Rattenni Mia Yanick
My name is Victoria, I’m 26, and I’m from London. A year ago I had a normal life: a rented flat, a job, plans. Then my ex, James, came back. Charming, full of pretty words: “Vik, this is our chance, I’ve thought it all through.” I took out a loan in my name. Then he talked me into taking out several more — also in my name. I signed the papers and believed him. A month later he vanished: phone disconnected, flat emptied, belongings gone. And I was left with £18,400 of debt, debt collectors, and the feeling that I’d just been used. Debt collectors were ringing 6–7 times a day. I stopped answering the phone. At one point I had £0.87 in my account. I sat on the bed in a tiny room in the East End, working out whether I had enough for the bus to work. Rent — £650, salary — £1,650, minimum loan repayments — around £420. After all that, I had £10–15 a week left for food. Sometimes I ate one slice of toast a day. And I cried in the shower so the neighbours wouldn’t hear. The most humiliating part wasn’t the hunger. It was the shame. I couldn’t ring my parents and say, “Mum, I’m in debt because of a man who left me.” I couldn’t ask my friend for money for a proper dinner. One day she dragged me to the pub and paid for me. I sat there, staring into my glass, and just burst into tears. And then she said: — Vik, this sounds mad. But my sister got herself out of debt this way. Try Sweet Bananza. Just don’t go mad with it. I didn’t believe it. But when you’ve nothing left to lose, you listen. ### First money and shaking hands The first time I put in £10. Not my last money — I’d waited until I got paid for an extra shift. My hands were shaking when I entered my card details. On the second day I hit a bonus and withdrew £45. It was silly money. But I bought a hot sandwich and a coffee, and for the first time in a month I ate properly. I remember sitting there thinking, “God, £45. And I feel like a human being.” Then I started treating it like a system. I didn’t gamble food
