The judge looks out over a sea of financial ineptitude. You find a seat and wait. He calls out names. One by one, they scuff their way down the aisle and relate a carefully selected portion of their story. The judge probes. One by one, he rips each lying cheat a new asshole. A few hours in, a woman approaches him. He is tender with this mother of three. She’s losing her home. She can’t get the father to pay alimony or child support. The judge is compassionate. Without a whipping, he grants her bankruptcy status.
I think she and I were the only two people he believed that day. He was kind to me, too. His earnest parting words were “Try not to get into this situation again too soon because you can’t declare another bankruptcy for seven years, OK?” My body was trembling, my head bent in a failed attempt to stifle the bawling. I made my way to the exit. It was one of the most humiliating moments of my life. My credit report was destroyed for the next 10 years, my financial and employment applications marked for life. And I still have no idea where I spent the $80,000 that brought me to bankruptcy court.
There is a specific kind of joy that comes with the arrival of each shiny new piece of crisp, clean plastic.
The next day I flew to LA for an extra month of acting class. Airfare, motel, restaurants, class and car rental must have come to about $2,000. I still didn’t have a job.
It wasn’t what I thought would happen to me. For the first seven years of my adult working life, I held at least two jobs at a time. I had immaculate financial integrity and zero debt. Strictly old school, cash and carry. I traveled around the world solo. I depended on no one for anything. I was determined to be better than my parents, especially the way they related to money.
Then I got my first credit card. I did pretty well paying my balance each month. I think what first tipped me into the debt zone was the convertible I bought one year later—a canary yellow Triumph Spitfire. All on my new plastic.
A few years later, I was living in a women’s residence in New York, paying $325 a month. I freelanced as a photographer ($750 a shoot). I studied with an acting teacher four months out of the year ($500 a month). I auditioned daily for film and TV. I was hanging out with the minor league bohemian jet set. The details of my life seemed to indicate that I must be on The Right Track. “Success” was imminent.
My acting representation was so enthusiastic about my future; I was inspired to live on credit cards as I waited for my star to rise. I was using my anticipated $250,000 first-year TV earnings as my “income” for credit card applications. The lenders were keen to issue me cards with credit limits up to $10,000 a pop. I had no income so I took cash advances to cover the minimum payments. When I maxed out one card’s cash advance limit, I’d get a new card and transfer the balance. I considered the problem solved.
There is a specific kind of joy that comes with the arrival of each shiny new piece of crisp, clean plastic. As if somewhere, someone is finally taking responsibility to even the score with me, that this new chunk of free money has been sent to assuage the past wrongs I have suffered. To anyone out there who doesn’t have the DA ism, this may seem like a joke. It’s not.
By the time the banks began to deny me cards, my debt exceeded $80,000. I had used up all of my cash advances. I could no longer pay the minimum monthly payments. I had nowhere to shuffle the balances. I felt I had two choices—neither of them involved getting a job. I could let the banks lock up my accounts, preventing me from depositing or cashing a check until I had paid the entire debt. Or I could file a Chapter 7, the court injunction relieving the debtor of the obligation to repay most debts, preventing creditors from collecting the same. Making the decision to file for bankruptcy had a degree of “free money” elation to it. The actual court experience did not.
Soon after that, about 10 years ago, I went to my first Debtors Anonymous meeting.
DA began in 1968, when an AA member wondered aloud about how many AA-ers were living at or below the poverty line. While problems with food, sex and gambling have plagued many recovering alcoholics, money often remains taboo.
The first group of DA spent the next eight years analyzing their spending, saving, shopping and earning. After much trial and error, they began to understand that their financial sobriety didn’t hinge on an inability to save, or the amount they spent or earned, but rather from the inability to have solvency. Solvency—DA’s version of sobriety—is defined as the practice of not incurring any new unsecured debt, one day at a time.
Like all 12-step programs, its website has helpful checklist tests, like “Is DA right for you?” and “Signs of a compulsive debtor.” I score highly on these quizzes. Like most who would benefit from DA, I lived in a fog about finances, boundaries and anything related to self-care. If never opening your mail seems like a good idea, DA may be for you, too.
My first meeting was on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I listened to the introductions. When they got to the part about the qualifications for the speaker, the scheduled member confessed to having “lost my solvency.” No one else in the room could meet the requirements to speak, so the consensus was that anyone could tell their story. I felt uncomfortable and said so. The meeting skipped the speaker. I never went back.
Some time later, I tried the Midtown noon meetings. These members were productive, worked the steps and had solvency, jobs and mortgages. The tone of the meeting was “maintenance.” Members’ identities seemed centered around their lives rather than their addiction. Nobody seemed to mind that I was there, but nobody seemed to care either. What I didn’t understand at the time was that authoring your own self-care is essential. I stopped going at that time, but I’d taken on board the idea that DA can work.
By 2011, I was back in school, funded by student loans and living illegally in a photo studio. I was tracking my expenses—a DA tool. I paid my rent on time, but the landlord was suspicious. I think tracking my expenses gave me the clarity to see disaster coming before it hit. I needed help. I turned to DA: I made it my job. I attended meetings daily. I shared. I listened to the speakers for clues. I approached people I felt drawn to and asked for help. I dedicated a notebook to my DA work, tracking expenses and income. I listed self-care activities, new options for income and the 12 Tools of DA. I made it a goal to gradually integrate each one into my life.
