Fear brings out the worst in people, and marriage certainly brought out the worst in me. Unlike most young women I knew, I was less than thrilled to be going from a "me" to a "we."
Don't get me wrong. I loved Michael, the man I was marrying, but I wasn't used to taking others into consideration.
I was rubbish at compromise. And, most of all, I was afraid that — by marrying — I would lose myself: my identity, my independence.
This is what made me a pathological liar. My partner unknowingly married someone with debt.
As I couldn't very well show my enduring independence by dating around, I grasped onto power wherever else I could. I maintained a healthy social life apart from Michael.
I worked hard to build a successful and fulfilling career. I built our home upon my tastes and childhood dreams. I kept my checking account and credit card accounts separate from his.
Unfortunately, I had atrocious spending habits and, soon enough, I was lying about purchases, balances, bills, and more.
It started with books, stuffed into my shoulder bag so that I could pretend I'd owned them for eons. Soon after, I began ordering things from Amazon, having the packages sent to my office.
Following clandestine trips to the mall, I would keep the shopping bags hidden in the trunk of my car, sneaking them into the bedroom closet when I was home alone.
I was hiding my purchases from my husband, keeping him in the dark about what turned out to be a $10,000 secret.And this wasn't the first time.
No. The first time was back in college. I was away at school, with my very first credit card.
My weaknesses? Urban Outfitters, Arden B., and the handmade crafts store I was working at part-time, where I developed a taste for fine woodwork, art jewelry, and kaleidoscopes.
It was my mom who eventually bailed me out.
My shopping problem followed me home from school and, the second time, my grandfather gave me the money to pay off my debts. The third time, my mother once again stepped in.
The fourth time was when I first moved in with Michael, and I remember him telling me that I couldn't let this happen again. He didn't know my history with money.
The fifth time took me by surprise, the balance on my card shooting up rapidly due to a high-interest rate and an overwhelming need to make our condo perfect.
This took hand-painted furniture, artwork for the walls, and additional alleged accouterments of housewifely success.
When it became obvious to me how deep I had buried myself — again — I felt nauseous. I didn't want to tell Michael, but I knew that he had to know.
I cried when I told him. My struggle with money was no longer about my ability to purchase a car, pay off my student loan debt, or replenish my winter wardrobe. There was so much more at stake.
For the first time in our lives, we were both putting huge chunks of our income toward mortgage payments on our one-bedroom condo.
We were saving to buy a house in two or three years and, when that happened, we planned on starting a family.