'I don't know how to live like this.' A week in the life of a single mother on Centrelink.

Friday.

I receive an email from the property manager of the duplex half I'm living in to advise of an upcoming rent inspection. Every three months a stranger comes into the small three-bedroom house and takes photos, including of my children’s bedrooms — and comes back with a list of tasks to complete. I never enjoy it, but this time it's more stressful. The manager mentions a Sales Agent will be coming along to value the house. I immediately feel a sense of panic, because I know where this is going.  

As a low-income single mum with three kids, everything feels precarious all the time. My rent continues to rise, along with the cost of living. But my income can't keep up and my Centrelink payment has also decreased now that my eldest child has finished high school. Another rent increase would be crippling — to have the house sold from beneath me would be worse.

Despite working multiple part-time jobs, and a long history of being a good, reliable tenant, I know I'm not a competitive rental applicant. I applied for 15 different properties before I managed to get this one several years ago.  

There is a significant psychological toll that comes from years and years of experiencing this kind of insecurity, not knowing if you will be able to keep a roof over your children's heads.

I don't feel like I get to call the shots in my own life. Decisions like which school my kids will go to aren't really up to me — they depend on where we can find a home.  

Our house is very small. The kids have bunk beds and share rooms, and sometimes there is a queue for the one toilet. I never invite friends over because there's not really space, and I feel embarrassed. While my kids would love a dog or cat, we've never been able to have a pet. I feel ashamed about all the things I can't give my children.   

A few months ago, the house my children's father was renting was sold. He couldn't find another rental nearby and was forced to move nearly an hour away. My kids go between our houses every week, and now have to catch multiple buses and trains from his home to get to and from school each day they are with him.  

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Saturday.

I barely sleep. I tell myself not to get worked up over what-ifs, and to work from facts. So I contact the owner of my rental, who confirms she is considering selling the house.

I start trying to make contingency plans. I know it's highly unlikely I will find a rental I can afford (and if I did, there would be a line of other more appealing candidates ahead of me). The only plan I can come up with is that I put all our things in storage, and my children leave me to live with their dad full time. I google "can I sleep in a storage unit" but conclude I probably can't get away with it. Maybe I could rent an office space and keep an air mattress and sleeping bag there. A 24-hour gym membership would ensure my access to showers and toilets, I tell myself.  

Sunday.

On Sunday I get an email advising me I have a message in my MyGov inbox. After years of dealing with Centrelink, the notification alone is enough to spark anxiety. It’s a letter informing me that one of my children is no longer entitled to money I was relying on, but based on the criteria it looks like a mistake. I spend an hour on hold to Medicare, where I am told it does appear to be a mistake, but I'll need to call Centrelink to get it sorted out. 

Monday. 

I call Centrelink as soon as I can, but don't get a chance until later in the day due to work meetings and parenting responsibilities. After a few minutes of answering questions and being on hold, I am told there are no operators available and to call back later. I call again three times and never get through. 

Tuesday.

I start work at 8am, so I can't call beforehand. I call Centrelink three more times after and can't get through.  

I check my bank balance and realise my pay hasn't gone in on time. If it doesn't go in tomorrow, there won't be money to pay the rent. I'm too anxious to sleep. I give up and get out of bed at 2am. I figure if I'm not going to sleep I might as well get some work done.  

Wednesday.

I check my bank balance first thing. The money still hasn't arrived. I have a doctor's appointment today — will she bulk bill me? What if she doesn't? I've been waiting for an appointment for three weeks. Is it too late to cancel? 

I make a point of calling Centrelink early. I wait on hold for an hour and a half until I have to hang up because of my doctor's appointment. I call three more times after and don't get through.  

Thursday.

After nearly two hours on hold, I speak to someone at Centrelink who confirms it is a mistake, but that they can't fix it, and direct me back to Medicare.  

I get a message from AtWork Australia, the job services provider I'm required to have regular meetings with given I am receiving a Jobseeker payment. I already work multiple jobs and couldn't take on anything else, but I'm still required to apply for them every month. 

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I am one of many single mothers who are still suffering the consequences of former PM Julia Gillard's decision to slash benefits, forcing single mothers onto lower payments when their youngest child turned eight (when it had previously been 16) — announced the same day as her famous misogyny speech. 

Last September Anthony Albanese raised the age to 14, but unfortunately, it's too late for me.  

The AtWork message informs me I have an appointment tomorrow (sometimes I don't receive any notice in advance of this). I can't attend the appointment because I will be working, so I have to call and wait on hold, and then if they think I have a good enough reason, they will cancel the appointment. Then they will send out another appointment time that I may or may not be available for, and if not, I have to go through the same process of calling up and waiting on hold again. If I don't call, or meet all of my job search requirements, my payments can be cut off. Ironically, sometimes my job search requirements prevent me from working.  

I call Medicare. The operator agrees there seems to be a mistake, but claims it is on Centrelink's end. After some begging from me, she agrees to have someone with more specialised knowledge call me back and tells me I can expect a call from a private number sometime in the next few business days.  

Friday.

I miss a call from Medicare at 7.07am because I'm in the bathroom. The voicemail doesn't leave a direct number, so I call the main line and wait on hold again. I stay on hold until I arrive at work, at which point I have to hang up.  

When I finish work at 2.30pm, I call Medicare immediately from the car. I am on hold for more than an hour and a half before I speak to someone, who gives me different information from the three other operators I've spoken to. As of two weeks ago, I learn, my son is no longer eligible for the payment I was relying on. It had taken me months to arrange it — and 16 phone calls this week.  

While on hold, I receive two more messages from AtWork with new appointments — both set for when I am scheduled to work.  

It is at this point that I break down. I sob over the phone. The Medicare operator is kind, which I appreciate, but ultimately there isn't much she can do to help.  

I don't know how to live like this. How can anyone live like this, with no end in sight? It’s hard enough being a single parent, and much more so when homelessness is a genuine possibility. But these Government systems feel abusive. I question whether they are designed to be so complicated and difficult that people just give up, and don’t pursue the payments they are entitled to.  

I don't know what I’m going to do. I don't have any answers. But I know that single mothers are among the most vulnerable members of our society. We need support, not more suffering. 

Feature Image: Canva.