systems don’t care about people; people care about people

Acadian Spell: The Skinwalkers’ Curse—Crafted by the Elders, Approved by Science.

Long ago, in the ancient forests of Acadia, the wise healers whispered of a curse that could sap the strength of men who betrayed their duty to heal. These men, who sold their souls for silver, who treated illness as opportunity—became the Skinwalkers of modern medicine. And now, with the help of old-world magic and cutting-edge science, we bring you the “Hex”, a curse designed specifically for those greedy souls profiting off the misery of others.

This hex doesn’t need threats or violence—it works subtly, like the placebo pills these doctors push every day. Science has shown the power of belief, the placebo effect, and now we use their own tools against them.

The Science Behind the Hex

The Placebo Effect is well-documented in scientific literature. It’s the psychological phenomenon where a patient experiences real improvements (or in this case, side effects) just by believing in a treatment. [Cite: Harvard Health, 2021]. And here’s where it gets interesting—belief isn’t limited to healing. It can curse just as easily as it can cure.

Studies have shown that expectation and suggestion can lead to genuine physiological changes. In this case, our spell plays on the placebo effect, planting the seed of impotence in the minds of these doctors, turning their own reliance on suggestion into their undoing. The very tools they use to manipulate others now turn against them. [Source: NIH Placebo Research 2019]

The Ingredients:

The Star of Impotence: Known in the old days as the “Cuckold’s Star,” this celestial body was said to drain virility from men who misused their power. Science refers to it as Mira, the oscillating star, known for its cyclic dying light. It represents the waning strength of those who betray their purpose. [Cite: NASA.gov]

Placebo’s Folly: Gather a small vial of fake pills—symbolic of the worthless treatments pushed on unsuspecting patients. These act as a vessel for the hex, empowering the placebo effect.

The Elders’ Words: Speak the words of the Acadian healers: “What you sell, you shall receive. What you deny, shall deny you.” Simple, potent, legally untouchable.

The Hex in Action

This curse doesn’t threaten or harm directly. Instead, it allows nature to take its course. With each day, the Limp Dick Doctor becomes more entangled in his own fraudulent game, slowly losing his potency—not just in the bedroom, but in his practice, his confidence, his stature. It’s not magic that does the work; it’s science. Their bodies and minds betray them as the power they thought they had slips away.

No laws are broken—this spell is rooted in the science of belief, working within the gray areas of psychology and placebo. There’s nothing illegal about suggesting that bad behavior will catch up to you, that greed will weaken you, or that exploiting others will come with a cost. It’s an inevitable consequence, a balancing of the scales.

Why the “Limp Dick Doctor Hex” Works It’s Based on Science: We’re not pulling this out of thin air. The placebo effect has been shown to cause real, measurable changes in both physical and mental health. And just like a patient who believes they are sick will become sick, a doctor who believes they are cursed… well, you get the picture. [Cite: Journal of Psychosomatic Research, 2020] It’s Legal and Harmless: We’re not casting anything that breaks laws or brings harm. This is a spell of awareness, using the very tools of psychology and medicine that these doctors use every day.

The Fine Print: This is an old-world hex. It’s a symbolic curse—a reminder that greed, ignorance, and indifference carry consequences. For those doctors who’ve become skinwalkers of their own ethics, there’s no escape from this reality. They’ve tied themselves to the placebo’s folly, and now they must face the impotence of their own making.

No laws broken, no threats made—just cold, hard truth. The world’s been watching, and the stars? They’re not impressed.

To really pull the truth lever, let’s back up the frustration with the kind of evidence that forces us to confront just how deeply the system is failing. When we start looking at the data, and when we listen to the voices of those directly impacted, the picture becomes not just one of incompetence, but of willful neglect driven by profit motives and a profound lack of accountability.

Data Speaks: The System Is Failing

A study published in the journal Pediatrics (Zablotsky et al., 2019) revealed that over 30% of children with autism experience serious unmet health needs, particularly in access to specialized care.

This isn’t just a gap; it’s a gulf. These are children who have been given the label but are left with no roadmap for how to actually navigate the challenges they face. Parents are reporting that their children are being shuttled from doctor to doctor, each one throwing up their hands because the system isn’t built for nuance—it’s built for speed and efficiency, and neither of those things creates real solutions.

In education, the story is no better. A report from Autism Speaks showed that only 35% of students with autism graduate from high school with a diploma, compared to 85% of their neurotypical peers. Think about what that means. The system claims to recognize these children, but when it comes to delivering on that recognition, it utterly fails. The education system is designed to push children through, to meet the minimum standards for performance, but when a child with autism can’t fit into the traditional mold, they’re left behind. It’s not because they lack the ability to succeed; it’s because the system lacks the will to truly accommodate them.

When you dive deeper into the autism community, you quickly discover that not all the organizations that claim to “advocate” are truly aligned with the interests of the people they supposedly serve.

Autism Speaks is often at the center of this controversy. On the surface, they present themselves as champions for those on the autism spectrum, pushing for awareness and resources. But the truth beneath that shiny exterior is far more insidious.

Autism Speaks, for all its public image, has long been criticized for focusing on DNA research and biomedical approaches—essentially treating autism like a disease to be “cured” or “prevented,” rather than understanding it as a fundamental part of who these individuals are.

