I run a really tight budget. There are no takeaway meals; there is no lavish spending.
But the cost of food is through the roof, we are in the midst of a rental crisis, and it took me six months to qualify for any government support.
The cost of living crisis is a personal plight for me. I am in constant burnout mode.
I am a single mum of three kids and my youngest, Harrison, had a kidney transplant when he was just 20 months old. For a few years, things were really good, but the last two years have been really tough. He is now nine, and his health has gotten to the point that he isn’t able to be at school with his friends as much, as he spends a lot of time in hospital getting plasma treatments or for surgery.
The hospital is an hour away and the constant driving is also taking a financial toll. I just serviced my car; it will need to be serviced again and it will cost me an absolute fortune.
Petrol has increased from $1.59 to sometimes as high as $2.12 a litre. Food prices have gradually increased: first by 20c, then 50c, then sometimes over a dollar. This doesn’t seem like a lot, but when you add it up overall it is absolutely huge.
Caring for my son limits how much I can work as he needs me to take him to hospital for his treatments at least two days a week. I am always on standby to look after him as he is my first priority. I work 25 hours a week as a disability support worker, and being on Centrelink limits how many hours I can work, too. People tell me to “just work more”, but I can’t.
Our local church provides meat. We wouldn’t be able to afford meat at all if we shopped at Coles. We are really fortunate to have a local food bank that means we have access to fresh fruit and veggies.
Before the food bank and the church food boxes, my kids would receive mostly potato, rice and a sliver of meat, always bought from the reduced section at close to closing time. This was always the best time to shop as most of the products we can’t afford, such as meat and dairy, were heavily reduced.
I wish I could buy my own home. In fact, the payments would be so much less than what I am paying now in rent, but I don’t fit into the boxes that the bank wants, such as having the same job for 12 months. I run a small business from home, but the bank considers that to be seasonal income. I could be paying way less and actually owning the place – instead, I’m losing money and paying for someone else’s retirement plan.
I’m not living in a mansion or an affluent area, but we are paying $550 a week, which is astronomical. We have been renting here now for 18 months and have never had a bad rent inspection.
I already know our time is limited in this home, because the owners want to increase the rent next March to $620.
Our rent eats away such a large amount of our weekly family income already, and because Harrison is in hospital so often, we are struggling to survive. Even with Centrelink support, I divide the last $200 a week on petrol to get me to work, utilities and then any food we may need from the food bank.
If I was to move further away for cheaper rent, my travel costs would only go up and I’d have to pull my kids out of their school. I don’t want to do that – and the budget still wouldn’t add up.
I never thought that I would ask for help in such a public way. But being utterly and completely exhausted, sad, confused, and on the verge of a mental breakdown most days drove me to reach out for help.
I have walked this road for nine years now. I’m a mother of three, I’m my son’s primary caregiver, I work, study and run a business from home. I have done my best without asking for help, but I can no longer do it on my own.
Between the monumental rising costs of living and my son’s more frequent hospital visits, I decided to start a GoFundMe to ask for financial help. This was a really hard decision for me, but there wasn’t anywhere else to turn.
Secure housing would mean a world of difference to my family.
I am so grateful to the friends, family and even strangers that haven’t judged me for reaching out, but have instead asked how they can help.
Asking for help feels hopeless and intimidating, and comes with so much vulnerability. But I am humbled that people get in touch – even if they can’t donate – just to see how we are doing. Even offering to make something for dinner and drop it off, or just checking in to see how I’m coping means so much to know that people really do care about us.
Bo-Anne Kolkman is a disability worker and mother from Perth
