When Old Decisions Barricade the New

A ferocious no spend year and humour in debt

We brought the first piece of furniture for our home with great caution last week, as miserably and completely necessarily, my low spend year has begun. Second hand furniture graces the ‘allow list’ because my board games stacked on top of each other imitate furniture poorly. Currently shouldering the burden of my tea and not in an ‘undone’ way. Dale and I excitedly scrolled Facebook and found a beautiful cabinet for £50 which I justified was completely fine to purchase and it is a need, not a want, which is actually a lie and also because dale paid for it (thank god). This no spend year has come as a result of spending far too much every year I’ve been in existence. Even in November when I took out my contraceptive implant I brought condoms that work out at one pound a ride. Even my vulva is a compulsive spender. If only she’d always been this high maintenance.

I watched my mum practice ‘girl math’ long before the term was coined. In a never ending dance with the Freemans catalogue, and later, Very, this meant I understood I could have it now and have an existential crisis about ‘having it all now’, later. My mum was buying clothes to keep her three children warm whereas my debt was more fun. Let’s be honest. Cream Reiss coats at eighteen to trash on a night out and skirts that didn’t zip up all the way but I was intending to get down to a size 6 so it was an investment. I’d even brought a set of plates I dreamt I’d have in my home with a man who’d love me in a soft and not so soft way. By the time I found the actual man he hated the plates. We’d never had money. We’d lived in a two bedroom, one bathroom house with five of us always. I hadn’t slept solo in a room until I was seventeen and I remember getting incredibly drunk to be able to fall asleep in there. I was trying to buy my way out of being me. Chipping away my insides with a credit card tunnelling my way from who I was to who I hoped to be. Someone more articulate. Stylish. Together. Luxurious. I wanted to feel rich. I didn’t. None of the clothes ever felt right on my skin. The creams didn’t soothe my raging acne and boys wanted to fill the vast emptiness that groaned in my body whether I was wearing Heidi Klum intimates or three day old grannies.

When I think about spending money, even now, a sensation washes over me. Not like the pool of warmth that grows between my thighs when I watch Dale sauté onions and my heart in a frying pan but still, it commands its own sense of urgency. A lustful pull in my stomach that leads me to buy things I’ve convinced myself I need. When I’m not allowed to buy non edible things I buy the coop. When I’m not allowed that, I buy other people’s affection or a silly little oat latte.

This manifested at its worst while I was married to my ex husband. I had debt, and then we got married and there was more, and it was totally manageable the same way living with a narcissist is manageable, and when I was married and sharing our household bills I paid off the minimum payment, then spent twice as much, cried about it once a month and got drunk. I was horrified when I looked around in the wake of our divorce. There were woman in my Facebook message requests, my shark hoover got caught up in the cross fire (I didn’t win custody) and another ten thousand pounds of debt sat on my lap and purred for attention. His new twenty-years-older than me girlfriend sent a message saying how awful that the women always take the money in a divorce. Just in case she’s reading I paid him out and got nothing unless the currency of suspicious Facebook message requests counts. Interestingly at this point they do stand strongly against the great British pound.

Then I spent to soothe my soul. I deserved it. Recently I realised the pleasure was in the purchase. The postman would hand me the box and I’d feel nothing but darkness exploring the empty space in my torso. I wouldn’t tear open the parcel with my teeth on arrival. I didn’t care what resided in that box. It would sit there being ignored with the level I was ignoring my cleansing routine. What I loved was the sweet release that I found caressed within the checkout.

And then I fell in love. And we’ve been eating and tangling our bodies into one and not much else for two years and now here I am. Staring at Mr. Debt himself and I don’t seem to be able to mount, divide and conquer him.

A life I made with someone I wasn’t supposed to, coats I purchased that were never made for me and bottles of wine devoured in my past life muddy up the horizon. But you know, I’ve been doing this self acceptance lark for a while now and when I imagine that £250 Reiss coat stumbling home with a man on one arm and a cutters choice rollie in another, I can’t help but love her.

Now she has learnt cream coats were designed for people who are happy to stand while they wait for the train. She wants to be in her thrifted walking boots. Travelling for the first time. Cooking with ingredients found on the market. Following her nose to the best pasta pomodoro in town. Swimming in the ocean. Not buying shit. Washing one of my seven pairs of pants or just not wearing any at all. Still being stylish. Okay, becoming stylish. It’s a big dream of mine to have a small selection of clothes where everything looks like it belongs to me. And I realised somewhere along the road I didn’t want to keep fucking the planet.

To put my future first and to live in a way I don’t need three and a half worlds to sustain. I’m going to have to leave this fuckery behind. Especially fuckery that puts me in debt. You’re probably thinking I have a mammoth wardrobe but I don’t. Everything had already been sent to charity a long time ago. Trust me when I say I’ve not benefitted from my debt since my divorce.

I’ve not brought many physical things this past two years but I’ve also put about as much effort into paying off my debt as I do squats. I would pretend to try and then buy an LED face mask and my bum remains at the same pert level it always has.

So here we are, committing to spending not a bloody lot this year. Committing to paying off the remaining debt that I feel very unashamed about. Within that lives a divorce and a four year old mac and a lot of double wear foundation.

But I choose my future. I choose a free life with Dale. No more do I warm my bones in the arms of debt or stuff polyester from Zara I so crave into any hungry void that resides within.

Love Kirstie x