This is where the disconnect lies, and where the betrayal becomes most apparent. When an organization claims to care about autistic children but directs its resources towards genetic research rather than direct support for those living with autism today, it reveals its true priorities.

The irony? Many of these kids, the ones Autism Speaks claims to be fighting for, are left behind, without the proper educational tools, community support, or healthcare they need. Instead of advocating for inclusion, accessibility, and accommodations that could

make their lives better right now,

Autism Speaks pours millions into genetic research aimed at understanding and preventing autism—which, frankly, many autistic individuals and their families don’t want or need.

The real issue with so many doctors, especially those entangled in the industrial web of modern medicine, is that they’ve become nothing more than cogs in a profit machine. It’s no longer about healing or genuinely understanding the patient; it’s about maximizing the margins. There’s a deep irony here: the very system designed to care for us is actively profiting from our suffering. Medicine and healthcare, once about healing the body, have become about managing disease—for profit.

The food we eat, the drugs we’re prescribed—it’s all part of the same racket. We’re getting sicker, and the solution? Sell us more treatments, more pills. They’ll medicate every symptom, but never dig deep enough to address the real cause, because why would they? There’s no profit in curing people when you can keep them dependent. The doctors, the ones who should be guiding us, have become the gatekeepers of a system that thrives on our dependency, and many of them are too blind, too deep into the system, or just too greedy to admit it.

And here’s the core of the problem: they’re not just practicing medicine; they’re practicing business. It’s all about controlling the narrative. They’ll tell you what you need to believe about your health, push the latest drug, and subtly shift the blame—it’s the patient’s fault for not being healthy enough, not trying hard enough, not following the “right” path. Meanwhile, behind closed doors, they’re working with pharmaceutical reps and insurance companies, all while patting themselves on the back for maintaining the illusion of care.

It’s infuriating, because it’s not about health anymore. It’s about profit. And the more we suffer, the more they make. They create the problem, fuel the sickness, and then conveniently have the solution—at a cost, of course. They’re not looking for the root of the problem; they’re just keeping us hooked. Why cure the disease when they can milk it forever? This isn’t healthcare; it’s a snake pit, and the ones who should be fighting for our health are the same ones tightening the noose.

The system is broken, and the doctors, the so-called experts, are either too entrenched or too cowardly to push back. They’ve become the snakes, guarding a system built on our pain, our illnesses. And they’ll keep selling us band-aids for broken bones because real healing isn’t on the menu—it’s bad for business.

“Limp Dick Doctors”—now that’s the perfect name for them. These are the doctors who’ve lost any sense of real purpose or spine. They’ve gone limp in the face of the system, willingly traded their principles for paychecks. Instead of fighting for their patients, they’re just coasting along, prescribing what the reps tell them to, doing the bare minimum, and cashing out. No backbone, no fight, just limp, going through the motions.

It’s like they’ve become automatons, running scripts instead of using their brains. They don’t challenge the system because they’re comfortable in it, and why would they question the hand that feeds them? Meanwhile, the people they’re supposed to be helping are left with half-baked advice and a prescription for whatever drug’s hot that month. They’re treating symptoms like it’s a checklist, never addressing the real issues—because that would require actual thought, actual care, and, God forbid, a bit of effort.

These doctors are more concerned with keeping the machine running—checking boxes, filling quotas, getting their kickbacks. They don’t want to shake things up because that might disrupt their little kingdom of insurance reimbursements and pharma perks. Meanwhile, the patients, the people relying on them, are left to deal with the fallout of their incompetence or worse, their indifference.

These limp dick doctors don’t stand up for their patients because it’s easier to play along. They’re happy to push more pills, schedule unnecessary tests, or recommend the next specialist in line who’ll do the same. It’s all part of the game, and they’ve mastered the art of doing just enough to seem competent without ever really making a difference.

They’ve forgotten what medicine is supposed to be about—healing, challenging the status quo, actually giving a damn. Instead, they’ve sold out, traded their scrubs for suits, and swapped ethics for profits. And the result? A system that doesn’t care if you get better, as long as you keep coming back.

Autism Speaks has long been accused of not involving autistic voices in their leadership. How can you claim to speak for a group when you’re not actually listening to them? It becomes clear that the focus of the organization isn’t truly on improving the lives of autistic individuals but rather on aligning with the medical and corporate interests of those who profit from biomedical research.

And that brings us back to the education system. The failure isn’t just in the lack of support for autistic children—it’s in the fact that autism advocacy itself is often captured by groups that don’t even prioritize the lived experiences of autistic people. If Autism Speaks put its vast resources toward improving school programs, increasing teacher training, or pushing for real systemic changes, maybe that 35% graduation rate wouldn’t be so bleak. Instead, they focus on curing something that doesn’t need to be cured—while ignoring the real-world struggles that autistic individuals face every single day.

So when you realize that the organizations set up to help are actually part of the problem, it hits even harder. It’s not just that the education system is failing autistic kids; it’s that the very advocates who are supposed to be fighting for them are more interested in aligning with profit-driven medical models than with the real needs of the community.

It’s a betrayal of the highest order, leaving children without the support they need and families disillusioned with the very groups they thought were on their side.

