Ever since I was a child, I have wanted to do two things to make my living: write and make art.
Some might look at this and think these desires spring from aptitudes or lofty aspirations. But, for me, their source is more complicated than that.
I didn’t have role models for what working adults looked like during my formative years. My parents lived off of disability checks for my father and several of the children in our household. My grandfather was a blue-collar worker-turned-business-owner, so he didn’t give me a good handle on what a typical employee looks like.
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I grew up watching my parents do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. I witnessed their horrible money management skills and seemingly magical ability to make money appear whenever they needed it.
My parents also projected their money management skills onto their children.
Whenever we received money for birthdays or other holidays, my parents collected it and explained that we were “prone to losing money” if anyone asked. They just saw a few bucks and got greedy. It’s pathetic to think about now, but it did make me feel as though I might not be good at managing my finances or life for a long time.
As a young child with a limited view of the world, I did not realize that their ability to conjure money was so far from magical or mysterious. Instead, they just signed up for credit cards, payday loans, and other predatory lending schemes, while begging my older relatives for money whenever they failed.
Poverty and abuse went hand in hand in my home when I was a child
Unfortunately, my parents were extremely abusive and neglectful towards my siblings (as kids say these days) and me.
The proof of their abuse is in the family photos where all the children had their bones sticking out of their collars, the hollow look in our eyes, and shoulders tense up to the ears as our parents hugged us for the photo.
One could say they were abusive because they knew no other way to parent or because raising children in extreme poverty is exhausting, but that would only be part of the truth.
The truth is that my parents acted cruelly towards their children for whatever reason. They put their needs above those of their children every time. These are difficult choices for parents, poor, rich, middle-class, and everything in between.
It is one thing for the entire family to suffer from poverty while the adults do their best to provide. It’s quite another thing when parents buy expensive dinners while telling the children they can split one meal between them as a reward if they’re lucky.
Now that I’m older, I see how messed up that dynamic was. I also see how my parents’ financial decisions and source of income influenced my attitudes toward money.
When I left home, I took their bad financial habits with me
When I first moved away from home and started working independently, I spent money as soon as I had it. Usually, I would spend my meager retail salary on art supplies or clothing.
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If I had to guess, my parents spent the money quickly to avoid accumulating savings and emphasizing their poverty to welfare offices and other entities. I picked up this habit without the exact reason behind it. It simply seemed like the thing to do.
As my family members say: “Don’t let money burn your pocket.”
Over time, I realized that this lifestyle was not sustainable. So, while I still believe that there will always be income coming in and that I don’t have to worry about paying bills or other expenses every month, I don’t waste money until it’s gone anymore.
I learned quickly that living within one’s means does not mean spending one’s income for a dime.
Although I realize that some people have no choice but to live paycheck to paycheck with literal cents between them and missing bills, I’m grateful that I wasn’t in that situation. However, when I was younger, I ended up in that situation due to poor choices, and I own that now.
Without the right role models, I didn’t know what work-life balance meant
Beyond spending habits, my parents profoundly influenced my ability to work a traditional job and my attitude toward traditional work. Since my youth, my family has always encouraged me to be a writer or an artist. This was the only positive thing they did while raising me. However, it came with its downsides.
Since I grew up believing that I could be a writer, that’s what I began to pursue when I turned eighteen. When I was eighteen in the middle of nowhere, I had moderate success as a writer, all things considered. Straight out of high school and with little writing experience, I took a remote job writing music reviews. I also supplemented my income by publishing articles on popular websites of the time.
I wasn’t trading dough by any means but I was making enough money to cover my savings a little. My parents downplayed my success and told me I would never be able to scale it into a full-time income. Since I had already proven them wrong by making some money writing, I knew I could make more money if I worked hard.
After a few years of trying to get on my feet and go nowhere, I left my toxic home for an independent transitional living program for young adults.
This program was instrumental in getting me out of my abusive childhood home, and for that I was extremely grateful. However, since it was my first taste of the “real world” outside of a toxic and controlling environment, it was a difficult adjustment. I didn’t know how the “real world” worked, so when they asked me to get a job in retail and fulfill my usual adult obligations, I crumbled.
A few months after joining the program, I left to live with a relative so I could focus on my art, writing, and mental health. It wasn’t a healthy environment, but it allowed me to work on things I enjoyed.
After a short stay with that relative, I went and moved into my own apartment. I had three part-time jobs that averaged 80 hours a week. My philosophy regarding money and work went in the opposite direction to my family’s values. I did nothing but work, and spent money only on absolute necessities for the most part.
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While some may see this as better than my family’s lifestyle of bleeding money they didn’t have, it was slowly killing me. Eventually I stopped eating and sleeping. I became very ill and depressed. I left one job, then two, then three.
Finally, I moved to a new city and only had one suitcase of clothes. I preferred homelessness to the overwhelming life I was living. I climbed my way out of homelessness by writing and working two retail jobs.
By the time I was housed again, I was exhausted and exhausted again. Over the next few years, I alternated between overworking, overworking, and underworking.
