I Was Raised on Crumbs

So I did a thing.

I left.

I left people, places, and things.

I left- for reasons. Many reasons. Obvious one’s and not so obvious one’s.

Like waking up every day to the fact that billionaires, AI, and fascist are basically draining and destroying the planet and every living thing on it. Then of course being told daily, as a female, that your life just basically isn’t important.

They say at a certain point in a woman’s life some hormone kicks in where you stop and look around and say: “Huh, wait a minute. I don’t think any of this was for my best interest.”

I’ve been saying this for a years now. Hormone or no hormone. But somehow……we all just keep doing it. Keep showing up, repeating the cycle.

Maybe it’s because from the time of a young girls life she’s taught to self-abandon. To soothe any “rough edges”, any “big emotion” and make herself palatable so that the world around you is more comfortable for everyone else.

And it works -because you absorb it - everywhere. Not only from the women around you but in the messaging that’s folded so seamlessly into everything you ingest. It gets in. So you grow up believing that anything that is hurting or “out of order” around you must be something you can and should fix.

If I could just try a little harder, sacrifice a little more, give extra, endure just one more time, that it’ll all fall into place as promised, right? That promise of that deep fulfillment from the years of giving, trying, listening, waiting, adjusting and self-sacrificing for the others around you will at last be rewarded. Right?

Nope.

You see, I was raised on crumbs. Like most woman- especially around my age.

Crumbs. Crumbs were served as full meals. Entire buffets of crumbs. A table full of crumbs masked as a feast.

And no one was asking If I was still hungry. And forget about asking for anything more. That’s not what “ good girls” do. Just be grateful for what you were given.

So… you learn to manage the hunger pains. You watch yourself become more and more malnourished. Your skin becomes sallow and your smile begins to dim. That’s what you knew. That’s what you saw. It’s what they knew. That struggle was all part of your journey. A woman’s journey.

Struggle, giving, sacrifice= fulfillment. That’s the lie.

And those crumbs weren’t just in your personal life- it crosses over to your career. If you must have a career - you pesky woman.

Again, the message is if you work hard enough, are talented enough, be a “girl-boss’ “go get’em” “we can do everything” yet keep your head down and don’t overstep -eventually you’ll get there.

Wait, where’s there again? The table, silly. That most talked about seat at that exclusive table.

You spend years working your way towards a seat to open up at the table- while existing off the scraps on the floor. And years go by.

So you decide to go and feed yourself- for once. And it’s a bold choice, stepping off the food line. But you must because you’re starving so you go and make your own work, a film, Fresh Kills.

And here’s the part women are never supposed to say out loud: It’s good. It’s really fucking good. I say that with my full chest. I know I’m not supposed to. I know I’m supposed to be humble, self-deprecating and make sure everyone is comfortable with my ability- yes I know.. but..

And yet, even then, you find yourself pushed aside. That’s when you really see it. You were never intended to win. The world likes obedient women. The ones who survive on the crumbs given and say thanks as they clean the dishes. Full stop.

So of course the world wasn’t going to hand me a microphone. Not a woman like me who decided to want more.

What’s fascinating now is watching the idea of Fresh Kills, the first time we saw the mafia world from the females POV -written, directed and produced by all women- an idea I fought to be taken seriously be thoroughly ripped off. Years of begging people to read my script, and help me get the film made, fell on deaf years. I guess it wasn’t the idea they didn’t like- it was the source from which it came. If I was helped that’s admitting by worth as an artists and empower me to do more of it. And no one wants that. But stealing women’s work is nothing new.

But again, it all leads me back to the crumbs. The one’s you’re suppose to be fine with. I learned this lesson in my career- to stop waiting to be fed. But in my personal life- not so much.

Why was I still licking my fingers to grab every last morsel from the relationships around me? And yes after a while of being unfed physically, mentally and spiritually your body will just stop wanting, needing and expecting anything. That’s where that early-on conditioning to self abandon comes in again. It’s just..well..easier- to submit. Submit. The ideas of more, the thoughts of new, the desires, the needs- the person.

I’ll say it again- An agreeable, low-maintenance, doesn’t-make-anyone-uncomfortable, doesn’t ask for change, keeps her wants at a minimum woman is the woman that is allowed to eat what they are serving and in turn keeps surviving in the world built on her very own malnourishment. Yup, it’s a mouthful.

And that’s why I left.

I don’t know what shifted. Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s looking at the oncoming end of the world that seems to be here - and yet still has hopes for better. I just couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t show up at the table and smile numbly at my empty plate. Not for five seconds. Not for a dinner. Not for a breakfast. Not for another moment. Not for your comfortability.

So I looked around at all the people, places, and things to blame, who’d I’d been waiting on. Giving chance after chance to finally see me, hear me, understand that I’m starving and finally throw me more than a god-damn crumb- when I found the biggest villain of all.

It was me.

Yup- me.

I had to realize the one serving me the least was me. By accepting the crumbs and pretending they sustained me for so so long- I was starving myself. By putting my hunger, the very sustenance I needed to survive in someone else’s hands- capable or not- was my own fault.

So I left.

I left.

To regroup. To find nourishment. A nourishment without compromise and sacrifice. Nourishment without abandonment. Nourishment that isn’t negotiated.

And also beauty. To see and feel beauty again- in this very dark time in the world is vital for me.

So I took my pup and I went to a place I’d always dreamed of living- among the history, the art and the respect for it all. A place where people seem to live their life rather than exist in it. Where friends linger in cafes and talk to one another without a phone on the table. A place where wandering the streets, that always feel full to me, is my favorite pass-time. A place I had put off staying any extended amount of time because it didn’t work for - whatever and whomever I was with in my life at the time. A place, a dream, a lifestyle, a person, I’m no longer willing to abandon.

Yes, Paris. And yes, a cliche- I know. And I’m sure it’s not perfect here- but neither am I, so….

I’m not gone for good and have no plan as of yet other than existing for a minute. I am NOT abandoning my work to create more stories for humans BY humans, as making art will ALWAYS be a priority for me- it’s literally the air I breathe.

And I’m breathing now, just without the hunger pains.

So we start again here, In Paris…

….In search of a full meal.

The Rebellious Journals: In Search of a Full Meal.

entry # 1- and much more to come.

Subscribe now