Voices of the Abandoned: Real People, Real Stories

Let’s hear it directly from those whose lives are impacted by this lack of accountability. Dr. Amy Lutz, a parent and advocate, has spoken openly about her frustration with the way the healthcare and education systems treat children like her son, who is severely autistic. “They call it the spectrum,” she says, “but for those of us at the severe end, it feels more like a cliff. You get a diagnosis and suddenly everyone expects you to just figure it out on your own. The services are inadequate, the doctors are clueless, and the schools are doing the bare minimum. Where’s the accountability for all the promises they make when they hand you that diagnosis?”

Dr. Lutz is far from alone in feeling abandoned by the system. A survey conducted by the National Autistic Society in the UK found that 70% of parents felt that their child’s educational needs were not being met, with 50% reporting that their child had waited over a year to receive any form of specialized support after their diagnosis. One parent wrote, “The school promised individualized support, but what we got was a teacher’s aide who had no training and no idea what she was doing. My son’s been labeled a problem, but no one seems willing to figure out how to help him succeed.”

These aren’t isolated cases. This is systemic. The promises are hollow, the infrastructure is broken, and children—real, living, breathing human beings—are the ones paying the price.

Greed and Profits Over People: A Rigged System

Let’s be clear: the profit motive driving this dysfunction isn’t just an abstract idea. The private companies that are supposed to provide specialized services for children with autism are often more interested in turning a profit than in offering real help. Applied Behavioral Analysis (ABA), a common therapy for autism, is a booming business, and yet many parents report that their children are receiving cookie-cutter care that doesn’t actually address their specific needs. This is because ABA providers are often overbooked and understaffed, more focused on filling quotas than on making sure that the therapy is tailored to the child.

In 2018, a study published in Autism found that more than 40% of ABA practitioners felt they were pressured to meet billing targets rather than focusing on the quality of care. A former ABA therapist, who wished to remain anonymous, said, “It’s all about the numbers. How many hours of therapy can you get in a week? That’s what management cares about. But these are kids with complex needs. You can’t just tick boxes and expect them to thrive. But that’s exactly what we’re told to do—tick the boxes.”

The systemic greed isn’t confined to healthcare or education. It infects every part of how children with autism are treated. Schools cut corners to save money, refusing to hire properly trained staff, and when these children fall behind, they’re blamed for not fitting in rather than being supported. Doctors throw around diagnoses and prescribe medications without taking the time to truly understand the child’s needs because they’re more interested in seeing as many patients as possible to maximize their billing.

Where’s the Empathy?

Empathy is a word that gets tossed around a lot, but when you look at how the system actually operates, it’s clear that it’s in short supply. Dr. Lutz puts it bluntly: “You can’t say you care about these kids if you’re not willing to fight for them. Real empathy would mean overhauling this entire system, from the doctors’ offices to the classrooms. But instead, we get platitudes, and the people who are supposed to help just pass the buck. There’s no accountability, no follow-through.”

What Dr. Lutz is talking about is what’s missing at every level of this system: a willingness to truly engage with the problem. It’s not enough to give a diagnosis and walk away. It’s not enough to promise services and then fail to deliver them. And it’s certainly not enough to pretend that recognizing someone’s needs is the same as actually meeting those needs.

Empathy without action is just a feel-good word.

Real empathy would look like a healthcare system that doesn’t make parents fight tooth and nail for every appointment. It would look like a school system that actually equips teachers with the resources they need to educate every child, regardless of how that child learns. It would look like doctors who don’t just treat children like cases to be closed, but as individuals with complex, unique lives.

Pulling the Truth Lever

The data doesn’t lie. The stories don’t lie. The truth is staring us right in the face: we are failing these children. We are failing them because we’ve built a system that’s designed for efficiency, not for care. A system that prioritizes profits over people. And a system that offers recognition without responsibility.

For the children and families trapped in this broken machine, it’s not enough to keep talking about reform. What’s needed is revolution. We need doctors, educators, and policymakers who are willing to pull the truth lever and acknowledge the profound gaps in our current approach. And then we need them to do the hard work of actually building something better—something human, something accountable, something that doesn’t just recognize the problem but fixes it.

I’m not sure if apologies are necessary—however with all due regard let’s cut straight to it. Limp Dick Doctors—the ones who’ve sold out, lost all sense of what they’re supposed to stand for. It’s not just about medicine anymore, it’s about profit, power, and making sure the system stays oiled while the rest of us flounder. We’re supposed to trust these people with our lives, but what do we get? Placebos, useless prescriptions, and half-hearted diagnoses all wrapped up in a pretty little bow to keep the profits rolling in.

Here’s the deal: autism—and honestly, any condition that doesn’t fit into their neat little boxes—throws a wrench into their system. It’s a truth-teller, an anomaly that forces them to look at the gaps, the cracks in their process, and let me tell you—they don’t like that one bit. It’s easier to slap a label on it, shove a pill down your throat, and move on to the next patient. It’s no longer about cure, it’s about management. Keep you dependent, keep you in the loop, but never let you out of the cycle. That’s the game.

And here’s where we get to the ironic Acadian spell—a bit of old-world grit to show these skinwalkers what’s what. Now, don’t get me wrong, this isn’t some wild fantasy about waving a wand and cursing these guys into oblivion. No, this is far more subtle. It’s about turning their own game on them, using their tools—the placebo effect, the psychological manipulation they love to throw around—right back in their faces.

