u/Exotic-Ad9732

I e-filed this year. Approx a week later I was sent an identity verification document. It asked if I had filed a tax return previously and because the question lacks clarity I answered no, then the document disappeared. I cannot verify identity online. It will not allow me to. I am homeless and have no address to receive mail so I called the taxpayer identity verification unit twice. Let me state again that I am unable to receive mail. They asked about all 1099s I had received. I explained the mail situation and was told my identity could not be verified. I called again and they hung up on me. I then filed an ADA request for accommodations.

The CRD unit of the IRS is asking me for information I have already given several times and playing stupid with me. I am visually impaired and homeless. This situation is causing me significant financial hardship. Who do I go to next to ensure that my situation is properly addressed?

#IRSrudeemployees #IRSnoncompliantADA #procedural #e-file #identityverification #ADAaccommodations #discrimination #TIGTA

Nowhere to Go: A Story of Survival in San Luis Obispo County

You don’t plan for your life to collapse in a single week. But sometimes it does.

For me, it began with violence. Not long before everything fell apart, I survived a major domestic violence assault—two black eyes, a broken nose, bruises across my face, and a deeper pain behind my eyes that never fully faded. I became visually impaired, and sustained other injuries that made everything worse. I was still healing when my father died. Then my grandfather. Then my poodle..Three losses back‑to‑back, three anchors gone.

I tried to rebuild. I tried to start over. I found a short relationship, a place to stay, a little bit of hope. But it didn’t work out the way I thought it would. One night, after an argument that spiraled too fast, I found myself standing outside with nothing but the clothes on my back and a phone at ten percent battery.

No car. No money. No family nearby. No friends. No plan. My mother lived 1,500 miles away—too far to help, too far to reach. My face was still bruised. My eyes still swollen. My vision still blurred. My heart still grieving. And I was alone.

The Police Tell Me to Call Lumina

The police were called, not because I did anything wrong, but because I had nowhere else to go. And in San Luis Obispo County, when you’re suddenly homeless and visibly injured, the police have one answer:

“Call Lumina Alliance. They can help.”

So I did.

Lumina gave me a hotel voucher for one night. Just one night, but when you’re traumatized and exhausted, one night feels like salvation. They told me to call in the morning and that they would figure out next steps.

I believed them.

But the next morning, they said the shelter was full. No extension. No plan. No safety net. Just “call every morning.” And that was it.

Nowhere to Sleep, No One to Call

I stepped out of that hotel room with nothing. No jacket. No bus pass. No food. No phone battery. No idea where to go.

I tried to sleep near the creekbed, but the rangers showed up.

“You can’t be here. Move along.”

Move along to where? They didn’t care.

My phone died. Now I was cut off from the world.

I went to Social Services. They told me:

“You don’t have children, so we can’t help.”

I told them I was visually impaired. I told them I had been assaulted. I told them I was grieving two deaths. I told them I had to go.

They shrugged.

I walked out with nothing.

I Finally Get to Prado—Then Lose My Bed

Eventually, someone gave me a ride to 40 Prado. I got a bed for two nights. I showered. I ate. I slept. For a moment, I thought I might be okay.

But I wasn’t in the 90‑day program. I was “overnight only.” That meant every morning I had to sign up again, and every afternoon I had to wait for the list.

On day three, my name wasn’t on it.

“Sorry. Try again tomorrow.”

Now I was homeless again—in a city I didn’t know, surrounded by people I didn’t know, with no transportation and no plan.

I collected change to get back to Five Cities. I used public resources when I could, but everything was hidden, outdated, or impossible to access.

I called everyone. I emailed everyone. I applied for jobs. I applied for school. I filled out forms. I went to appointments. I jumped through hoops.

I was exhausted, grieving, lost, confused, angry, sad—and still trying.

Every Time I Rebuilt, the System Knocked Me Down

I finally got a birth certificate. A clean set of clothes. Depression medication. A bicycle. A backpack. A little “home base.” It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Then the rangers came.

“You have ten minutes. Take what you can carry.”

They threw my belongings into a dump truck.

My ID. My medication. My clothes. My bike. My documents. My stability.

Gone.

I started from zero again. And again. And again.

Trying to Work Without the Basics

I applied for jobs, but I didn’t have a phone, an address, clean clothes, transportation, a place to shower, or a place to store belongings. I wrote down the shelter’s number. I smiled and pretended I was fine.

But no one hires someone who can’t be reached.

Trying to Go to School While Homeless

After years of surviving, losing everything, rebuilding, and losing it again, I somehow found the strength to try school. I applied. I got accepted. I started classes.