The last debt I incurred was a set of student loans disbursed on March 10, 2013. So today, tax day, I have 36 days of solvency.
I had a list of things I needed: a sponsor, a pressure relief group (PRG, two members who make a plan of action with you), a spreadsheet for my numbers, a list of my debts and pressures, a spending plan, an action plan, envelopes for savings, index cards for wants and a gratitude list. I wrote down members’ names and numbers and put them into a spreadsheet. I used my call list. I attended business meetings. I signed up for service—and showed up. I got a PRG time and place scheduled; the man never showed up and I had to start that process all over again. This was all in my first month.
I met a woman who agreed to be my step sponsor. She had a very specific way of working, meeting with sponsees for 12 weeks, once a week, for 45 minutes. I was instructed to buy The 12 Steps of DA and to email her every Saturday before 8pm to confirm our Sunday meeting. If I missed the deadline, she would consider our meeting canceled. She was very clear about only offering step sponsorship. I agreed and committed to her structure.
She was terrific the first two times, providing intuitive assignments to go with the steps we were working. She was a great listener, but she couldn’t stay appropriately detached, despite her stipulations.
Meanwhile my life was unraveling again. I had no electricity, my bathroom was unusable and I was losing the studio. I only had a couple thousand dollars, if I pawned my equipment, for movers, storage and a new place. I had no idea where I would go.
Each week, this sponsor would try to make more of my decisions for me. It started with ordering food I didn’t want and paying my bill. She became irritated that I kept a notebook. By our sixth meeting, she insisted that I “make” my school give me psychiatric support, room and board, and a place to shoot photos—by implying that I might hurt myself if they didn’t. She also said I must pay my $1,200 electric bill today. I told her I had to think about it. She snapped, saying that she couldn’t work with someone whose life was so out of control, unless I did what she told me.
I conferred with an AA friend, who agreed that this was probably not the most supportive situation. So I thanked my sponsor for her help and told her I needed to look for someone else. But the miracle of doing the Steps was upon me. I was finding a self-acceptance that I’d never known before. She had, in fact, been an excellent facilitator.
I found a new man and woman who were both available a month after the aborted PRG. They sat and listened to my mad story. I had intended to come out of that meeting armed with my action and spending plans. They kept my focus much simpler: It was all about finding a safe home that was within my means. The pair of them were as yin and yang as could be, but our unified purpose created grace among us. They estimated that with my resources I could afford rent of $900 a month. The woman offered her apartment as a temporary option—$400 a month for a corner of her small studio.
A few weeks later I took her offer, and another DA member helped me pack. She and I were compatible roommates. After a couple weeks, we spoke of a long-term arrangement. Shortly after that, my family asked me to return home to help with a dying relative. Knowing my situation, they offered me a formal job as a care assistant: $5,000 for four months. The DA roommate said I would have to move out if I took the job, that was too disruptive to have me leave then come back. She reminded me of my step sponsor.
Recognition does not create change. At its best, it creates awareness and promotes choice. At its worst, it creates a feeling of superiority. Action creates change: That’s one of the greatest benefits of DA. For any addict, accountability is a challenge. DA’s focus is all about accountability, taking emotion out of the financial equation. It’s not a warm environment, it’s more professional: You’re constantly being watched by your neighbors to see if you’re reliable. (Would I need to be in the fucking room if I were reliable?) There is kindness, community and compassion. But a guarded quality prevails. It’s accomplishment-based, verging on competitive.
The last debt I incurred was a set of student loans disbursed on March 10, 2013. So today, tax day, I have 36 days of solvency. I’ve paid off all my credit cards; I haven’t used them since fall 2011. I am planning to repay the debts I declared in my bankruptcy. I use a portion of the money I get each semester to repay people I owe, but I still need to become clearer about my debts.
I pray. I save receipts. I never use credit cards. I list monthly expenses. I have a gratitude notebook. These are all byproducts of my work with DA. And it is work. I think that’s probably the biggest difference between DA and other programs: The work part leads; the community part follows. That’s very appealing for anyone who wants to change. It’s very unappealing to anyone who wants to want to change.
I have my own apartment now, as a legal tenant. I love my tiny home. It helps me decide what’s useful and what’s not. Little by little, I’ve chipped away at the mountain of boxes I brought here. There are just two left. They house random papers, lists of goals, old mail I have never opened, plastic bags jammed with receipts, tax stuff and other matters financial. In one of these boxes I have the little organized book dedicated to my DA work.
I saw dozens of people who successfully worked the DA program. If I had thicker skin, I might be there tonight. I have no doubt that there were great sponsors in the room, or that the tools work.
But everyone has to learn what works for them. I tend to flounder in the milieu of intermediate institutional relationships. DA is part high school, part unified committed group. I loved the unified group aspect; it’s the high school I couldn’t handle. I haven’t been to a DA meeting in a year.
Now I have a life coach. He’s helping me develop multiple revenue streams. He met a woman who has written a book that he thought I might like. It’s for ‘under earners.’ She offers a small support group too. I’m going to try it.
Eliza Jackman is a pseudonym for an actor in New York.