Essays & Letters · ·19 min read

Marriage 1: We Are Now Broke, People Keep Dying, Mary the Therapist, I Overdose, Go Sober and Learn How to Walk Again, I Leave Wulf, I Translate Therapy Into Code and Marriage Advice Into Problem Sets

Well, this one’s a doozy. Read through for some free tips that cost me a lot of time and money to learn.

Content Note: This piece mentions moments of depression and hopelessness. Please read only if you have the bandwidth today!

Friendly Reminder***:** If you are here to follow the full experience of my free book unfolding, please start with this read_me post.*

In my last post, Marriage 1: Nuclear Family, “How to Be a Teenage Wife”, Donald Trump, One Million Dollars, I highlighted the good times between Wulf and I. I also foreshadowed the things I worried about but ignored. If this helps one person trust their gut sooner, good.

I’ve been reflecting on what did and didn’t work, and I’ll go first: I was emotionally immature. I spent a lot of time blaming Wulf because he “should have known better, as an older man”. Wulf was also previously engaged, and I thought that I was along for the ride. That posture kept me in perpetual victimhood. I’ve reclaimed my agency, and I know that I was in no place to be a teenage wife. Simple. I should have removed myself; I didn’t. I handed full control of my life and the responsibility for my happiness to Wulf, which never works.

Long-term, strategic thinking? I didn’t have it. When I heard we’d be getting a significant lump sum, I drifted into a Zillow-fueled trance. This was also when Wulf started tempering my expectations, which confused me. Why weren’t we dreaming big? A quarter million can be a lot if you steward it. Investments, down payments, helping family—what didn’t I know?

Wulf became severely depressed and anxious. Not only did he have to worry about work and our tiny would-be family, but his family in Iran was under stress. Although I’d said no to kids, mainly because of my internal state and fear that I’d give some sort of mental illness to my children, I know Wulf was still thinking about it in the back of his mind.

Wulf also started chain-smoking more than ever, and the cigarettes became another wedge between us.

I felt helpless. All I wanted was to solve his pain, but I didn’t understand mine, his, or the tidal wave we were standing under.

Enter Grizzly, the conservator. And suddenly everything clicked. This was why Wulf was antsy, and trying to sustain somewhat of a better connection with his brother. Well, I watched one of the rougher sibling betrayals imaginable: he’d taken our share to open an expensive private practice in Orange County and essentially cut us out, without notice. He fucked us. There was nothing Wulf nor his father could do.

Papa Wulf delivered the edge: At least your brother is building a legacy. What have you built for our family except stories? Maybe now you’ll wake up and light the fire.

Here’s a doodle I made of Wulf and I. It was largely a subconscious bleeding.

So I did the thing I know how to do. The fire was already sparking. I hyper-focused: find work, hustle. I wasn’t leaving Wulf’s side. He collapsed many nights, apologizing, muttering that he’d understand if I had to marry someone else. I was so young, why would I stick by him? And while I’m more protective of my resources now, I still believe people are more than their worst days. Failure visits everyone. I wasn’t abandoning my husband over money. Also—think of me like a redemption crackhead: this arc was ours.

I tried everything and kept steady employment in luxury retail, where I picked up most of the corporate skills I still use. I’m a solid people-person and sales manager. The thing is, I do grow exhausted socially and need space to unmask. This was tough before I entered Tech. Sales is one of the most emotionally demanding work one can do.

And so, to ease my anxiety, I searched for creative work and I had a short ( <1 year) jewelry-design era: sketching, mapping bead placements on software that I liken to Tetris meets Minesweeper, then weaving pieces across mediums. I even got a magazine feature. But my gut got loud: I was making minimum wage while the owners—an ex-couple forever mid-argument—gave designers zero commission. And they were demanding. I could’ve spoken up; I quit instead. I spite-deleted them from my resume and kept the good memories.

Should I have started my own thing? Probably. But I was chasing the next paycheck. Luxury sales kept the lights on, and I threw myself back into management. I made it to Porsche, and found pride wearing an all-black suit every day. It gave me a sense of control over the life that was imploding around me.

