Money

from library.thinkquest.org

Wow, that’s a blunt title. If you could see me right now, you’d see me trying to look away.

I’m not exactly sure why. It’s not like money was a forbidden topic while I was growing up. On the contrary—money stumbled to the kitchen for breakfast, money fried up the plantains, money sat on the couch and drank beer with my father after a long day. Money consciousness was everywhere—and there was never enough of it. My parents dreamed of the day that they’d be able to afford the many luxuries they saw on television—or the day we’d be able to afford them in their stead.

Perhaps my greatest form of rebellion against my parents is to disagree, fundamentally, with their opinions on money and how essential it is to have a lot of it.

Of course, their message sunk in anyway, and suffered a sea change that I am only now dimly beginning to understand. See, I’ve always thought around money—worrying over specific bills, thinking about my own class issues. But I never really faced the way money shades every aspect of my life—how completely it lives in my shadow. On the surface, it’s simple—money is bad, a necessary evil with the emphasis on the evil part. I noted approvingly (and a little smugly) that most world philosophies and religions agreed with me. I would live my life unfettered by such material considerations! I would choose a career based on love and passion, not ever thinking about money! I would go to the expensive school, trusting that somehow I’d find the money to pay all of those school loans, even though the field of publishing is not known for being financially remunerative.

But this holy head toss about money masked a deep fascination with it—and a fear. I’ve always loved THINGS—beauty made tangible. When I was younger, I’d arrange and rearrange my small treasures, touch them like talismans, rotate them depending on my need.

I love objects and I hate that I love them. So I practice a form of asceticism, pretend I am above all that. Tell myself that I’ll prove that I deserve something I desire by learning how to make it (and alas, I never do). I’ll chastise myself for wanting something popular—am I a sheep? If I were really cool, creative, artistic, smart, fill in the blank—I wouldn’t need objects to validate that fact. Sure, I see all around that people use things to display something of their personality to the world. But, isn’t that a failing, somehow? Are we really the sum of all of our things? I feel in my heart that my answer is mostly a "yes" and I feel ashamed.

Meanwhile, I go around and around, putting off most purchases and suffering almost unbearable buyer's remorse on those few occasions I finally give in. I am the opposite of a conspicuous consumer. I am a material anorexic.

So I’ve long longed for money, but I never wanted to do anything to really earn it, fearing that it would compromise me, or sell a part of me that I could never get back.

On a deep level, I didn’t believe I could earn it. I didn’t believe I could offer something that people would want to pay for—that was what adults did. I didn’t believe that I could take care of myself, so while my friends from college made plans to move out of their parents’ homes and into small apartments crowded with roommates in outrageously expensive NYC, I stayed at home, congratulating myself on my good sense.

I watched them enviously. I could no more imagine paying all of those expenses on my own than I could imagine flying to Jupiter. I did the right things, I suppose, but always with that insidious little whisper in the background, I can’t afford it. I can’t take care of myself. No one will value me because I can’t do anything.

Oh, sure, I lived a good life those first years after college. Traveled, worked, had dinners out and movie dates. But the truth was, I didn’t pay for those trips—TEG did. He paid for most of our dates, movies—bought me books and CDs and leather coats and jewelry. He paid for most of our fairly expensive wedding. He paid for my first trip to India. Always, the refrain—he paid, he paid, he pays. And sadly, this makes me feel safe—like it’s fine to spend HIS money, but not mine (a moot point with a joint bank account--and sadly, I don't even know how much we have in the bank). My mother always wanted to be with a financially successful man—saw that as the way a woman achieved security and success for herself. She taught me that a woman should always have a sneaky little nest egg, caged from household accounts and hoarded from her "allowance" and that the man should pay for everything to show that he cares. I suppose that she saw that as the way a woman could wrest some control from a situation where she was essentially dependent and subservient.

I shudder to think that I have followed her script only too well. I don't pay our bills. I no longer have my own 401K or IRA account. My eyes glaze over when TEG shows me the spreadsheet. I thought this freed me to follow my happiness without worrying about money. Instead, I think about money, and power, and how I wish I had some more of both, all of the time.

So what do I contribute to our lives? I know money isn’t the most important thing—hell, I’ve spent most of my life loudly affirming that even as I repressed my own shadow desires for money and what it represented. Freedom. A way of propelling myself into the world. A way of being surrounded by things I love. Learning to depend of myself and stand up for myself, without endless compromises that really end up as me giving in completely. A way around the cognitive dissonance of considering myself a feminist, and living like a dependent child.

So much for me to face. When I do my mirror meditation, I see a woman who is waiting for her Fairy Godmother, or for ANYONE to take care of her. I see a woman who denies herself almost a matter of a course, so that the word "no" is the drumbeat of her days. I see a woman who desires and wants and needs, and feels powerless, and indecisive, and resents herself.

Why do I feel so much ambivalence about money? Somehow superior to those who have it and frankly enjoy it, but knowing that it’s a lie—this ascesticism is not rewarding, it’s not spiritual. It’s dour and soul killing. It just makes me feel endless lack, a hunger, and a fear that if I relax this death grip on myself for one second, I’ll spend every penny we have to feed this gaping maw of want.

In many ways, money rules my life just as much as it ever ruled my parents.

I don’t even know where to begin to heal my rift with money.

Sorry for the somewhat rambling nature of this post. I’m still puzzling this out, trying to name it somehow. I'm not sure I've done it here.