I Grew up Poor and I Hate Money (but I need to change that)

Healing my relationship with money, and merging that with my writing life.

This post discusses suicide.

Growing up Poor = Wanting and Fearing Money

As a child, I was steeped in financial literacy. Or, rather, I knew a certain language when it came to money. My single mother had nice clothes, and we would pack them up in boxes each time our rent was raised so we could find somewhere cheaper to live. She bought those clothes with credit cards, and I learned to answer the phone using my professional voice, ready to say, “I’m sorry, she’s not available, can I take a message?”

We were poor. The way our poverty marked us was clear: my mom overspent because the nice clothes created a middle-class illusion. She was a secretary. My clothes were not nice, and that meant I was often alone at school. I smelled of cigarette smoke and wore cheap leggings and floppy, falling-apart shoes. I envied the kids at school who had name brand everything. Levi’s, Gap, Banana Republic. Every little thing has a brand name and generic version. I always got the generic. I wanted the brand …