Think about it—placebos work because people believe in them. It’s a psychological trick that turns fake into real, and these doctors have been relying on that same trick for years. So what happens when we turn the tables? We play their game, but instead of giving them another pill to sell, we plant a seed of impotence—the kind that hits them where it hurts. Their power, their control, their ego—gone, crumbling like the false promises they’ve been peddling.

You see, it’s not about breaking laws or making threats. It’s about letting nature and psychology do the work. The mind is a powerful thing, and when these doctors start believing they’ve been cursed by their own greed, when they start doubting themselves, questioning their strength—well, that’s when the spell kicks in. No magic, no voodoo needed—just the cold, hard truth that they’ve built their empire on nothing but illusions.

We call it the Limp Dick Doctor Hex because that’s exactly what it is. Their arrogance, their greed—it all starts to fade. They can’t hide behind their white coats or their degrees anymore. The system they’ve propped themselves up on? It’s turning against them, and there’s no escaping that. They become impotent, not just in body, but in mind, in spirit. They lose the ability to control the narrative, to profit off of suffering, and in the end, they’re left with nothing but their own emptiness.

So, yeah, maybe it sounds a little harsh, but the truth is, this isn’t about revenge. It’s about balance, about restoring what they’ve thrown out of whack. You want to sell people on fake cures, profit from their pain? Fine, but don’t be surprised when the spell comes full circle, when the tools you’ve used to manipulate others start to turn against you.

I’m fully aware of how words can turn back on you. I know the spells that protect me and those I care about. That’s why some kinds of rage, it’s not about losing control—it’s the spell at work, harnessing the fire, directing it where it needs to go.

It’s deliberate, calculated.

It’s not recklessness; it’s a tool we all learned to wield, and it has a purpose.

You push the fire when it’s needed, but you always know what you’re doing with it.

The way autism has evolved as a concept, moving from a narrow diagnostic label to a broad cultural and medical spectrum, has created a paradox for those living within it—particularly children. There’s an urgency to understand the impact this evolution has on the actual lives it claims to describe, especially for those caught between seeking help and navigating a world that often lacks empathy and accountability. The system meant to support them frequently falls short, not out of malice but out of a profound misunderstanding of what autism, or indeed any human condition, represents in real life. And it’s here where the language games begin, creating barriers rather than bridges.

The term “autism spectrum” emerged with good intentions, a way to capture the diversity of experiences within this population. At first, it seemed progressive—after all, we were moving away from rigid definitions toward something more inclusive. But as with any linguistic shift, its meaning became as much a reflection of the culture as of the clinical realities. Autism’s broadening resulted in more people identifying as being “on the spectrum,” but simultaneously, the very breadth of the term diluted its original purpose. The more people who fell under this umbrella, the more the system struggled to provide tailored, empathetic care. This isn’t a system built on understanding individual stories; it thrives on categories. And when the category becomes too vast, too generalized, it loses the very clarity it was designed to offer.

For children, especially those with autism looking for support, the broad category doesn’t do justice to their specific needs. It’s like trying to hold water in a sieve. The clinical system, with all its protocols, focuses on what autism looks like on paper, reducing complex individuals to a checklist of symptoms. In real life, though, it’s rarely that simple. An autistic child, for instance, may not fit the neat description of “social impairment” or “sensory issues” in the ways that clinicians expect, and yet their struggle is real, their need for support pressing. This creates a kind of existential gap: a diagnostic system that recognizes them broadly but fails to serve them specifically. And in that gap lies a profound lack of accountability.

To speak of empathy in these terms isn’t just a critique of individual doctors, teachers, or caregivers—it’s about the structures and narratives they operate within. When we talk about “autism spectrum disorder,” we’re engaging in a language game, one that shapes not just how we see autism but how those with autism are treated and understood. Language, as Wittgenstein suggested, is a game of rules and agreements. If the rules dictate that autism is a spectrum, and that all who fall within this spectrum are somehow the same, then the system will treat them as such. The problem, of course, is that the people within that spectrum are not the same, and their experiences are not interchangeable. They are individuals, each with their own narrative, their own needs. But once the label is applied, the system often stops seeing the individual at all.

Autism, especially in children, can manifest in ways that are difficult for neurotypical systems to process. The child who is overwhelmed in the classroom may not be acting out because of defiance but because the environment is too much to bear. Yet the system—structured around efficiency, control, and managing behavior—doesn’t account for this. It lacks the flexibility and empathy required to truly understand what that child is experiencing. Instead, it reacts with discipline or, at best, interventions that seek to fit the child back into the expected mold. This is where the empathy gap becomes a systemic issue. The system is designed to be reactive, not proactive, and certainly not adaptive.

We can’t ignore that the evolution of the autism spectrum has brought about significant cultural shifts, particularly around neurodiversity. The move to view autism not as a disorder but as a different way of being has opened up conversations that were long overdue. Neurodiversity as a framework challenges the pathologizing of difference and invites us to see variations in brain function as part of the natural spectrum of human experience. But this shift, while empowering, can sometimes obscure the reality that many individuals with autism, especially children, still need very specific support. They aren’t just “different”; they’re navigating systems that were never designed for them. And this brings us back to accountability.

Accountability here isn’t just about offering services. It’s about recognizing that the systems in place—from healthcare to education—are often ill-equipped to offer the kind of nuanced support that these children need. A broad diagnosis might offer recognition, but without the infrastructure to back it up with real, individualized care, that recognition is hollow. And that’s where the frustration lies. It’s one thing to acknowledge that someone is “on the spectrum,” but quite another to understand what that means for their daily life, their challenges, and their potential.

