Marriage 1’s Good Times are Coming, but First: Stop Saying Narcissists, My Therapy Session is The Shoot I’m Most Proud of, I’m Finally Safe in My Own Body, and Why I Destroy My Body

Phew, that was a mouthful. Here’s my favorite piece yet.

Memoir is a strange sport. Add psychedelics and trauma therapy and the film splices itself in new order while you’re asleep. Every night I think I know what I’ll publish the next day. Then morning arrives, and my brain hands me a different reel. I am, in case you missed it, an intense person. Unapologetically so—I am alive. I am orgasmically enjoying the full human experience, while most are skating across the surface.

I take your experience seriously, dear reader. If I’d started with the glitter—the rock-n-roll and glamorous Los Angeles scenes—you’d be stuck with obvious questions. Why would a woman with a decent head on her shoulders choose that? And why is Wulf acting twenty-one when he is very much not?

The answer has been the same from the start: I must surrender.

You know how else I know? My stripper therapist (I’m just kidding, her name’s not really Rose) asked me if we could record our next session so she could show her trainees how cPTSD could in fact, be healed. And I’ve gotta tell ya, I was over the moon.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Stripper Therapist Rose? You think I’m better?” And she smiled her adorable smile, and asked me, “Well, that’s what I think, but what do you think?”

I realized that she was right. Friends, I am a brand new bitch. I feel safe in my own body, for the first time in my life.

(This was taken the last night I had a sip of alcohol. But look at that face. And you think this girl’s missed out on dancing any weekend because she didn’t have alcohol? No, sir.)

Early on, I tied everything with a bow on Instagram. “Childhood was wonky, but love is the answer.” True, and also incomplete. You need to meet a few shadows to understand why kindness is not weakness dressed up for brunch.

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So, gently, we slide into Jung. Autistic Suki time!

Jung maps empaths and narcissists like weather fronts moving over the same wound. Early injuries seed complexes that make some of us exquisitely attuned to other people’s storms. We become “wounded healers,” reading rooms because pain trained the antennae. The very same wound can also harden a persona and inflate an ego, a way to avoid dependency by worshiping one’s own reflection and refusing to meet the shadow. Push any extreme long enough and it flips into its opposite: self-sacrifice and self-aggrandizement circling the same unmet need for recognition and safety. One dissolves into the Other to stay loved; the other devours the Other to stay intact. Individuation asks both to face the wound beneath the style.

Why does the internet discourse on narcissists annoy me? Because, my loves, take your power back. In street terms: a narcissist is often an empath who chose armor and applause over intimacy.

Okay. In real, New York street terms, now:

A narcissist is a pussy empath.

I’ve been handed all the books guiding me to “Suki, your ex is a Narcissist” and I have read them, and I hear you. But I told you—I see and understand too much, now. Now, I can protect my peace but I can still release with love. I can see how others alchemize their pain: but a chip on my shoulder and walls upon walls are just not the way I groove. But whatever works for them is fine with me. Love is still the answer.

How did I get forged into an empath, and how am I becoming a sovereign one? Back to origin story. Some of you might be like, “Get ADHD Suki back, Autistic Suki is too hyper focused right now. What the fuck is a Carl Jung?”

(Like the book is upside down, get back to the program!)

In Love Song: Why I Write, I hinted at what that little girl went through. I am not detailing it to protect my peace and your day, but here is the headline: years of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse. When she finally asked for help, she was blamed. That is the moment self-abandonment took the wheel. The child brain concluded, “If my parents could give me up, the defect must be me.” Heartbreaking, yes. Also true. I didn’t start metabolizing it until this year. I knew performance. I knew survival. I’m damned proud of that.

At one point in my life, I went home after being beat and sexually assaulted, kept the peace with Dad, folded perfect paper cranes, had the ones folded wrong chucked in the trash, copied dictionary pages to earn dinner, and the next morning disassociated my way through more chaos with a smile. Editing myself to keep fragile egos intact was not a personality trait. It was a lockpick. And again, damned proud of myself. There is no more shame, friends—and I am FREE.

Why share this now? Because it’s my Substack, my social media and my life, so I do what I want. The victim doesn’t have to hide. Why should we? Stand the fuck up and own your story.

One more tunnel, then daylight. In my first session with Opal I blurted that I once punched a man in the face while holding a Harvard gig. Context: he threatened me with sexual assault, and the switch flipped. Bottled rage, meet target. If you know me, this creates cognitive dissonance. I’m usually a whimsical menace who brings snacks. The channel for that rage is therapy, somatics, and a gym that knows my name.

I know some of you (I can see my boss’s face right now) are thinking, “Should we be worried? Will Suki ever go back to Rock n Roll Suki? Is she going to run meetings still?” And rest assured, Stripper Therapist Rose would never let me spiral. But most importantly, I wouldn’t. I’ve got shit to do now that I’m free. I’m a free single lady, folks—and I’m not settling until I meet the guy or gal that can step toe to toe with my fire and build with me. Don’t you worry your cute little noggins. The bar has been picked up from the floor, and no more editing will be done, here.

And the last few weeks were lighter on training; next week I’m back. I need to work out: that little girl’s rage needs muscles! Very cool modeling shoots are booked. A small body cut is coming. I’m excited to grind.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled chaos: Wulf and Lovergirl, peak rock-n-roll. You needed the dark preface to understand the chemistry. A brooding, politically haunted, wildly creative Wulf collides with me, a reformed survivor with antennae sharpened by fire. Of course New York and Los Angeles got weird. Of course we did too.

Sometimes I wish we could’ve ridden it out. We loved each other like Joker and Harley. Fuck, we were Joker and Harley.

In the end, I had to set myself free.