Poverty-related trauma isn’t nice or fun or quirky. When people think being poor is just a quirky thing you do, it creates a narrative where you are poor because of your own personal failures and not because of circumstances out of your control.
It’s difficult to get out of the poverty cycle, especially if you were born into it. I grew up in a low-income household. My Aunt Julie made fun of Mom and me because we couldn’t escape its trappings. Julie had everything and the government handed her social security money to help her get ahead after the unfortunate passing of my maternal grandfather. She never lifted a finger to help anyone, including her own mother. Mom gave of herself in myriad ways because she knew the grind of never having enough, never being enough.
I didn’t make a decision to forego studying for a college exam so I could work an extra shift. I needed a roof over my head and the difference between a B and C doesn’t pay the rent. I’ve made the decision between food and medicine. I’ve eaten sleep for dinner. None of these things were moral failings.
The trauma associated with poverty remains within me. I still feel guilty when I have some luxuries, like a new dishwasher. The thought always runs through my brain about what happens when there is no money for food. Everything that is me associates an item’s cost to “an electric bill” or “a week’s worth of groceries.” Those lessons are ingrained in the fabric of my being. They can’t be ripped out, torn, or unraveled. I’m not sure I’ll ever be anything more than a poor person with a few bills tucked away for an emergency.
I have never been able to escape poverty. I didn’t leave it behind as I got older. You look at my house and the things I have, but the poverty is still there. “Make do and mend” as the British say. My family lived it. I have a bit more because of Paul. He grew up in a country with safety nets I didn’t have. Still, he knows how to sew and darn socks.
The poverty remains if you look close enough. I do not think I will ever feel like anything else other than a poor person with some extra pocket change.
AJ
Cheap clothes, government commodities, hand me downs. Our friends and neighbors were in the same situation as us, so we didn’t stand out. Never knew a vacation until I was 25 (and took myself on one). Summer camp?? What was that? Powdered Milk, hot dogs, bologna, and lots of oatmeal. My parents made horrible choices, but ‘did the best they knew’.
I made a life for myself, making it to middle management, which I conclude as a miracle given my upbringing. I am by no means rich, but have an income that pays the bills. Even though I have a steady income,,,I ALWAYS feel that I am two paychecks from living under a bridge. ALWAYS.
I also do not throw away leftovers, and cringe heavily when my husband throws food away. Poverty related trauma is real.
Irene
I used to be friends with someone who didn’t do leftovers or doggie bags at restaurants. That’s two more meals, man. I was the youngest, so 99% of my clothes were hand-me-downs. I never got to pick my own style until I was nearly 30.
Maybe we can share a bridge one day. lol