Why I'm so bad with money
Mar. 14th, 2026 08:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
baroque_mongooseI'm bad with money. Terrible with money, in fact. It doesn't matter that I've never been in any financial trouble that I caused myself (I've been in some that other people caused, but that was rather different). It also doesn't matter that I managed remarkably well on a very low income for about half my adult life. Or that my credit rating is good, and mostly holding steady but occasionally rising. Or that I pay all my bills on time. None of that signifies. I'm bad with money because my dad said so, which is exactly the same reason why I'm ugly, clumsy, unmusical, weird, inclined to extremes (whatever that meant), and totally lacking in common sense.
I can't remember how old I was when Dad decided I was going to be bad with money, but it certainly wasn't very old. Consequently, he needed evidence he could beat me over the head with. So, when I went to university, the system in place at the time was that I was awarded a grant, of which the government would pay a certain amount, but Dad had to pay a fairly substantial contribution towards it because he was well off. He therefore decided to pay a great deal less than he was supposed to, on the grounds that I "didn't need all that money". I very nearly caused a lot of trouble by managing on that amount somehow, despite the fact that a significant number of my contemporaries who were on the full whack got into debt. However, fortunately for my dad and his fixed idea, I lost out on some £400 worth of benefits due to an administrative error of some sort (at that time, students could claim benefits outside term time, and were generally expected to do so); so I had to ask him if he could give me that money so that I could finish my degree. Well, that was it. He was vindicated. He had his evidence that I was bad with money. I should have been able to save that £400 out of the reduced amount he'd allowed me. So he could refuse with a completely clear conscience, leaving me high and dry without a degree.
I got married because, when I told my mother at the age of about seventeen that I didn't want to get married, she shouted at me. How could I be so selfish? I was supposed to martyr myself bringing up children like she had. She was a very forceful woman, so unfortunately I believed her. I remember sitting there on my wedding day thinking "I have to go through with this or I'll never hear the end of it"; and I did, and of course the result was a disaster. I married a man who turned out to be genuinely bad with money (he also had a drink problem, which didn't help), and spent the next several years finding all manner of ingenious ways to economise so that we could at least more or less manage despite his tendencies. That was how I took to drinking coffee very weak; he liked it quite strong, but it was expensive, so I went down to less than half a teaspoonful per cup so he could carry on drinking it the way he liked it. When he finally ran off with someone else, I financially disconnected from him, and was horrified to discover he had an entire string of bank accounts I knew nothing about, several of them jointly with his girlfriend, and all of them overdrawn (some considerably). So I needed some help at that point to get back on my feet financially, and that was all my fault, of course. (And we won't even talk about the difficulty of getting a job with no degree and a disability. The fact that I landed any jobs at all, even temporary and poorly paid ones, was pretty amazing.)
Then there was Bob the Lodger, who shared the bills until he ran out of money, at which point he calmly announced that he was going to stop paying for anything because he couldn't... but he wasn't going to leave. I was simply expected to support him, and to get into debt to do so if I had to, because obviously someone had to. I tried to get him to claim benefit, but he refused point blank to do that, on the grounds that most of it would be taken away by the Child Support Agency and would then not actually go to support his own children (for whom he had actually been paying support directly, independent of them, till the money ran out). I never understood why he thought it wouldn't support his children, but he was very much like my dad; once he had an idea in his head, there was no getting it out again. But, anyway, he thought claiming benefit would be Bad and Wrong for that reason. I didn't understand that argument either, but of course it's rather difficult to understand philosophical arguments about that kind of thing when someone is living off you. In the end he fell in love with an American, and his dad gave him the plane fare so he could go over there and marry her... to my heartfelt relief. I get on very much better with him now he's on the other side of the Atlantic and not in my spare room.
Once I had all these various leeches out of my life, I got back on quite an even keel, and have remained there ever since. However, last night I was told the terms of Mum's will (except that she hadn't written it - Dad had, as it was a joint will, so it wasn't her fault). My younger sisters get their share of the inheritance outright. Mine, however, goes into a trust fund, as if I were a child. Or suffering from dementia. Or otherwise mentally incapable. This fund is to be administered by my sisters and used to benefit me, but I am being given no control over it.
Well, NOPE. I had to deal with enough control, humiliation, and belittlement as a child. I am no longer the scapegoat, no longer the one at the bottom of the pile. I am no longer inferior to my sisters. I am extremely tempted to tell them to give my entire share of the legacy to some deserving cause so that I can stay free. Yes, it is a lot of money, and yes, it would be useful; I want to move back to Kendal, and that would easily enable me to do it. But I'm not prepared to sell my soul for it, and I'm also not prepared to carry on wearing any of the negative labels which were stuck on me while I was growing up. I've had a whole lot more than enough.
