Knowing Your Worth
The difference between your value and the value of a dollar
Let’s just get this out of the way right now. Anyone who ever said money can’t buy happiness was a fucking liar. The kind of people who say stupid shit like this have money and aren’t happy solely because they don’t know what it’s like to be poor. Once you’re poor, and I mean really fucking poor, you have a different appreciation for the security that a little bit of dough gives you. That being said, I heard a story the other day that resonated with me deeply, and I want to share it with you.
Anyone who ever said money can’t buy happiness was a fucking liar.
I was working the morning shift, still schlepping from bar to bar just hoping to scrape by enough money to pay whatever bill was overdrafted in my account that day. The bartender I relieved was hanging around, shooting the shit and having a beer. Somehow we got onto the subject of doctors, and he began to talk about his mother, who was an immigrant and brought him here when he was a small child. She didn’t speak much English but she got a job as a receptionist as a doctor’s office. To make extra money, he would go in with his mom and younger siblings and clean the office on the weekend, obviously to make extra money as I’m sure she was barely scraping by on the $11 hour salary she was making during the week. When you do the math for a single mother with small children working forty hours a week, that $1760 a month before taxes, insurance, and child care, which is essentially the drunk lady who lives in the apartment above scamming her dead mother’s social security, isn’t shit. I’m sure when the doc offered $50 a week to clean the office, that tax-free $200 probably looked like a fucking steal. And I mean, what a guy for helping a needy family out like that, right?!
Wrong. So fucking wrong. Let me tell you why I think that. When he began to tell this story, I damn near broke my neck turning to look at him. Because when I was a child, my mother too worked in an office. I would walk there every afternoon and sit on the floor until she was off work or go into an exam room that wasn’t being used and do my homework. After everyone left, we would stay and clean that office because I’m sure those doctors also thought they were doing us such an invaluable service by allowing us to make a measly couple extra dollars. How many people my age have a similar story about how tough their childhood was, about the odd jobs they would do to make some extra money, and most usually from their cheap ass, piece of shit current employer because it was an entry level job and they couldn’t be bothered to pay them a decent fucking wage. I bet there’s a whole bunch of us out there. And it enrages me to think that because we’re so dependent on these crumbs to live, that we’ll agree to demean ourselves to whatever degree necessary.
…we’re so dependent on these crumbs to live, that we’ll agree to demean ourselves to whatever degree necessary.
Recently I’ve had a lot of interest in my travel blogs and they’ve been viewed all over the world. I’ve been feeling very excited that not only are they getting out there, I’m also receiving messages and comments on my pages. It’s one thing to have your close knit friends read your guide to dick-picing; it’s something else entirely to tell a story about a woman who lost her life hiking and have a member of the community who interacted with her on that very day reach out and tell me how positively my blog was received. The elation cannot be described. But something that resonated the most for me was a conversation I recently had on Instagram with a reader who responded to one of my stories, a joke about financial stability. We quipped back and forth and I joked that I wish I was as stable as paycheck to paycheck, for which he replied “You’re internet blogger famous though.” And I thought: am I or is that a joke, or maybe it’s a half truth. Am I a silly chick with a $20 domain who just keeps posting whatever she wants for her six friends to read, or am I regarded by other people across the world who never met me that genuinely follow my page as a legitimate blogger? Maybe to them I’m a woman who travels the world, telling them all about the weird shit I see, and reporting whatever funny, sick, or mildly humorous story I come across, be it about dicks, dating, or destinations. I have no idea.
What I do know is that I spend every waking hour of my day working on this silly little website, brainstorming ideas, creating content, and trying to convey my real, honest feelings and truths regardless of how it may be perceived by those I know in real life. Then I spend hours streamlining my photos in Lightroom. I upload them and make social media posts and stories for four different platforms, of which I struggle to stay on point with. I constantly update my website and pages, of which I monitor myself, and then I spend the rest of my time trying to tackle the ungodly art of SEO and analytics. After which I get ready for my real job, where I’ve been going to a different location everyday for the past six months. I don’t know anyone or anything and every location does shit differently, and no matter how well you do it, someone is going to say it’s wrong. It’s like being brand new every time you step through the door. There are no familiar faces, friends, or confidants. You are not only all by yourself, sometimes you’re the enemy, the threat, the outsider. I have people who won’t pay their bills, who won’t comply with rules. I have to cut people off and withstand the indignation. If there’s a fight, I’m the bouncer. If there’s a bill jam, I’m the slot tech. I’m there’s bodily fluid anywhere other than the toilet bowl, I’m the janitor. And in that moment I heard my friend talking about cleaning the office when he was nine years old, I realized we haven’t come full circle: we never started moving at all. We’ve been standing in the same place, only the locations have changed.
…I will never misconstrue the value of a dollar for the value that I place in myself.
When I’m done writing this, I’m going to take a shower and go to work. Again. And tomorrow. Because I know the value of a dollar. I know I need XYZ of them to pay for my home and car and my beloved pets, to go on my trips, to keep my website up and running. I also know what my self worth is and while I don’t think I should be cleaning up some fucking drunk’s warm vomit, I do believe I have to endure for the life I deserve, the life I’m creating for myself with every minute and every hour that I “waste” on my little pet project. And if I have to scrape every dollar, be it cleaning the proverbial doctor’s office, until I really do because a famous internet blogger, so be it. But I will never misconstrue the value of a dollar for the value that I place in myself.
If you’re reading this, stuck in a place in your life you don’t want to be, working for a company that doesn't value you, in a relationship with someone who doesn’t appreciate you, spending your quality time with friends who don't invest in you, don’t lose heart. Remember that only you determine your self worth, and it is not defined by anyone or anything else. Go make your fucking money, don’t listen to the noise, and keep pushing.