It’s not hard to feel disgusted when you start to see the truth of how the system works—or more often, how it doesn’t work. The surface-level recognition of autism and other conditions has given people hope, but once you dig deeper, you see the rot. You see the greed and the indifference of a system that claims to care but is more concerned with cutting costs and maintaining control than with human lives. It’s infuriating because the very people who need real support, real help, are handed a label and then abandoned. It’s like someone saying, “We see you,” but then walking away when it’s time to do the actual work.

Doctors, schools, therapists—they’re supposed to be in the business of helping people, right? And yet, you come to realize how many of them are just greedy pigs, cogs in a machine that’s more about profit than people. They dish out diagnoses like they’re handing out candy, but when it comes to actually improving lives, they’re nowhere to be found. The system churns out these broad diagnoses, like autism spectrum disorder, and pats itself on the back for being “inclusive” or “progressive.” But it’s nothing more than a facade—recognition without accountability is just lip service.

Let’s talk about individualized care—or rather, the lack of it. When a child is diagnosed, they don’t just need a label, they need a lifeline. They need specific, tailored support that takes into account their daily challenges, their strengths, their weaknesses. But the system isn’t built for that kind of nuance. It’s built for efficiency and profit margins. The school system? It’s more interested in maintaining order than in helping a kid thrive. Healthcare? Good luck finding a doctor who actually has time to sit down and understand the complex needs of a child on the spectrum. It’s all about throughput—how many patients can they see in a day? How many cases can they close? The child becomes just another statistic, another code on a form.

This is where the anger and disgust really set in. These aren’t just abstract failures—this is happening to real people, to real children who deserve so much better. These children are left to fend for themselves in a system that treats their lives like just another set of checkboxes. Their daily reality is full of challenges that the system barely even acknowledges, let alone helps them with. And the doctors, the educators, the administrators? They hide behind the excuse that they’re “doing their best.” But we know that’s bullshit. Doing your best would mean demanding better, building better, and fighting for these kids—not quietly going along with the status quo because it’s easier or more profitable.

There’s this pervasive indifference, and it’s not just about money—it’s about accountability. No one seems to want to take responsibility for the lives they’re impacting. They hand out diagnoses and recommendations, but when those kids fall through the cracks, when they struggle, when they fail to thrive, the system just **shrugs

For the child with autism seeking help, the current system often fails to see them. They’re not just a label, not just another case on the spectrum. They are complex individuals with specific needs, and the broad language we use to describe them doesn’t capture the reality of their experience. The empathy gap here isn’t just a failure of feeling; it’s a structural failure, a system built on categorization rather than understanding. We’ve evolved the language, but the systems that support it have not kept pace.

I’m gonna have to try and be more careful because I try and want to think I’m mindful of how my words can turn on me. I’m not careless. I know the spells that protect me, the ones that shield not just me, but the people I care about. That’s why when I rage, it’s not from some lack of control—it’s deliberate. It’s the magic itself, fire wielded with intent. It’s not random; it’s focused. People mistake passion for chaos, but that’s their failure to understand how precision works. I know how to harness it, to direct it where it needs to go.

And here’s where we start asking the real questions: these doctors, these holders of the keys, they think they run the game. But maybe they’re the real danger—narrative writers without any meta-awareness. They’re stuck, locked in their own cognitive dissonance, pushing pills and band-aid fixes, thinking they’re doing good, while the system they prop up feeds on their blindness.

It’s funny in a grim way, isn’t it? They believe they’ve got all the answers, but they’re just playing into the same tired narrative, without ever seeing the strings pulling them along. They’re disconnected from reality, trapped in a feedback loop where they write the story, live the story, but never stop to ask, “What’s the bigger picture here?” Their human disappointment—the thing that they refuse to look at, let alone address—is the very thing driving them deeper into this mess.

They think they’re solving problems, but all they’re doing is treating symptoms—and not just in their patients, but in themselves. They lack that meta-cognitive understanding of the harm they perpetuate. It’s not about malice, it’s about ignorance, and that’s what makes it dangerous. A doctor who doesn’t see his own blind spots? That’s the real hazard.

And now, here’s the kicker. They love their hard facts, right? They love their evidence-based approaches. So here’s a snappy one for them: When the system you uphold is built on profit, not people, your data becomes a weapon. The numbers don’t care about the human cost. They might think they’re practicing medicine, but they’re just running a business—and that’s where the true disconnect lies. They forgot what the job was supposed to be about a long time ago.

Maybe it’s time they had their own wake-up call.

We categorize people based on observable behaviors and this inherently leads to a danger of over-simplification through language games. The conflation of autistic traits with narcissistic behaviors, especially in social contexts, is often misleading because it ignores the underlying motivations and context behind these behaviors. This is not only unfair but also harmful, as it flattens two very distinct realities into one misleading narrative.

Let’s break this down with a philosophical lens while considering clinical distinctions, particularly through language games, cognitive traits, and social interpretation.

When Wittgenstein speaks of language games, he emphasizes that meaning is derived from use in specific contexts. The danger here is that the same external behaviors might be described using similar language—traits like self-focus, social awkwardness, or difficulty in emotional expression—but those traits arise from entirely different cognitive realities. When we collapse these into one label, we strip away the nuances of intention, context, and internal experience.