So. We'll see what happens now.
I can't remember how old I was when Dad decided I was going to be bad with money, but it certainly wasn't very old. Consequently, he needed evidence he could beat me over the head with. So, when I went to university, the system in place at the time was that I was awarded a grant, of which the government would pay a certain amount, but Dad had to pay a fairly substantial contribution towards it because he was well off. He therefore decided to pay a great deal less than he was supposed to, on the grounds that I "didn't need all that money". I very nearly caused a lot of trouble by managing on that amount somehow, despite the fact that a significant number of my contemporaries who were on the full whack got into debt. However, fortunately for my dad and his fixed idea, I lost out on some £400 worth of benefits due to an administrative error of some sort (at that time, students could claim benefits outside term time, and were generally expected to do so); so I had to ask him if he could give me that money so that I could finish my degree. Well, that was it. He was vindicated. He had his evidence that I was bad with money. I should have been able to save that £400 out of the reduced amount he'd allowed me. So he could refuse with a completely clear conscience, leaving me high and dry without a degree.
I got married because, when I told my mother at the age of about seventeen that I didn't want to get married, she shouted at me. How could I be so selfish? I was supposed to martyr myself bringing up children like she had. She was a very forceful woman, so unfortunately I believed her. I remember sitting there on my wedding day thinking "I have to go through with this or I'll never hear the end of it"; and I did, and of course the result was a disaster. I married a man who turned out to be genuinely bad with money (he also had a drink problem, which didn't help), and spent the next several years finding all manner of ingenious ways to economise so that we could at least more or less manage despite his tendencies. That was how I took to drinking coffee very weak; he liked it quite strong, but it was expensive, so I went down to less than half a teaspoonful per cup so he could carry on drinking it the way he liked it. When he finally ran off with someone else, I financially disconnected from him, and was horrified to discover he had an entire string of bank accounts I knew nothing about, several of them jointly with his girlfriend, and all of them overdrawn (some considerably). So I needed some help at that point to get back on my feet financially, and that was all my fault, of course. (And we won't even talk about the difficulty of getting a job with no degree and a disability. The fact that I landed any jobs at all, even temporary and poorly paid ones, was pretty amazing.)
Then there was Bob the Lodger, who shared the bills until he ran out of money, at which point he calmly announced that he was going to stop paying for anything because he couldn't... but he wasn't going to leave. I was simply expected to support him, and to get into debt to do so if I had to, because obviously someone had to. I tried to get him to claim benefit, but he refused point blank to do that, on the grounds that most of it would be taken away by the Child Support Agency and would then not actually go to support his own children (for whom he had actually been paying support directly, independent of them, till the money ran out). I never understood why he thought it wouldn't support his children, but he was very much like my dad; once he had an idea in his head, there was no getting it out again. But, anyway, he thought claiming benefit would be Bad and Wrong for that reason. I didn't understand that argument either, but of course it's rather difficult to understand philosophical arguments about that kind of thing when someone is living off you. In the end he fell in love with an American, and his dad gave him the plane fare so he could go over there and marry her... to my heartfelt relief. I get on very much better with him now he's on the other side of the Atlantic and not in my spare room.
Once I had all these various leeches out of my life, I got back on quite an even keel, and have remained there ever since. However, last night I was told the terms of Mum's will (except that she hadn't written it - Dad had, as it was a joint will, so it wasn't her fault). My younger sisters get their share of the inheritance outright. Mine, however, goes into a trust fund, as if I were a child. Or suffering from dementia. Or otherwise mentally incapable. This fund is to be administered by my sisters and used to benefit me, but I am being given no control over it.
Well, NOPE. I had to deal with enough control, humiliation, and belittlement as a child. I am no longer the scapegoat, no longer the one at the bottom of the pile. I am no longer inferior to my sisters. I am extremely tempted to tell them to give my entire share of the legacy to some deserving cause so that I can stay free. Yes, it is a lot of money, and yes, it would be useful; I want to move back to Kendal, and that would easily enable me to do it. But I'm not prepared to sell my soul for it, and I'm also not prepared to carry on wearing any of the negative labels which were stuck on me while I was growing up. I've had a whole lot more than enough.
So. We'll see what happens now.