But the same barriers followed me: no stable place to study, no reliable internet, no transportation, no quiet, no storage, no safety, no support. I was trying to learn while living in survival mode.

I Reached Out to Officials—And Got Silence

I wrote my local officials. A couple responded at first. Then nothing. I wrote again. And again. And again.

Silence.

ADA Requests Ignored or Weaponized

I filed formal ADA accommodation requests. I explained my visual impairment. I explained my trauma. I explained my barriers.

Some agencies ignored them. Others retaliated.

I learned that asserting my rights often made things worse.

A Civil Rights Complaint—and a Six‑Month Battle

I filed a civil rights complaint against the housing provider that manages nearly all the low‑income housing in the area. It was picked up. It has a court date.

But it has been six long, exhausting months of paperwork, interviews, evidence gathering, retraumatization, waiting, and uncertainty.

I was fighting a system while trying to survive it.

A Housing Navigator Betrays My Trust

I reached out to other agencies for help. I tried to trust again.

Then my housing navigator shared personal information without my consent—information that wasn’t even accurate—and that could put me in danger.

The one person who was supposed to help me became another source of harm.

And After Over a Decade of Fighting—I’m Still Not Any Closer

This is the part that breaks me in a way nothing else has.

After more than ten years of forms, calls, agencies, case managers, appointments, promises, retraumatization, loss, instability, and starting over, I look around and realize:

I am not any closer to housing or help than I was the day I first called Lumina

Not because I didn’t try. Not because I didn’t want it. Not because I didn’t follow the rules. And not because I did something to deserve it

But because the system was never designed to help me.

It was designed to manage me. To document me. To count me. To fund itself through me.

But not to house me. Not to stabilize me. Not to protect me. Not to help me rebuild.

This Is What Homelessness Really Looks Like in SLO County

It isn’t laziness. It isn’t addiction. It isn’t bad choices.

It’s trauma. Grief. Disability. Violence. Loss. Institutional betrayal. Systemic indifference. Constant instability. Constant survival.

And it’s constant because the system makes it constant.

The system isn’t broken. It’s functioning exactly as designed.

It manages homelessness. It documents homelessness. It counts homelessness. It funds homelessness.

But it does not end homelessness.. it perpetuates the cycle it claims to want to resolve.

​

May 6, 2026

I am a visually impaired college student with a traumatic brain injury. My partner, who is terminally ill with pulmonary hypertension, and I have been homeless while trying to secure affordable housing through Peoples Self-help Housing (PSHH).

What we experienced over the past five months reveals systemic barriers that prevent disabled and low-income applicants from accessing housing that is supposed to be available to them. Despite our household income being approximately $38,000 a year, we were repeatedly subjected to shifting requirements, inaccessible document demands, last-minute deadlines, and miscommunications that jeopardized our eligibility. At one point, PSHH staff calculated our income at more than $90,000, a figure that appears to have been derived from gross receipts without deducting business expenses, contrary to HUD rules and standard accounting practices.

Throughout the process, I disclosed my disability and repeatedly requested reasonable accommodations, including alternatives to Excel documents that I cannot use due to my visual impairment. These requests were ignored. Instead, we were asked for documents that do not exist, documents prohibited under HUD Handbook 4350.3, and documents impossible for a homeless applicant to produce without transportation, equipment, or stability. We were also given contradictory instructions, duplicate fees, and deadlines that fell over holiday weekends.

At one point, a housing navigator from another agency incorrectly told PSHH that my partner was no longer part of my household information that was false, shared without my consent, and could have altered my eligibility for a disabled unit. After months of these obstacles, I filed a formal complaint with the California Civil Rights Department, where our case is now active and under review.

This is not just about my partner and me. It is about the systemic filtering out of the very people affordable housing is designed to serve. Many applicants do not have the time, knowledge, or ability to challenge improper requests, navigate complex documentation demands, or advocate for themselves when accommodations are denied. They fall off waiting lists silently, and no one ever knows why.

We are still unhoused. We are still being asked for documents that do not exist. And we are still fighting.

I am sharing my story publicly because I want change not only for us, but for every disabled, low-income, or unhoused person who has been pushed out of the housing process by unnecessary barriers

. Affordable housing should be accessible, not a maze designed to exhaust the people who need it most. I hope that by speaking out, we can bring attention to these practices, encourage oversight, and ensure that others do not face the same obstacles.

For anyone out there facing similar circumstances- It is not hopeless. Please do not give up. We are fighting for our own stability and for everyone who deserves a fair chance at housing