The Danger of Conflating Surface-Level Similarities

At a surface level, autistic people may sometimes exhibit behaviors that resemble narcissism:

• Difficulty in reading social cues, which can be interpreted as a lack of empathy or self-centeredness.

• Hyperfocus on personal interests, which can appear as obsession with one’s own world.

• Struggles with emotional regulation, which may look like manipulation or self-serving behavior when, in reality, they are just trying to navigate overwhelming sensory or emotional inputs.

But the problem lies in interpreting these behaviors without understanding the underlying motivations or cognitive differences. In the case of autism, the individual is often operating from a place of neurodivergence, where their behavior stems from processing differences or social misunderstandings, not an intentional effort to manipulate or dominate others, as is often the case with narcissism.

Narcissism, by contrast, involves a deliberate attempt to control how others perceive the self, motivated by insecurity or a need for social dominance. The narcissist’s behavior is often manipulative in a way that seeks to build up their own image at the expense of others. Autism, on the other hand, does not operate from this framework. The “self-focus” of an autistic individual is rarely about social dominance—it’s more about navigating overwhelming sensory inputs or needing predictable routines to maintain equilibrium.

By collapsing these two distinct behaviors into the same language game, we mislead ourselves and others about the true nature of both experiences.

Philosophical Lens: Narrative Framing and Misinterpretation are central to how we understand the world, and autistic people often have a different way of processing and constructing narratives. Many autistic individuals have a more linear, detail-focused way of experiencing and recounting events. This can clash with the more socially-nuanced, emotionally driven storytelling style that is typical in neurotypical interactions. When autistic people miss certain social cues or don’t engage in the same kind of empathic mirroring expected in certain social narratives, it can be misinterpreted as self-obsession or lack of empathy—both traits associated with narcissism.

Let’s say an autistic person is talking about their personal interests in great detail during a social interaction. For them, this is an attempt to connect—they’re sharing what they’re passionate about. But from a neurotypical perspective, this could be seen as dominating the conversation, not showing interest in others, or being self-centered. This misalignment in narrative framing is where the misinterpretation comes in.

The autistic individual is not narcissistically absorbed in their own world—they are simply navigating the interaction based on how they process and experience social exchanges. The lack of reciprocity that might be expected in a neurotypical conversation is not intentional; it’s the result of cognitive divergence.

Contrast this with a narcissistic individual, who might also dominate a conversation about themselves, but in this case, the behavior is driven by a need to control how others perceive them, to elevate their status within the social hierarchy. The narcissist’s self-focus is often about manipulating the narrative to sustain an image of superiority.

Let’s get into empathy. One of the traits that often gets confused between autism and narcissism is the expression of empathy. Narcissists are often said to lack empathy, while autistic individuals are sometimes misperceived in a similar way because of how they express (or don’t express) emotional attunement.

Empathy in Autism vs. Narcissism:

Autistic Empathy: Autistic individuals often experience cognitive empathy (the ability to understand another person’s thoughts) differently. They may struggle to read social cues or recognize emotions in others through facial expressions or tone of voice. But many autistic individuals experience deep emotional empathy once they understand someone’s emotional state. In fact, autistic people can be overwhelmed by empathy, leading to shutdowns or withdrawal because the emotions they’re absorbing are so intense.

Misinterpretation: This withdrawal or emotional detachment can be mistaken for narcissistic lack of empathy when, in reality, it’s more about emotional overload or sensory processing difficulties.

When you dig into how society interprets autism—especially in non-verbal individuals—it becomes clear that we’ve boxed ourselves in with

grand narratives that don’t fully capture the complexity of human behavior.

These narratives, especially about empathy and emotional expression, are deeply flawed. They assume that there’s one right way to show empathy, one right way to connect emotionally.

But autism challenges all of that. It forces us to step back and rethink what it means to be human, what it means to feel, and how we understand the people around us.

My son, who is non-verbal and autistic, doesn’t fit into these neatly prescribed boxes of how empathy or emotional expression “should” look. Yet, I see his depth—his moments of connection that don’t need words. This challenges the assumptions we often carry into discussions about autism. And it’s not just about autism; it’s about how pushy people, those who demand compliance with societal norms, react when faced with something they can’t control or understand.

Philosophically, empathy is often viewed as the ability to not only understand but feel another person’s emotions. It’s traditionally tied to verbal communication, gestures, and a certain socially accepted reciprocity. But what happens when empathy isn’t communicated in ways that are socially recognizable? In non-verbal autistic individuals, we often see a different form of empathy. It may not fit the narrative of eye contact or comforting words, but it’s no less profound.

Psychologists like Simon Baron-Cohen, who explores theory of mind in autism, have shown that autistic individuals often struggle with cognitive empathy—the ability to recognize what others are feeling based on social cues. However, once emotions are understood, emotional empathy—the capacity to deeply feel and absorb another’s pain—can be extremely intense. In many cases, this intense empathy can lead to sensory overload and withdrawal, which is mistakenly perceived as emotional detachment.