Meanwhile, Wulf also worked luxury retail, but his self-esteem took hits: English wasn’t his first language, references were weak, Wulf doesn’t do well with constructve criticism, and he stagnated. I climbed; he struggled. It’s sad because Wulf is the best salesperson I’ve ever met. He sells you the experience; not the product. He is the experience.

I grew disappointed in Wulf. I wasn’t supportive, and I have a lot of regrets about that. The critical Asian parent in me came out, and I should have acted more from a place of love. He wasn’t great at understanding my quirks and needs. We fought and avoided each other. Both of us were dancing with addiction. What started as years of fun and exploration turned to survival, then coping. We’d work, come home, bond over hating work, drink, numb, repeat. Hell-loop. And I suspect many couples are stuck in this cycle, too. I saw recently that we now are in a generation where we advocate breaking up now more than ever (Most days, this makes me wonder if monogamy is even feasible in our current construct. Deep down, I still believe in a solid partnership, but I think it’s going out-of-style, and that’s one of the reasons I call myself the Last Romantic. I’m flailing in this dopamine-driven day and age).

Weekends? I wanted dates. He wanted to get high and play video games. So I reluctantly joined, smiling while secretly dying inside.

This is when I started therapy, and unfortunately met the wrong clinicians—see Opal, a Blanket, and My First Real Therapy Session.

In Glendale, a psychiatrist gave me boxes of sample meds from pharma reps. I didn’t refuse because well, he was a psychiatrist, and the medication was free at a time I was in need. At the same time, I took Psych classes at community college to try and understand my brain fog, anxiety and nightmares (cPTSD wasn’t widely known then, and while therapists suggested I could be co-morbidly suffering from PTSD, my inability to name a single event kept them from diagnosing me correctly. This is why I’m so passionate about vocalizing my experience—I know I am not the only one, now). I befriended my Psych professor. I told her about my childhood Autism diagnosis, the ADHD meds, the marriage stress, the lack of support and community, and the crippling anxiety attacks. I even admitted I was struggling with addiction. She gently asked me to bring in my current meds.

Reader, she was furious. She looked up my psychiatrist—malpractice suits, one-star reviews. I hadn’t checked. Survival mode doesn’t shop for doctors; it just obeys. He’d put me on antipsychotics and meds that ballooned my weight.

“You are not psychotic, bipolar, schizophrenic, or whatever they are saying. You are also not stupid, like you keep saying. You are incredibly intelligent and high-functioning. You are just going through a lot of stress, which would give anyone, including me brain fog. This man needs to be behind bars, immediately. Take the week off. I’m furious for you.” She began making phone calls.

I never followed up on what happened to that Doctor, and for the life of me I can’t remember his name. I bet Wulf does. What I do remember is that he “retired”, and I suspect my professor may have had a hand in that.

I will never forget that fiery Indian lady. Wherever you are, bless you.

That realization helped me taper off all the meds—but not before the crash.

From a shoot where the photographer cued, “Show me a woman who’s just hit rock bottom, and she’s just plain sick of this shit. But you know, she hasn’t lost yet.”

I fell into the worst depression of my life. Couldn’t get out of bed. This is what a shame spiral looks like: “Why didn’t I Google the doctor first? Why would I just take the meds without thinking? Am I stupid?”

I overdosed on thirteen Klonopin, weed, and a bottle of Jack while Wulf was at work. He came home early, and called 911. He was freaking out. After they pumped my stomach, I stayed in the hospital for weeks and relearned how to walk. I had to use a bedpan. When I turned to adjust my pillow the first night, I found a razor blade that cut my hand open—remnants from people who wanted their lives to end, that laid in this exact spot, right before me.

What would I decide? Was this the end for me?

My left leg swelled to twice the size of my right. I was 188 pounds, and 5’3 asking, “Why is this happening to me? What have I done to deserve this life?”*

And here, a pause—because the real answer is not a plot twist, it’s agency.

*If you are struggling with these thoughts, please reach out to someone safe, or call reach this 988-hotline.

Agency Interlude: NARM, Trauma Therapy, and Why Agency Is Oxygen — Autistic Suki Time!

