One path to misery was laid out over 150 years ago by the improvident Mr. Micawber in Charles Dickens’s David Copperfield: simply spend more than you earn. “Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery.”
Some years back, a client in significant financial difficulty told me of the indecision she was experiencing after seeing something she wanted at the local mall. “I’ve got $500,” she said, uncertain whether to make the purchase.
My instant thought was that spending money with only $500 in life savings was perhaps unwise, but I had misunderstood things completely. It turned out that she had no money at all, but on one of her credit cards, she had $500 remaining on her limit. Her personal balance sheet was not $500 up, it was many thousands down—and she was contemplating the wisdom of lowering it further. As the son of a Scottish accountant (in this case, all relevant stereotypes apply), it took all I had to avoid crying out in alarm.
I should explain. It was not this client’s goal to feel worse, and a great part of her anxiety was caused by her financial situation and a sense that, as a result, she lacked the freedom to maneuver in her life—change her job, move apartments, travel, respond to emergencies. Her credit cards were handcuffs. For the person striving to feel worse, credit is one of the primary freeways leading there.
It is widely believed that money cannot buy happiness, but lack of money can definitely purchase misery. This can be true even if a person lives in relative comfort, with a good home and assured access to food and other resources. As one gets closer and closer to the financial wire, misery-inducing stresses proliferate:
Perhaps the greatest stressor is the sense of impending doom—that, no matter how pleasant one’s current circumstances may be, at any moment they could be swept away.
Money may not be able to buy happiness, at least not directly. But it can certainly buy freedom from fears of financial ruin.
Imagine yourself perched on a branch dangling over a rushing river. A vision of fulfillment rests gently on the far tip of the limb, over the deepest part of the torrent. Hypnotized, you inch yourself further and further out, hearing creaks and small snaps as you go. You are perfectly dry, and it is a warm, sunny day. The misery that overtakes you is the awareness of what may shortly happen.
Another client sought out therapy during a long period of unemployment following an unceremonious firing. He soon worked wonders on himself and landed an executive position with a prominent firm. After several months at this job, he commented that he was now making so much money that he didn’t know what to do with it.
The best advice depends, of course, on the direction a person wants to pursue. In his case, it was to be happier and more secure. “Don’t feel rich,” I told him. His unemployment had exhausted his savings, and he lacked one of life’s great bulwarks against work-related anxiety: enough funds to last at least six months with zero income. Following the lyrics of a popular country song addressed to an unpleasant employer, this is commonly called “take this job and shove it” money.
Had my client been an aficionado of the course upon which you, dear reader, are embarked, the advice would have been very different. “Assume that your future income will match or exceed your present income and spend accordingly, or a little bit more. Assume debts, get your credit limit raised, and then use it—that’s what it’s for.” Even with a high income and a good job, misery will likely ensue. Debt is an indispensible tool in the production of unhappiness.
“But wait,” I hear you protesting. “I’m not just going to toss money from the rooftops, I’m going to buy things I really desire. Won’t the pain of ongoing debt be assuaged by the joy of acquisition?” It certainly will—but only briefly. Debt, like diamonds, can be forever. It is the gift that keeps on taking.