Coming from a working-class background, almost everyone I knew throughout my childhood just about managed financially, and most borrowed money. When I was 10, a family member bought me a Sony Discman, which he later secretly pawned so he could survive until payday.
At 18, in a development that shocked my peers, I got into University of Oxford.
My family imagined it would be my ticket to a well-paid job. Perhaps I’d even marry a doctor. At Oxford I mingled with the upper middle classes – people who seemed to have privilege bred into their DNA and money did not seem to matter.
Paralysed by imposter syndrome and determined never to be that person who couldn’t afford to go for sushi, I compensated by maxing out my credit cards.
Did my friends mean to expose my roots by sniggering when they discovered I’d never sampled pesto? Probably not, but such incidents sent my paranoia into overdrive and I compensated by spending as much money as them. By the time I graduated, I owed more than £3,000 on top of my student loan.
My predicament never felt like a problem. If I could make the minimum repayments, I thought, everything would be fine. Another glass of Chardonnay was all it took to convince myself this was true and if my childhood had taught me anything it was that everyone needs a loan once in a while.
I had no idea making minimum repayments at a 25 per cent interest rate would be a recipe for decades of debt. Was I young and dumb? Probably. Did I bother to read the fine print? Definitely not.
After graduating I moved to London and fell into (wait for it) financial journalism.
The financial ‘guru’ in me knew I was heading for a credit crash to rival a small-scale Lehman Brothers.
By day, I penned guides on debt-related topics. Need the best credit to avoid interest? Want to clear up your credit score? I was your woman. I befriended moneyed bankers and went to cripplingly expensive restaurants on the basis it was ‘good for my career.’
At night I socialised with richer friends, spending money on booze I couldn’t afford. I’d think nothing of splurging £500 on a credit card in one night.
From the outside it seemed like I had the ins-and-outs of personal finance down to a tee. A friend deemed me ‘the Primark Martin Lewis’. But after covering these topics for eight hours a day, I lacked the energy to apply the lessons to my own finances.
Half my salary went on renting rooms in mouse-infested house shares, the other half went on debt repayments. The financial ‘guru’ in me knew I was heading for a credit crash to rival a small-scale Lehman Brothers.
Still feeling like an impostor I overcompensated, insisting that the most expensive round was on me at post-work drinks and pushed my money worries to the back of my mind.
A few years after moving to London, I had my student loan as well as £7,000 of debt and felt screwed by my stupidity. My finances were about to completely unravel.
I started working on the launch of a UK price comparison site and, perhaps in a metaphor for the financial crash in my future, it failed.
After being made redundant even my minimum credit card repayments were unsustainable. I took out a payday loan despite advising readers never to make such a move – the most vulnerable find themselves locked into years of debt at crippling interest rates.
It cost me around £1,200 to borrow £600 and shame crept in.
I turned to friends for loans, which took me years to repay. Some are still waiting (they know who they are).
London life became unsustainable so I returned to Hull to live rent-free live with family. Ironically, it was after heading back to one of the UK’s poorest regions that I started to get my debt in order.
I did what I’d been lecturing others about for years: drew up a budget, logged onto my online banking account every day and ruthlessly slashed unnecessary expenses.
I adopted the little-by-little approach known as ‘snowballing’, which involves targeting your most expensive debt first – tackling the loan with the highest interest and then approaching the rest.
This didn’t happen overnight, though. The process took years and is only just meeting completion.
You could say I’m woefully unqualified to give advice about debt and you’d have a point. But knowing the fear of bailiffs knocking on the door and that you’ll never buy a home provides an insight into those paralysed by debt.
One of the things I wish people knew about the money management advice they read is that the authors are human. We f**k up too.
I may have gone to Oxford but I’ll never have the privilege to stop worrying about my finances. We need to be honest about the part privilege plays in our relationship with money and recognise we are where we are because of where we came from.
Debt Month
This article is part of a month-long focus in November all about debt.
Scary word, we know, but we're hoping if we tackle this head on we'll be able to reduce the shame around money struggles and help everyone improve their understanding of their finances.
Throughout November we'll be publishing first-person accounts of debt, features, advice, and explainers. You can read everything from the month on the Debt Month tag.
If you have a story to share, a topic you want us to cover, or a question that needs answering, get in touch at MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.
MORE: Debt Diaries: I lived in a van after getting into over £30k of debt
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MORE: How do you know if you’re in a ‘debt crisis’?
source https://metro.co.uk/2019/11/15/debt-diaries-trying-to-keep-up-with-my-rich-posh-friends-left-me-7k-in-debt-11055731/
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