Mental health, Scams, Health & wellbeing, Consumer affairs, Money Business | The Guardian
When people are tricked into sending funds to a fraudster, it’s not just about the money – the shame and stigma of being conned can have a devastating impact on their emotional and psychological wellbeingAt the height of the first pandemic summer in 2020, I sent more than £18,000 to a scammer. Back then, I’d never heard of the kind of con that ensnared me, though I later learned it was a classic of the genre: a call from my bank’s “fraud team” warning of “suspicious activity” on my account, followed by instructions to move my vulnerable funds into a new “safe” account. Later that night, my housemate stared in horror as I explained the conversation I’d had with a nice man from the bank. “Moya,” he said, aghast. “That was a scam.” By the time I understood what had happened, it was too late. Each of my three bank accounts read £0.00.In the weeks that followed, I felt as though my mind was disintegrating. I had struggled sporadically with anxiety for years, but that had always come on subtly, sneakily, like smoke creeping under a door. This was psychological devastation of a different order, more akin to being clubbed around the head. I was 28, and every imagined future version of my life had been predicated on those savings. Now, I believed those futures had been suddenly and violently erased. If I wasn’t sobbing and vomiting on the street, I felt numb and dissociated, as if I was floating above myself. For the first time in my life, I wished I didn’t have to wake up in the morning. I didn’t want to be dead, but I didn’t want to have to exist, either. Continue reading…
When people are tricked into sending funds to a fraudster, it’s not just about the money – the shame and stigma of being conned can have a devastating impact on their emotional and psychological wellbeing
At the height of the first pandemic summer in 2020, I sent more than £18,000 to a scammer. Back then, I’d never heard of the kind of con that ensnared me, though I later learned it was a classic of the genre: a call from my bank’s “fraud team” warning of “suspicious activity” on my account, followed by instructions to move my vulnerable funds into a new “safe” account. Later that night, my housemate stared in horror as I explained the conversation I’d had with a nice man from the bank. “Moya,” he said, aghast. “That was a scam.” By the time I understood what had happened, it was too late. Each of my three bank accounts read £0.00.
In the weeks that followed, I felt as though my mind was disintegrating. I had struggled sporadically with anxiety for years, but that had always come on subtly, sneakily, like smoke creeping under a door. This was psychological devastation of a different order, more akin to being clubbed around the head. I was 28, and every imagined future version of my life had been predicated on those savings. Now, I believed those futures had been suddenly and violently erased. If I wasn’t sobbing and vomiting on the street, I felt numb and dissociated, as if I was floating above myself. For the first time in my life, I wished I didn’t have to wake up in the morning. I didn’t want to be dead, but I didn’t want to have to exist, either.