There are always people who believe they’re better than everyone else. They’re the main character, the hero — hell, they’re the head of the HOA. This mindset can sometimes lead to greatness, but for every Mozart or Serena we're blessed with, there’s a jumbo jet full of assholes landing every minute. It’s always the same. They grab your attention with an unbelievable story: they have a model girlfriend who lives in another state, they were pulled out of high school for a year to train with the FBI, they’re secretly hacking for Anonymous. Sure, we all know they’re lying but it’s not really lying, according to them. We’ve got it wrong. The world owes them something, and they’re just moving the plot along. Their parade is already late. The worst thing that can happen to a person like this is that they taste a little real fame or power. The worst thing that happened to me was that I was stuck there watching it happen.
I moved to Los Angeles when I was 25, fresh out of grad school and right into the Recession job market. I couldn’t find work with or without my degrees — nobody was hiring. After sending out approximately one million resumes without landing a single interview, I went back to work at a grocery store. I was immediately surrounded by male customers who promised to make me famous if I’d let them take photos of me, film me, date me, whatever they wanted. My poverty and youthful beauty meant I was the perfect tool for them to get the attention they wanted. This city is full of men who want to build their empires on the backs of young, pretty, disposable women. That kind of exploitation is obvious. Maybe there was a decent person in there somewhere, but I wasn't going to risk it. I said no to everything. I knew what happens to cute girls all alone in a big city. You do too.
I thought if I ignored my looks and used my brain, then I would be ok. I wouldn’t be treated like an object. I downplayed my gender and hid my tits, hoping that I would be treated like a real person instead of an ornament in someone else’s life. When a project I was working on went viral, I had a choice to make: let the other person be the sole face of the work, or fight for a place beside them. This semblance of a partnership put a shiny veneer on what was so broken behind the scenes. Sometimes I thought the rot was obvious — like when I went on national television to cook my recipes while this person stood next to me… supervising. Why did no one else question this? It didn’t matter that it was a cooking segment, and they didn’t cook. Of course they would be on camera. I should have said no, but I was so tired of being broke. So I said nothing.
Today I understand that talking about someone’s shitty behavior and talking shit are two different things.
Once an entitlement monster starts getting accolades and attention, you’re on a bullet train to a bizarro world. Everything becomes an emergency, and also, a secret. If you thought they were controlling before, wait until there’s money and fame on the table. You belong to them, and they get to tell you what’s real and what’s not. So much for being careful; I might as well have taken my top off years before. At least then no one would have been confused about the power dynamic.
“Our biggest problem is that you always believe yourself over me.”
Entitlement doesn’t really cover it. It feels like you’re being consumed. All of your attention, time, and effort belongs to them. Every boundary is a life-or-death battle. Your small acts of independence — parties you attend without them, friends you make who they don’t know, your own wedding and wife — always lead to a big fight and cries of betrayal. At some point your independence doesn’t seem worth the days of stonewalling or acting out that inevitably follow. So you isolate to make things easier. But easier for who? The entitlement monster can do whatever they want — disappear for a week without explanation, vaguely threaten suicide when you step out of line, pretend to be sober while crying that they’ve changed — but if you don’t answer your phone on a Friday night? You better fucking explain yourself.
At first, you think it’s situational; maybe you should have tried harder, worked longer hours, listened more intently, been more outgoing with their girlfriend, praised their work more. But it isn’t you. People who lie as easily as breathing tend to have a revolving door of people coming in and out of their lives. They’ve designed it that way. If you need to stick around because you have kids, a marriage, or a business together, then you need to cosign their bullshit — or at least, look the other way and shut the hell up. They’ll lie to you about the conversation you’re having with them right now. They'll tell you that you made them lie because you won’t stop remembering the things they say. It will make you feel crazy.
“Michelle, you have an ego and self-entitlement like I’ve never seen.”
Time and therapy can do wonders. After spending years bending yourself into every shape you could think of to get a better outcome, you’ll realize that you can’t fix this. They don’t think anything is broken. When you lead a life alongside someone who sees you as a possession, it’s like owning two competing businesses. Every success is also a failure. Your feelings haven’t been misunderstood, they’re irrelevant. You give up pieces of yourself to keep things calm, to get through the day, to get through all of it, until you look down and there’s almost nothing left. Eventually, you’ll draw a line in the sand when you catch them lying about too much for you to keep up with. It won’t work, nothing ever does. They’ve been high on their own supply for too many years. You’re supposed to be impressed — but the longer you spend watching them say whatever they want, the more you realize that nothing is real. Your work is theirs, but their work? Baby, that’s theirs too. When you try to leave, don’t bother listing your reasons; all the concrete examples of the shit that nobody should have to deal with. They’ll ignore all of it. They’ll wave at you at a party, expecting loyalty, so you can continue to pretend you’re friends. Pretending is all they know.
It’s been hard to find the path back to myself. To stop self editing, to talk myself through the rush of anxiety that follows when I do something that would displease them. My hands are getting steadier. I’m focused on my needs now, regardless of what their next scheme is. They haven’t changed — the threats, tantrums, delusions all remain — but I have. I’ve spent years quietly storing away skills and lessons to help me build a real life. The prison door was never locked despite how I felt. I finally left and I’ve earned the right to speak my mind. Being quiet didn’t make my life better, it just made theirs easier. Relinquishing my boundaries didn’t improve my work, it held me back. Today I understand that talking about someone’s shitty behavior and talking shit are two different things. When someone says you’ll never survive without them, it's not a prediction, it’s just another lie. I’m done letting entitlement spoil my dinner.
Speaking of dinner, tomorrow’s recipe is perfect for warm summer nights when you don’t want to heat up a damn thing. Hearts of Palm Ceviche dropping tomorrow in the Sunday Recipe Club.
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where we are currently voting on our first book for June. Give it a think, won’t you?xoxo,
Michelle
the lump in my chest this evoked. escaping a narcissist is harder than anyone can imagine. the fortitude it takes, and the giant spark of Self that both forces and enables you to break the bond is incredible, but i feel like we still find little crushed bits of ourselves here and there even years later. so much love to you, sis. the hardest part is over. 💜
“Being quiet didn’t make my life better, it just made theirs easier.” SAY IT LOUD FOR ALL OF US. 🔥