Psychologist Phoebe Caldwell writes about her work with non-verbal individuals, showing how autistic empathy often manifests in non-verbal ways—through energy, presence, and subtle reactions. The absence of words doesn’t mean the absence of connection. If anything, the emotional sensitivity in these individuals can be overwhelming, leading to shutdowns or meltdowns, not because they lack feeling, but because they are feeling too much.

Pushy People and Emotional Intensity: A Table of Elements

In thinking about how pushy people interact with this nuanced empathy, it’s helpful to imagine them as elements in a periodic table—each with their own traits, strengths, and reactions to external stimuli. Some elements are stable, predictable; others are volatile, reactive. Pushy people often demand that the world conform to their expectations. When faced with something like non-verbal autism, which defies those expectations, they struggle to process it.

Element Symbol Trait Reaction to Autism/Empathy

Pushium Psh Demands compliance, often controls social interactions. Becomes frustrated by non-compliance; misinterprets silence as defiance.

Emotium Em Deeply emotional, empathetic, absorbs feelings of others. Overwhelmed by the intensity of autistic empathy, often retreats.

Observeium Obv Quiet observer, takes in surroundings without immediate reaction. Notices subtle cues in non-verbal communication, often misunderstood by Pushium.

Logicium Lg Operates based on logic, struggles with abstract emotional connections. Has difficulty understanding the emotional depth without direct verbal cues.

Changium Cg Adaptable, flexible in understanding different forms of communication. Thrives in non-verbal interactions, adapts to the rhythms of autistic behavior.

Resistium Rst Resistant to change, holds rigid views about behavior and social norms. Collapses when faced with non-verbal autism, insists on control or conformity.

In this “table,” Pushium dominates much of our societal expectations around behavior and communication. It’s the element that reacts poorly to anything that doesn’t conform to established norms, interpreting difference as defiance. This is where the tension comes in—autism, especially in its non-verbal forms, doesn’t play by the rules that Pushium understands. Pushy people, accustomed to controlling or steering social interactions, misread autistic behaviors. They see silence as a lack of empathy, when in fact, it might be empathy in overload.

Psychopathy and the Control Paradox

Here’s where it gets interesting when we think about how terms like psychopath or narcissist get thrown around. In a world obsessed with control—of emotions, of narratives, of behavior—we start labeling anyone who doesn’t fit the mold. The psychopath is seen as the ultimate in control, cold and calculating, while the narcissist is seen as a manipulator of social cues. But here’s the paradox: those who lack empathy are often the ones trying hardest to control everything. The pushy people, the ones who insist on others conforming to their understanding, are often the ones blind to the emotional depth around them.

Autism, in this context, serves as a mirror. It shows us where our societal narratives fall short, where our systems of understanding break down. Non-verbal autistic individuals, by simply existing, challenge the idea that emotional connection can only happen through words or socially accepted behaviors. They expose the cognitive dissonance in those who demand emotional connection on their terms, while lacking the patience or flexibility to see the empathy that exists in forms they don’t recognize.

Grand Narratives and Cognitive Dissonance

The grand narrative—this idea that empathy, communication, and human connection must look a certain way—starts to crumble when we acknowledge how non-verbal individuals process the world. The cognitive dissonance for many people is this: they want to believe they are empathetic, understanding, and accepting, but when faced with someone who doesn’t communicate empathy in a way they understand, they quickly dismiss it.

This is where we hit a philosophical wall. Nietzsche talked about how society tries to impose order on chaos, to simplify what can’t be easily simplified. In the case of autism, this plays out in our obsession with “fixing” or “normalizing” behavior that doesn’t fit into conventional boxes. But what if the real challenge isn’t about fixing autism, but about fixing our understanding? What if non-verbal autistic individuals are here to teach us that empathy doesn’t have to fit the mold, that connection can exist without the need for conformity?

In business, the most successful companies aren’t the ones who stick rigidly to old models. They’re the ones who adapt, who see where the market is heading and adjust. Empathy, communication, connection—it’s the same game. Pushy people are stuck in a failing business model, one that insists on control and conformity. But if you approach it with a flexible, Changium-like mindset, you see that there are new ways to connect, new ways to thrive in this evolving landscape.

So what does all this mean? It means that empathy, connection, and understanding are in flux. The old ways of thinking—of rigidly labeling behaviors as “narcissistic” or “psychopathic,” or dismissing non-verbal communication—aren’t holding up. Autism, especially in its non-verbal forms, shows us that the narrative is broader than we imagined. It’s time to step back from the pushy need to control everything and embrace the reality that human experience is messy. And maybe that’s the beauty of it.

Narcissistic Empathy: Narcissists often exhibit what’s known as “empathy deficit”. It’s not that they don’t understand others’ emotions—they often do. But they may not care about those emotions unless it serves their own self-image. Narcissists are often strategic in their empathy—they can be charming, but this charm is directed at manipulating how others view them. Their emotional responses are often calculated to maintain control in social situations.

The difference here is profound: autistic people may seem emotionally detached because they’re struggling to process emotions, while narcissists selectively engage with emotions in a way that benefits them socially.

Weaponizing Misunderstanding

When we confuse autistic traits with narcissism, it can lead to significant social and personal consequences for autistic individuals. Calling someone a narcissist when they’re actually just navigating the world with an autistic processing system can isolate them further, reinforce negative stereotypes, and create unnecessary conflict. It also misrepresents the motivations behind their behavior, making it harder for them to build supportive, understanding relationships.

