On Fraud and Faring in a Storm

I fell victim to a spoofing scam last week. It is not something I am proud of—in fact, I feel incredibly foolish about the whole ordeal. But, after an unhealthy dose of psychological battering and self-admonishment, I was able to take a step back and examine the events that led to my hoodwinking.

To start, the circumstances were primed. The days leading up to the fraudulent debacle were packed with stressors: hosting out-of-town guests, sprinting towards opening night of a play through the energy-sapping technical and dress rehearsals, performing the emotionally demanding play night after night, navigating tumult and heartbreaks in my personal life, and, through it all, nursing a 2-week cold that elevated every MS symptom that lingers in my cells (thanks, compromised immunity).

The reality of living with multiple sclerosis is this: any spike in circumstances that introduce toil to my system will result in a barrage of neurological deficits. The burning in my limbs dials up to an 8. The migraines ping and stab my mind daily. My coordination falters, resulting in dropped drinking vessels and stair-tripping and banging into corners and hitting my head on cabinets. My vision fractures with splices of thin black lines through the center field of sight. The tinnitus in my ears amps up to a current of white noise and tonal ringing. My memory slips in everyday conversation, losing words like purse change in couch cushions. My cognitive processing lags into a recurring mode of buffering. And then there’s the fatigue. Oh, the fatigue. We’re talking 19-out-of-24-hours-consigned-to-bed fatigue.

The only thing to be done in heightened moments like this is to do my best, even if that means allowing for a mounting to-do list and a tidal wave of unopened emails, taxes on my energy reserves to be dealt with in fleeting moments of energetic capability. Unfortunately, in this drained domain of fatigue and cognitive fog brought on by the melee of compounding stress, I failed to recognize the red flags of fraud. The result: a $1,360.23 lesson in cybersecurity.

The day after the hit occurred, I was forced to stare my oversight in the face. I was reminded of the psychological blow of receiving an MS diagnosis, the blindsided betrayal, the sensation of being at sea in the midst of predatory demise. It’s overwhelming, victimhood. It’s a state of being that I abhor and that I clamor to move through as rapidly as possible. So I journal. And I talk the pain out with trusted confidantes. And I take to research and learn what I can do to protect myself, to mitigate future harm.

I reported the fraudulent activity to my bank and to the IC3 (short for Internet Crime Complaint Center, the faction of the FBI that deals with online scams such as mine, which I knew nothing about until this daunting turn of events). The bank can try to reclaim my money, but it’s highly unlikely that such restoration will come to pass. The FBI can maybe pursue my claim, but there is such a high rate of internet crime that my submission to their online reporting portal will likely only assist data collection more than any push for justice.

The insomnia that spikes when pressures in my day-to-day run high has me fantasizing about creative crusades to capture my attacker. The nighttime daydreams tend to apparate in two varieties: that of compassionate conversion where I show my scammer the error of their ways and reform their criminal predilection; and that of righteous redemption, where I help law enforcement execute a stealthy sting that puts the perpetrator away for years. Neither are likely, but both deliver a hit of balming righteousness.

I think back to the middle-of-the-night whimsy trips that my mind used to take after the immediate losses of myelin in my brain. As MS relapses stole my ability to write, to walk, to use the bathroom independently or predictably, to work, to love, to see clearly, to speak and swallow, to function as exceptionally as I once had, I would envision a cinderella comeback where I clawed my way to health tooth and nail, arriving stronger and more capable on the other side. And while, with time, conviction, and proper medication, I was able to mostly regain those functions, my dream of superhuman deliverance could never become my reality. Too many nerves had been fried, too many circuits lost. 

All I could do was cut my losses and carve out new neuropathways in my mind and new lifestyle measures that could lead to a fulfilling existence.

In this, I suppose I can be grateful for the lessons administered by a life with multiple sclerosis. The (approximately) ten relapses of the past twelve years have taught me how to accept unfair losses. I can apply that wisdom to the attack on my financial security. It’s not a one-to-one correlation—my disease is not a sentient being, my spoofing scammer is. But it can help me process the loss and move through the grief.

“It’s not your fault, what happened.” The character that I played in my recent play bestowed this assurance on her friend after a grievous family betrayal. I try to extend the same grace to myself.

Of course, the friend doesn’t accept the concession so easily, retorting, “It doesn’t matter. [We] can’t unlearn what [we] just learned, you know. ” The damage has already been done. It cannot be reversed. The same holds for my bank account and my trust in the goodness of humanity.

The fact is, both statements are true. Both the harm and the absolution. I have to embrace the dualism. I have to find a way to hold both truths in the curling palm of my hand. Above all else, I must keep moving forward—as difficult as it may be at times—journeying to a sense of restored hope, to a greater place of resilience.