This blogpost is now archival- It was written in late September 2024- I found it in my draft section and I think it had been parked there as it was too raw and I felt it also more than a little self indulgent. With the benefit of some objective distance I can now let go of it emotionally so here it is to be perused if anyone should so wish.
Last week was a week of despondent low level anxiety, arrived at through the lack of urgent jobs, hence the opportunity for the anxiety to creep back in like mould on the bathroom ceiling. No reason for it bar the end of a busy time painting the peace mural and other bits and then having a querulous email exchange with a work contact, which reminded me of my lack of security and regular wage which is the life of a freelancer. Struggling with my tax return was the veritable icing on the cake of despondent anxiety.
I returned to a more reasonable outlook by the end of the week, and reminded myself I had every opportunity to work and relatively little to be moaning about. So, I embarked upon this week light of heart, because not only had I drunk a cup of cop on- the big news was that through various circumstances I had managed to file our tax return on Sunday afternoon.
Now, the tax return, as a self employed artist, has rendered me a tearful enraged shell of a human every year for the last good few. Its like a return to the maths school room where your brain just whispers to you ” this is impossible” and despite my best attempts at rationality and common sense I break down within 1/2 an hour of being put on hold, transferred to a different department, being told that I need to speak to someone in the tax appeal department and being transferred and then waiting another 20 mins in a queue and then the new person saying I have to speak to someone else its nothing to do with them. Like a monty phython-esque bad theatre experience. And so on and so forth. Here is an actual email I sent via the Rev’s My Enquiries online system not too long ago (all names rescinded, just like my tax return) when my tax clearance cert was rescinded without any notification and I had to embark on weeks of emails, phone calls, and hair tearing out in order to get it reinstated.
“I am enquiring, yet again, over my rescinded tax clearance certificate. I cannot get through on your phone line today as once again, I got an automated message saying you are too busy to answer the phone. I eventually got through yesterday morning and I was told there is a 6 to 8 week backlog on answering ROS enquiries. What are people supposed to do? How are people meant to communicate with you? I spent an hour on the phone yesterday morning going between PAYE and Tax clearance to get PAYE to acknowledge that there is no outstanding balance on my 2022 tax return, (the reason that was given to me as to why my Tax clearance was rescinded) as the return was paid in full through our joint tax return that my husband and I do each year. I was told that this error had been rectified and it would take overnight for the system to recognise this. This morning I tried again as advised by yourselves to apply for my Tax Clearance Cert and it was refused, stating the same issue, my 2022 tax return, although an amended 2022 tax return was issued by yourselves through ROS My Documents this morning, stating that the balance owed is 0. So now your phone lines are off, and as mentioned, N*** in your PAYE section informed me that there is a backlog of 4 to 6 weeks on your enquiry system. How is this acceptable when the phone line is not accessible? I have tried repeatedly to navigate my way through your system and am utterly defeated and significantly financially compromised by it as your system is so deliberately unaccessible. Attached is the updated statement of liability for 2022, issued by yourselves this morning. Regards Rachel Macmanus”
The irony is that my experience of the revenue is like it is Groundhog Day – so many people work there that its like you begin again every time and have to explain everything from the start- so some poor sod of a civil servant, who would have been entirely new to my predicament- got my hysterical ranting email. I would spend long hours on the phone trying to speak to a human, on hold, and find myself imaging all the revenue people, holed up in their endless little compartments, in a vast, stuffy, low ceiling room with those awful carpet tile squares and of course their headphones on, talking indifferently in their monotone bored voices to sobbing angry clueless dopes (me) who couldn’t differentiate their PAYE from their PRSI never mind their income and expenditure.
The only way I have been able to prepare for the dreaded tax return is by saving. Saving all my receipts. diesel, shopping, gluten free, paint, photocopies, you name it, I’ve got an envelope with the receipts in it. I’ve always comforted my self by reminding myself if the rev actually came back and queried my figures I’d be grand, – as I’d have the receipts to back me up. Every single one. But the problem would be of course that as I sorted through the bags and bags of hastily stuffed in little oblongs of white paper, I’d get pulled down endless rabbit memory holes- the receipt for when I bought that black skirt in Zara ,when I was in limerick, and the drinks I bought at that pub when on the trip to London, and the dress I bought in that charity shop in portumna when I was on my way to that workshop. So sorting the receipts becomes this arduous dredging of hundreds of memories- good and of course bad ones too.
so to have it done, finished, RETURNED, meant that a curiously light feeling was upon me, I felt almost like skipping. I tidied my studio space this morning with a vengeance, sending endless old drawings and scraps of paper, stored for years, to their end, into the bin back they went, with the ruthlessness of someone who has realised there is more to life than poring over receipts and ancient memories. I ended up with 4 large bags full of rubbish, which ironically took up even more space and now I had even less floor area than before. No matter- I was invigorated, cleansed, by my clear out.
I primed all the canvases I had in a wonderful red red in preparation for a series of paintings I am going to make.
I think the hard things are hard a lot of the time as there isn’t any context when you work for yourself. None to compare to. Maybe they aren’t hard at all I just find them to be. I always remind myself that at least I have choices- when I had a well paid manager job I couldn’t imagine how I could leave and not have a regular wage. But I spent my wages on stuff to cheer myself up as I was miserable. (note- this was a long time ago -pre kids) I have to remind useful constantly that I need to make it work for me, I have to remember I am the boss of my job, not others. I decide how to spend my time and on what, and therefore I am responsible for the outcome of those choices. If its shit, change it. I have that privilege.
