On my 18th birthday, I received a $25,000 check in the mail. Then again, on my 19th birthday. And my 20th birthday. And my 21st birthday.
At the age of 12, I was struck by a drunk driver as I rode my bike home from my friend’s house. The pick-up truck side-swiped my wheels, and I latched onto the rear view mirror. I don’t remember much after that until I came to on the side of the road. I remember standing up in the middle of the street and spinning like a top. Surely a reaction to the shock.
According to witnesses, I had somehow flown over the bed of the truck and landed back and headfirst on the concrete. A group of construction workers had witnessed the accident and called my parents. I don’t remember how they got my phone number.
The accident happened only a two-minute drive from my home, so my parents arrived on the scene in what felt like seconds. My mother was frantic. My dad held up two fingers and asked how many he was holding up (I saw two). At the hospital, I fell into a sort of post-traumatic euphoric haze. I was alive, but I didn’t know what sort of injuries I had sustained.
After a series of tests, the doctors determined that I had fractured my L1 vertebra in my spine and had a pretty nasty concussion. As a result of my injury, I would never be able to play football for my school team, nor would I be able to do much of any strenuous physical activity for almost a year.
While I wasn’t paralyzed, and I didn’t need surgery, I was forced to wear a full-torso back brace for nine months. Eighth grade is hard enough, but being the metaphorical thumb that stuck out, I was the topic of much discussion and the subject of many stares. The majority of my classmates were very helpful and not judgmental, which made recovery easier.
As I healed, insurance claims were being litigated in the background, unknown to my 13-year-old reality. The only involvement I ever had in the undertaking was a deposition, which my teenage brain didn’t fully wrap its tendrils around.
As a result of the lawsuit, I was to receive a certain amount of money every year on my birthday, starting at the age of 18, and continuing every year for four years, with one larger payment happening when I hit 30.
So what’s the point of this whole drawn-out tale of woe? The truth is, at 18 years old, I was completely unprepared to deal with that amount of money unsupervised. Every year, I would roll through the money in months. I’d lend my friends money for rent when they were about to be evicted. I brought people out for meals and always paid. I showered myself in gifts.
I had never been properly taught how to handle money. There was no personal finance course in school. There was no education about credit, and how your credit rating would rule you for the rest of your life.
As a result, I spent with abandon. I spent as if there would be no tomorrow. I spent because at 18, $25,000 seems like the grandest of riches. I spent it because I wanted to fill the hole that PTSD from the accident had left behind.
So, my best advice I would give someone younger than myself is to never go into debt. Learn about credit. Study how to manage your finances. Invest well and at the right time. Build yourself a nest egg. Never spend what you can’t afford. You’ll thank me later.
