What it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck
The Carmagnole by Kathë Kollwitz
It’s April 1 and this was supposed to be payday. I get paid every other Wednesday, which means that this month I would’ve been paid today, April 15, and April 29. Most months I get paid twice—that’s just the way the calendar shakes out. But when you’re living paycheck to paycheck like me, those three-paycheck months are a lifeline, they’re almost a way to see how the rest of the population lives, you get to shed your skin for a month and wear the mask of a person with means and privilege. You circle these months in the calendar in your mind and swipe forward on the actual calendar in your smartphone, counting the weeks as you go, looking forward to the month where an extra few hundred bucks can go toward paying down debt, into initial savings, maybe even toward something fun and extravagant like a weekend trip to a bordering state.
Three-paycheck months come about once, maybe twice if we’re lucky, a year. In the other months you figure out ways to make it work. Maybe your next payday is between the second and fifth day of the month and you can pay your rent on that check instead and still avoid a late fee from your landlord. Maybe you have to put a utility bill on a credit card, that same credit card you’ve only been able to make minimum payments on for months, interest piling up all the while from when you had to put a different bill on it the other month. Maybe you can pick up a little bit of freelance work, a hundred bucks worth of copywriting here or there. You get everything paid for, somehow mostly on time, and you breathe a sigh of relief, then it all starts again next month, that is, until that three-paycheck month. That’s when we’ll really cut loose. This is what it’s like for me and so many other people. Being this poor has forced us to figure out ways to be resourceful, to game the system that is built to oppress us in tiny enough ways to keep ourselves from drowning. I can’t believe we got away with it. But we pay for it down the line anyway so did we really?
Our realities, our existences are not the same. I hope you know that. You have a well-paying job, maybe with benefits, a 401k that your company matches your contributions. You have a robust savings account. Your parents can help you with bills while they watch people on television telling us that we should scrimp more on coffee or eating out at restaurants. You’re able to work from home and haven’t lost income during this pandemic. Really, other than the fact that you can’t go to happy hour with your coworkers anymore, your life has not changed in any real, meaningful way. You’re planning vacations for when this is over and not worrying about how you’ll pay for them or anything else. For the rest of us everything has been turned upside down. Finances, plans, dreams of a more independent existence, irrevocably altered. Yes, government help is coming. But what will happen if this thing drags into the summer, or longer? That’s what terrifies me. My unemployment disbursement is based on my 2018 income, which was miraculously even lower than it is now, how did I even survive, so as a result my compensation amount is about one-third of what my paycheck would’ve been.
One of the worst parts of this whole thing is that capitalism has trained my brain to think that it’s my fault. It’s my fault that I didn’t work hard enough, that I didn’t stay in college, that I floated from thing to thing seeking happiness above all, and when I finally found it after years of scratching and clawing and searching, it was taken away from me. It’s my fault that I never cared about money even though despite what anyone says, literally every single problem I have would be solved by simply having more money. It’s my fault I took that trip, knowing doing so would break me for a month or more afterward, but knowing that I would figure it out, because those of us down here have always had to find a way. And we always did. The other worst part of this is that my brain is telling me it could be worse, and it could, but that’s masking the reality that even though it could be worse, this is still pretty fucking bad.
So like I said, we’re not the same. You’re college-educated, affluent, voting and campaigning and canvassing for entitled millionaire neoliberal politicians who don’t want to help people like me and my family. We probably agree on some basic tenets but our life experiences are wildly different. You’ve probably never even been down here before. Is it unhealthy for me to resent you? Probably. Do I do it anyway? Of course. I swear my brain is telling me you’re real and I won’t forget your silence when this is all over.