Historically, my brain liked systems. Largely, I guess even after healing, it still does. If not, I wouldn’t be working in the field I am (I’m currently a PM in Big Tech, and I’m looking forward to taking you on the journey of how I got here). If you give me a problem labeled “feelings”, I’ll rewrite it as an architectural diagram: inputs, constraints, throughput, bottlenecks. This is how I survived a childhood shaped by chaos: I systematized the storm.

NARM (NeuroAffective Relational Model) gave me a blueprint for that storm. NARM says: early on, we make brilliant, body-level adaptations to get attachment and survive. Those adaptations are not “bad”; they’re successful prototypes deployed under hostile conditions. The problem is versioning…we keep running old software: Childhood v1.0 in Adult v12.7, and the interface crashes. I know this sounds crazy, but I actually journal my former selves in version history form every so often. It helps me see the progress.

  • Symptom is strategy. Dissociation, people-pleasing, over control, rage, collapse—these were once agency. They were me steering the ship with the only wheel available.

  • Agency isn’t “try harder.” It’s the moment I notice the old code executing and say, Oh, this script kept me alive. Thank you. And it’s not needed here. That micro-second of noticing is the hinge of the door.

  • NARM sequence in plain code:

    1. Orient to connection (with self, then other).

    2. Track what’s happening now (sensations > stories).

    3. Name the survival style showing up (e.g., fawning, fight, shut-down).

    4. Ask what I want now (not what I feared then).

    5. Take a small, doable action that honors today’s capacity.

Trauma therapy doesn’t delete history; it updates permissions. I stop outsourcing my thermostat to other people’s weather. Agency is not sexy—it’s granular: drink water, put feet on the floor, tell the truth in one sentence, leave the room before I escalate, choose the boring supportive habit again. Stack these micro-choices and a life reappears. NARM taught me that my “maladaptive” behaviors were once adaptive. Respect the ancestor pattern, then retire it with honors.

That is healing. That is adult sovereignty. And I thank every version of me that brought me here today.

Back to the plot. Around then my grandmother—yes, the one I’ve told you truly has Narcissistic Personality Disorder—arrived to “take care of me.” I could never say no to her. She moved in. It was a nightmare. I was caring for the person who swore she was caring for me. Enmeshment rebooted: critique, neediness, control. Her problems always superseded mine. It is sad, but she wanted to keep me sick to keep me near. This was a mind-fuck to untangle.

When she left, something in me snapped—cleanly. I went sober. I started walking daily. No gym, just miles.

I kept seeing my therapist, Mary. She was a middle-aged free spirit with a daughter a few years younger than me. She cried whenever she imagined I was her kid. Neurotic? Sure. But most psychologists are. Why else would they go into therapy? She was “woo woo” in a crystal-forward way, and as an Armenian Buddhist, we had common ground—I was born Buddhist.

One day, I showed up in a dress falling off my smaller frame.

“Suki, you look amazing. Do you realize how much weight you’ve lost?”

“I guess. Lots of loose skin to figure out what to do with. Clothes don’t fit.”

“Give yourself credit. You’re doing this without medication. Maybe the meds were the problem.”

Something cracked. I still wasn’t happy. I broke down about Wulf in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to before. I’d been focused on my shame and my work; Wulf wasn’t changing. The elephant in the room had become too big to ignore.

A marriage PSA I wish someone had given us:
Person A brings Problem Set 1.
Person B brings Problem Set 2.
Together they create Problem Set 3.

Most couples obsess over Set 3. The real work is A owning Set 1 and B owning Set 2. When that happens, Set 3 usually shrinks on its own.

Mary said, “Invite Wulf to couples. Or encourage him to see someone. This will never work with just you contorting.”

I asked over dinner that night. He laughed. In his story, I was the sick one; he was fine. Wulf does not talk about feelings. Never did. I learned to read the air, walk on eggshells, mind-read. There wasn’t much depth, and it wore me down. After several attempts, he said he’d come. He didn’t.

I’ve dated a lot of men like this over the years, and I can never do this emotional labor and over-functioning again. I’ve seen too much of how this goes.

In my next 1:1 therapy session I told Mary, “I think I’m going to divorce Wulf.”

