I have no money for food, and I still get calls every month from people I owe.

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Duhaylonsod is a UH student, single mother, and a domestic abuse survivor. Several years ago, before welfare reform transformed the state's aid programs, she was a welfare statistic.

She was kicked off welfare in 1995 when her income, boosted by a minimum-wage job and a one-time $1,000 UH scholarship, pushed her out of eligibility. Even so, she managed to stay off welfare since.

But now, in the wake of dire warnings that help will be harder to find for people like her, Duhaylonsod wants to return to public assistance.

One unusually clear Tuesday afternoon, she stands at a bus stop waiting for her chance at another new beginning.

Her interview with state social workers -- scheduled over a month ago -- is at 3:30 p.m., but she has planned her trip so that she will arrive nearly an hour early.

"This is the kind of appointment you cannot miss," she says.

Moments after she arrives at the bus stop on South King Street, the No. 1 Kalihi pulls up. She hoists her backpack over one shoulder and climbs in, taking a window seat.

It is not the first time Duhaylonsod has visited the state Department of Human Services office. Even so, she's nervous.

"It's hard," she says. "They ask for all kinds of papers."

"The staff doesn't care, they treat you like dirt," she adds, looking out the window as she speaks. "That's why I've hesitated in going back."

Once Duhaylonsod arrives, she wanders down an open-air hall trying to find the right door.

In fact, Duhaylonsod has been off nearly every form of public aid for 18 months -- a fact that she's proud of. She credits her financial survival in part to the state's "Section 8" program, which has subsidized most of the rent for her Mo`ili`ili apartment for the last two years.

"I waited two years for section eight," she says. "And I'm lucky -- there isn't even a waiting list now; you can't get it any more."

After stress and depression landed her in the hospital three times in the last five weeks, however, Duhaylonsod said she knew she had to try and get more relief.

Duhaylonsod, while mostly free of the anorexia and bulimia that once wracked her body, still suffers from acute anxiety disorder and takes Prozac and Depakote ("a mood stabilizer").

She said her problems stem from emotional abuse by her husband, who she walked out on in 1987. She took her children with her, and efforts to protect them from her estranged husband led her through a series of shelters in California before she returned to the islands.

A suicidal episode a month ago landed her in Kekela, the psychiatric ward at Queen's Medical Center. She'd been there before, after previous bouts with depression.

"The first time, I felt as if I'd failed -- that I'd reached the end of my rope," she says. "It was a defeat to go."

This time, she says, her stay gave her a chance to collect her thoughts. Despite her pride, she realized it was again time to ask for help.

"It's simple: all my bills add up to more than what I make," she explains. "I'm barely getting by -- I'm always behind on something."

Although she's grateful for her student job, its 20-hours-per-week limit and $200 paychecks are too small.

"I have no money for food," she says. "And I still get calls every month from people I owe."

As the bus lurches down Beretania, she pulls out a frayed stack of papers to double- and triple-check that she's brought everything she needs. The appointment slip tells her to bring identification, pay stubs, rent receipts, utility bills, social security numbers and birth certificates for all household members and a plethora of other documents.

As a student, part-time UH employee and mother of two, Duhaylonsod says she needed to dig up nearly every item on the list.

The bus weaves its way downtown and onto Hotel Street. Duhaylonsod rests her eyes, closing them for a moment. Travel by bus is second nature to her, she says, whether for grocery shopping or visiting her doctor.

"I visit my family in Ewa Beach every two months," she says. "It's a two-hour trip."

Shortly before 2 p.m., she steps off the bus across the street from the Department of Human Services' central Honolulu applications unit -- the makai edge of `A`ala Park. She walks on the far side of the sidewalk, steering clear of the cluster of homeless people -- children, elderly, and everything in between -- gathered in the shade of a tree.

After trying a few doors, she eventually finds the right office and checks in for her interview. She's an hour early --�nothing left to do but wait.

"This is terrifying," she says.

Too nervous to sit silently, she recounts how she got to where she is today.

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