Lesbian log twenty-nine-zero-three-twenty-one
Can we talk about money for a second? Like seriously. What a pain in the ass.
You work and work, scrounge, save and beg, borrow and steal from Peter to pay Paul. For what?
I’ll be the first to admit that I was never good with money. I didn’t really understand the gritty implications of what came in versus what went out. I had a rough idea, but that vague idea was blurred by my wants and needs—and by that, I mean my wants.
I knew what the budget was, but with credit cards and credit lines, the edges were a tad fuzzy. There was an imaginary amount of money always within reach should I really want something badly enough.
My marriage was, as my ex puts it, plagued by a phenomenon known as death by a million cuts. Some new shoes here, a new iPhone there, gadgets for the kids, a pool for the yard. I tried to keep up with the Joneses like it was a sprint and mama needed a new pair of sneakers and lulus.
Honestly, I jest, but I didn’t buy much for me. In my mind that justified the spending. I bought things that the family would enjoy or the boys wanted. To give made me happy. To provide my family with luxuries and niceties made me happy.
It also depleted the bank account and wracked up debt.
I tried to pretend the debt didn’t bother me, but it stressed me out at a deep cellular level. I knew it was bad. I knew it would crush me eventually, like living beside a towering mass of concrete that stretched like a sky scraper above me but only had one rebar left holding it all together. Rather than let this certainty hinder my trigger finger though, I would place that online order because, hell the ship was already going down, might as well go down thoroughly and completely.
Miraculously, my ex would get a bonus, or we’d get money back in taxes and pay off a chunk of the debt.
Which opened up space to breathe. And space to purchase all over again.
It was a vicious cycle.
Something was missing in my life, so I spent on others to feel good. I spoiled my friends with lunches, drinks and dinners. I spoiled my children with presents piled under Christmas trees. I wore the same jeans for years, until they were threadbare, but my family lacked for nothing.
The debt would wrack up. Eventually the bonuses and tax returns couldn’t keep pace. We would refinance and clean up the pressure. Sweeping it under the rug into one single payment, which opened up space to breathe. And space to purchase all over again.
My ex and I created this dance together. The crappy financial situation wasn’t all on me. He hated to disappoint me and only wanted me to be happy. And since giving to him and others made me happy, it was a loving recipe for disaster.
Flashforward and I’m now on my own. No bonuses, no money back in taxes, no outs if I sink. I’ve had to learn a new language, build a new relationship with money. It’s definitely a sink or swim kind of thing and I haven’t decided which one I’m currently doing.
I’m learning to try to save and delay gratification, but the delay is hard. I still want. But rather than give into those impulses, I’m trying to sit in the discomfort of waiting.
I don’t like it.
But being on my own requires a better understanding of budgets and the potential executioner’s cut of finality from one’s actions. I’m a smart girl (at least I try to convince myself of this some days) but my relationship with money goes back to things I learned when I was young. Much of our actions and reactions with spending and saving are by-products of watching how our parents and those around us treated money, including whether they talked about it or not.
I’ve spent some time reading books on money and working to understand my triggers and impulses when it comes to the all mighty dollar. I have a lot to learn.
If I could go back, it’s nice to think I would have done things differently. That I could have managed our family’s finances better. But I didn’t know how to do that then. I’m still not convinced I know how to do that now. But I’m taking steps in the right direction.
I’m hopeful, one day, money and I will get along just fine. Until then, managing it is still a pain in the ass.
In gratitude,
Marissa