As a trauma survivor who never felt fully safe with Mary, I braced for pushback. I hid my face. “I can’t live like this. I can’t believe he’s fine with it. I give up.”

Mary stood up and clapped. Not textbook, but certainly memorable, and validating.

“Lover girl Suki, you should’ve left three years ago! I couldn’t tell you what to do verbatim, but boy, did I want to. I’ve been waiting patiently for this moment.”

Three years. The last three years of our marriage were rubble and we sold the facade.

I’m skipping some grief here because I’ll give it the space it deserves later: the death of my adoptive dad John, my mother’s death, death in the family for Wulf, health crises for Wulf and his parents. Wave after wave. We held each other through it until we couldn’t.

When I told Wulf I wanted a divorce, he didn’t believe me. In his world, Wulf + Lovergirl was non-negotiable. We could love or hate each other, but divorce? Absolutely unthinkable.

I didn’t have the heart to enact it all at once; I stayed for months, and died slowly.

By 2019, the Four C’s story kicks off. I took a CX (Customer Experience) role at a furniture company and got promoted quickly. I’ll save the details for the official start of the story (I estimate in maybe 2 posts or so), because they matter.

I mention the job because I was gaining power. I also met someone virtually at work who became a best friend and travel buddy for years. It hurts to say I had to cut him out this year—his attachment patterns weren’t safe for my nervous system. I still hold him in my memories with affection. Let’s call him Fisher.

Fisher was Assyrian Iranian. We clicked. I had very few male friends, if any I kept in contact with outside Homeboi, mainly out of respect for my marriage and tradition.

I’ll admit: I developed a small crush. And it turned out he did too. He had a girlfriend at the time, and so it felt wrong and shameful for both of us. We didn’t tell each other until years later, but we felt it. We could be ourselves, and we could talk about interests. It kind of felt nice to not be in constant survival mode around him, and feel free again. We talked about books, music, and mainly—philosophy. Things that Wulf and I no longer had the time or energy to discuss.

It became a routine therapy topic. Mary said it was understandable and a sign the marriage might be beyond repair if Wulf refused change. At what point would I actually set down a consequence? While I never had romantic conversations with Fisher, the attraction alone made me feel like I was having an emotional affair. The guilt was thick.

One night stands out in particular. I was talking about Fisher and work more at home, and Wulf finally took notice. He took me to a nice dinner and a rooftop bar. In the elevator, a group of guys complimented my outfit (happens; I look unique). Wulf stiffened. I walked ahead. He grabbed my wrist in a way he’d never done before: “Don’t walk ahead of me like that.”

I wanted to cry. I do walk fast—NYC legs—and sometimes forget who’s with me. He used to love this spunk. He used to joke about it; admire it, even. What shifted?

We sat, I ordered cocktails to calm my nervous system, and asked, “What was that?”

“What was what? You flirt with those guys, ignore me, then leave the elevator like you’re not with me.”

I apologized to keep the peace, then talked about my upcoming promotion panel Fisher was on. I liked the other women on the panel, too, and maybe this could be our big break!

Wulf interrupted: “You keep mentioning Fisher. He’s Iranian? Where’s his family from?”

“I’m not sure—Assyrian Iranian. I didn’t even know—”

He cut me off. I’m warning you: this is the ugliest Wulf moment and not the whole of him. Have forgiveness in your heart.

“Assyrian? Ha. Fucking peasants. Of course I’d never know them. They’re probably homeless. You see the street we walk by, with all the tents here? That’s them in Iran. They’re not real Persians.”

I was mortified. “Is that how you see people below you? Is that how you saw me? Is that why you think I’ll never leave? I’m done.”

I walked out. He apologized all night, but the damage was done. I wanted more world, not less. More love, not judgment. If Wulf wouldn’t rise, I had to. I began planning. I had a job. I was up for promotion in just 60 days of employment.

And the question kept circling: Who would I be if I were free?

Here, the photographer asked me to show a side of me that my usual photoshoots don’t capture. “Give me soul; give me sad. You’re a serious model, an actress—not just boudoir.”

