My Obsession with Money
It was pretty much all I thought about.
All day. Every day.
I wanted more of it.
No, I needed more of it.
But my habitual daydreams of actually acquiring it typically ended in nothing other than consternation and incongruence, awakening to a reality that never seemed to change.
A bizarre feeling, it is. To want something, but to not want it. To convince myself that I didn’t really need it. To perpetually rationalize that I was somehow above it. And to despise those who had it.
To be a have-not.
I assume that my red badge of poverty was first pinned to my psyche sometime before my dirt bike lost its training wheels. When I began to wrap my impressionable brain around the concept of social strata.
We were us. They were them.
And to want what “they” had was to concede all loyalty to my side.
It took me over 30 years to finally understand that. That what lied at the root of my low credit score and umpteen overdraft charges was a set of limiting beliefs inherited from my upbringing.
This revelation didn’t happen overnight, however. The first chink in my poverty armor came from an unlikely source.