Coming from a lower-middle-class household has always been prevalent in my life and identity. It’s like playing a constant game of catch-up that I’ll never win. I might think for a second that I’m finally getting “it,” but it’s just a trick to get you to keep chasing something you can’t have.
I’ve spent a lot of sleepless nights staring up at the ceiling and thinking about money, opportunities that come from money, and wondering how tight things were for our family at the time. My parents divorced when I was five years old, and ever since they did I have been painfully aware of the weight on my mother’s shoulders. It felt like it was my fault that she was trying to make sure we had enough. Enough for bills. Enough for groceries. Enough for happiness. Just … enough.
Except “enough” never seemed to go beyond basic necessities. Other kids my age would get the latest toys, like fidget spinners and brand new Pokemon cards, but I learned not to ask for those things. The worst thing I thought I could be was more of a burden to my mom. I understood, from the age of five, that money was a necessary desire, one we didn’t have much of.
We weren’t poor. We had snacks, clothes, dolls and shoes. But these things were sacred. Breaking a ceramic bowl in an accident or losing a jacket at school felt criminal. My mother took us to Chuck E. Cheese for birthdays, and we even had light up sneakers as seen on TV. But it wasn’t a guarantee, and dinner was often the same five dishes in rotation.
My family sat on the line between two very different worlds, and it felt like I was the only one.
I would isolate myself in school because of it. I had friends but never any that were particularly closer with me than anyone else. I was fine with it for a while, because I didn’t offer much to other friend groups anyways. Their parents were part of the PTO and took them and their friends on summer vacations around the world. My mom was a high school teacher who was too busy working and fighting for custody to do the same.
As I got older however, the tiny knot of jealousy that lay just above my stomach was not so tiny anymore. It seemed like everyone had new phones and trendy clothes I thought we could never afford. It stopped being solely about wanting all these things for myself, but it began to be a constant reminder that I didn’t have the luxury of wanting things. Instead, my family and I just had to focus on getting by.
With my mother having been divorced twice, being torn between my parents, and struggling with clinical depression from an early age, money became my fantasized solution to all my problems. I had convinced myself that our financial state was the root of our issues, and that I would be so much happier if I could buy everything
I wanted. Going to high school with this mentality made matters worse, because the knot of jealousy grew larger, and followed me past my home life. As I tried to integrate into an entirely new reality, the reminder of what I could and couldn’t have came in the form of the other girls in my grade. I envied their lives, and not just for the material things they had, but also for the opportunities they had, and their security of knowing they could move through life with ease. It again seemed like the worries I had, I carried alone.
This past year has taught me differently, and I know now that not only are my struggles shared among many others, but that it isn’t as bad as I made it seem. I started to notice the things that I did have, which I probably took for granted just because they weren’t something I ever thought I was a privilege. My mom always worked hard to keep our hearts happy, stomachs full, and minds ready to learn. I had a family that loved me, and that I saw often. I may not always have every microtrend and consumerist item I wanted, but I had something much more meaningful — love, happiness, and peace.