The final crack: my birthday. I wanted Universal Studios like the child I am. We didn’t get VIP. Both banks froze our cards (we never went anywhere, so it probably raised a flag). Miserable. Wulf spent 45 minutes on hold while I wandered shops, avoiding conversation with strangers after the elevator incident, considering buying a toy shark.

We finally got Butterbeer, and it was the highlight of my day. I’m a huge Potterhead (Gryffindor, baby!). It was hot (I’m also an August baby). Wulf complained nonstop, especially about the aquarium I asked for after. He didn’t want to go, and wouldn’t we be having so much more fun Playing Games in Air Conditioning in the Comfort of Our Home? Why Are We Here?

I exploded. Many people with cPTSD will nod—after folding and folding, the spring snaps. I exploded all at once: I demanded we leave. In the car, I raged: I’m done, done, done. No more optimism cosplay. No more carrying the mood. You had chances—therapy, shadow work—and you passed. It was my ugliest moment; it was nothing short of abusive. I broke Wulf’s heart into a million pieces all at once, because he was content cracking mine slowly.

Wulf ugly-sobbed driving home. It landed: Lovergirl Suki was truly done.

I started apartment hunting in front of him, immediately.

He warned me off the 275-square-foot unit in DTLA—cockroaches, rats, shared showers, danger. You’ll get hurt. My mind was made. He cried. Told his family. They turned on me. I don’t blame them; he was shattered. All except his dad, who saw something in me, as I mentioned in Marriage 1: Alright, I Swear Good Times Are Coming Soon! Meet the In Laws, Rescuing People, Palm Trees, Cocaine, and Babies?

Wulf didn’t fully appreciate me until I was gone. In the years to come, Wulf and I, while single would have a few dates to see if it was worth resurrecting. And Wulf vulnerably has told me he regrets taking me for granted. Unfortunately, it was too late—and we both ended up agreeing I needed to move on.

Four C’s Sidebar—Prelude in the Prelude

Meanwhile at the startup, the Co-Founder loved me because I was first in, last out. I dressed up, took the job seriously, remembered customers’ cats and kids. They invited me over. They’d always ask for either him, or me—and it fit his brand. He furnished my studio and told me I had a serious future. He was a software guy and suspected I’d break into tech. I had an Alienware setup and took Steam a little too seriously—he clocked it. Foreshadowing, indeed.

I will call him Bird. Bird and his beautiful family now reside in Woodstock, NY, after selling his share of the company. His tenant actually works at the Big Tech company I work at now. The world is small.

Woodstock is one of my dream areas to buy a home in one day, and I hope we can all reflect on this journey together in the coming years. Writing the Four C’s is cathartic for me, because there’s a lot of my side of the story that no one knows from that company.

Back in Mary’s office, she worried. Wulf had no money to give me. His parents were paranoid—no prenup, and they feared I’d pursue alimony.

This cut the deepest. Wulf said if I sued for anything, he and his parents would bury me in lawyers. He retained someone who worked on the Depp–Heard team.

It was survival and hurt, but the intensity scorched me. I grew up with nothing but my word, and I couldn’t believe that he thought so low of my character, and what we meant to each other.

I told him: “I don’t want a penny. Nothing. But you’ve lost me for good.”

He did, and he spiraled. His father sent me $1,000 in sorrow for where my life had landed post-Wulf. He still respected me and believed I’d do great things. I feel like he took a gamble on me that day, and wanted to see what I’d make of myself.

Wulf became suicidal. I reluctantly took space. Mary told me that I couldn’t be roped back in.

She asked, “How are you? Twin bed, worst part of the city, big transition. I was scared you might relapse.”

Perhaps the most confusing moment to many, but the clearest part of my life: “Mary, I’ve never slept so well in my life.”

That studio, and my bed, was my safe space. My nervous system began cooling off and relaxing again.

In the next post, I want to honor the pets we raised together (I purposely left them out, as they deserve their own feature), and how we eventually kept a friendship. Then we begin the Four C’s in earnest. The furniture company arc includes COVID, me learning Tech, conspiracy rabbit holes, Scientology, brain-washing, smart people losing their minds, and yes—the cartel, crypto and a murder.

Thank you for making it this far.