, once after I’d been on hold for two hours and 15 minutes. I wish I was kidding. The second time the call was dropped was almost as bad.

But I got through it. Toward five o’clock, verging into six o’clock, I began to get answers. And guess what? According to the IRS, I owe nothing for 2020. Nothing for 2021. And guess what? They say I have a nearly $13,000 credit for 2022. My accountant told me I owed $40,000. Which is why I felt like I was having a heart attack for 48 hours.

What the hell?

But the point isn’t the IRS. And it’s not my accountant either.

My son said it. It’s my bad attitude.

He came over around 6:30 to pick up some camping gear. I said, “Yeah, turns out I owe zero for 2020 and 2021 and am slated to receive a credit of 13k…”

He said, “Then why are you still in such a bad mood? You should be celebrating.”

“I’ve been on the phone with IRS for the entire day.”

“But, you figured it out. You did what you needed to do. And you got good news. Why are you still complaining and angry? Why are you acting like a victim?”

It was a good question.

I took Daisy out for a walk. It was cool one one side of the street, warm on the other. I crossed over to the sunny side. I checked out my baby buckeye, my wild buckwheat, my madrone, all the sages in the two block radius we walked. I remembered to take a deep breath a couple of times.

When we got back home, I felt cautiously better. I hoped my son was still there so I could thank him. He was, and I did.

Then, well, I did two things that perhaps seem in opposition, but maybe aren’t entirely.

I made myself a Manhattan and joined a poetry class on Meetup.com.

And you know what? Being with other flawed humans, albeit on Zoom, helped me. Drinking my perfect Manhattan from my perfect, heavy-bottomed rocks glass helped me. The sun setting in the window, lighting up my dining room before sinking under the horizon, seeing it reflected back at me in the Zoom call, helped me.

It was good to join the poetry class. I came alive.

I was bitter and resentful that I had spent hours talking to IRS agents and waiting for IRS agents to pick up the line and listening to shitty hold music, and having the call drop twice.

I felt sorry for myself. I felt indignant, disgusted, affronted. How dare they!

Lol.

Who do I actually think I am?

My son is right. One of these days, I might want to consider growing up. I actually have a lot of growing up to do.

But joining the poetry class tonight was a way to stand up for myself. I came alive. I had things to say. I knew I was helpful. It felt great.

Yes, today was hard. Yes, I was weak. I complained. I bitched and moaned. I acted like I was above it all. I think I often do this. I somehow still haven’t learned that 1) I’m not (above anything), and 2) thinking that way only allows people like my shitty accountant to take advantage of me, which 3) only sends me spinning further and faster on the victimhood wheel.

Listening to the poems tonight written by these fragile, vulnerable, witty, and flawed humans helped me forgive myself.

Yes, I’m ridiculous.

But, I’m trying.

My son said, “Mom, I’m proud of you. Look at what you did. You took care of it. You were tenacious, and you fixed it. And you got good news.”

Right. What more could I want?