I’ve just hit send on a stressful email. Something has been an issue for years and recently raised its head again to remind me that I really don’t know how to fix it (other than turning back time and making better decisions). The topic is one that we still don’t really talk about, or certainly not with any honesty. It makes the world go round, yet very few of us understand how it works, and in a capitalist society we are under its thrall. Yes, it’s that dirty word: money.
Here’s my story. Once upon a time I received a health insurance payout (following the diagnosis of multiple sclerosis) and wanted to put plans in place for the future. We bought our dream campervan and we started up a small business. Hans the Van eventually carted us off for the Big Trip in 2018 – 361 days visiting 17 countries – a dream indeed, and one I’ll never forget. The Wee Tram was adorable, challenging, fun, stressful, and even though we had to wind the company up after five years, I’m still glad we did it.
Other than that, I followed professional financial advice and put a large chunk into storage pods, an investment that seemed simple and safe at the time. You’re probably gasping in shock, or at the very least raising your eyebrows at this point, since stories have been hitting the headlines in the last couple of years, often involving people who have lost their savings through investments like this (or even their pension pots, a definite yikes). As the years progressed, it became clear that this was Not A Good Thing, and slowly, very slowly, I started to admit that my money was possibly gone.
To add recent injury to old insult, my lovely job reading with people in criminal justice settings might be coming to an end soon. This is (unsurprisingly) also about money – funding, tenders, you know the voluntary sector drill. Losing my regular income (and work that I loved) wasn’t in my plan, so perhaps it’s no surprise that today’s email about financial issues is hitting hard.
Along with the fear and anxiety about the future, though, sits a heavy sense of shame. I’ve always worked hard for a living, always known that money is precious and that not everyone has what they need to survive, never mind thrive. Working class backgrounds instil in us various things, ranging from pride to anxiety to a distinct lack of capacity to dream of something better. But money is also something about which we do not speak: don’t hang your dirty laundry out in public. Hence the arrival of shame. And its bedfellow, guilt. I feel guilty that I wasted a gift, that I didn’t talk about it for a long time, that I’m no longer in contact with the old friend who gave me the advice. Therefore, I’m also feeling sad.
But the end of the story is still to come. This is a bump in the road and there are paths ahead that could hide all sorts of possibilities. It’s okay to lie down for a while and lick my wounds.