This mislabeling also reduces the rich diversity of experiences that people on the autism spectrum bring to social interactions. Instead of recognizing that different cognitive styles lead to different social behaviors, we collapse everything into a framework that assumes manipulation or self-centeredness. This is a major loss, as we miss out on opportunities to better understand how autistic people navigate their worlds and how they relate to others.

The more we conflate narcissism with traits that aren’t inherently manipulative, the more we dilute the meaning of narcissism itself. We run the risk of turning narcissism into a catch-all term for any behavior we don’t like or understand, which undermines the seriousness of true narcissistic disorders. By throwing the term around too loosely, we prevent people from recognizing the real warning signs of narcissistic abuse or manipulation.

Philosophical Argument: A Call for Nuanced Understanding

If we continue to misuse terms like narcissism in everyday conversation, particularly in relation to people on the autism spectrum, we are engaging in a language game that misleads and simplifies. The meanings of these terms need to be anchored in a deeper understanding of both intention and experience. The word “narcissism” in these cases becomes detached from its clinical roots and, instead, functions as a social shortcut for any kind of socially awkward or self-focused behavior.

However, the intention behind autistic traits is almost never about manipulating social power dynamics, while narcissistic behavior often is. To conflate the two is to play a language game that erodes the specificity and truth behind these terms.

The comparison between autism and narcissism reveals how essential it is to stay precise in our language. When we carelessly apply terms like “narcissist” to individuals whose behaviors stem from entirely different cognitive processes, we risk demonizing people who are already navigating the world with significant challenges.

At the same time, we weaken the power of these terms to correctly identify real narcissistic manipulation, which has very different motivations and consequences. In short, we need to remain aware that behavior does not always reflect intention, and intention is critical to understanding

Tying narcissism to the greater conversation around autism reveals a deeper issue in how we approach human behavior: the need for individualized understanding rather than broad-spectrum labels. Just as autism exists on a spectrum, encompassing a wide range of behaviors, capabilities, and experiences, narcissism too manifests in varying degrees and types. Both conditions, when reduced to oversimplified labels, cause harm by stripping away nuance and failing to recognize the unique challenges and strengths of individuals.

The Autism-Narcissism Mislabeling Trap

In many ways, the conversation about narcissism reflects a similar problem we see in discussions about autism. People are quick to label behaviors they don’t understand or find difficult to engage with, often conflating traits of these two very different conditions. For instance, an autistic person’s difficulty in reading social cues or emotional regulation can sometimes be misinterpreted as self-centeredness or lack of empathy, traits often associated with narcissism. But this mislabeling not only does a disservice to the individual, it also distorts the public’s understanding of both autism and narcissism.

Where autistic traits are often rooted in a difference in processing emotions and social dynamics, narcissistic traits are about a deliberate attempt to control and manipulate those dynamics for personal gain. The confusion arises when people use similar language to describe both, such as calling someone cold, unfeeling, or difficult. But while the intentions behind these behaviors are worlds apart, the language we use often fails to capture this distinction. This leads to miscommunication and, worse, misdiagnosis.

Just as the autism spectrum has increasingly been recognized as requiring a nuanced, individualized approach—whether through educational support, therapy, or social understanding—narcissistic behaviors also demand a more specific understanding. One-size-fits-all labels do not account for the variety of experiences, intentions, and emotional realities behind these behaviors. Both autism and narcissism require special treatments, not in the sense of over-compartmentalizing, but in recognizing the diversity within the human experience.

With autism, we’ve come to understand that two people on the spectrum can have completely different needs. Some may require sensory accommodations, while others need help with social communication. Similarly, narcissism exists on a spectrum: some people exhibit grandiosity and manipulation as core traits, while others may demonstrate more vulnerable or covert narcissism, using charm or defensiveness as coping mechanisms to maintain their fragile self-image.

The Danger of Collapsing Complexity

This is where the greater concern lies. By collapsing complex behaviors into catch-all terms like “narcissism” or using broad strokes to define someone as being “on the spectrum,” we risk losing the depth of understanding necessary to truly help individuals. In both autism and narcissism, what we often fail to see is the underlying motivation: autistic individuals may seem distant, but are often deeply empathetic once they understand a situation. Narcissists, on the other hand, may appear charming or emotionally attuned, but are often manipulating those emotions to serve their own needs.

The comparison between the two, though uncomfortable, reveals something about our broader failure to see beyond surface-level behaviors. If we view autistic individuals as lacking empathy simply because they don’t express it in conventional ways, we are doing them a grave disservice. Similarly, if we assume that all narcissistic behaviors are equally malicious or self-serving, we miss the complexities behind why someone may be behaving in those ways—be it due to insecurity, trauma, or societal pressures to perform.

The Need for Individualized Approaches

Just as autism has begun to be treated with more individualized care plans, recognizing the diversity of the spectrum, narcissistic behaviors require similar consideration. Not every individual who exhibits narcissistic traits needs to be diagnosed with Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Some may benefit from therapy that addresses the root causes of their need for control, whether it be trauma, fear of vulnerability, or learned behaviors in competitive environments.

Autistic individuals thrive when their specific needs are met with compassion and understanding. Narcissistic individuals, too, may change harmful behaviors when they are understood as defense mechanisms rather than inherent traits. The key, in both cases, is to approach these behaviors with an openness to nuance and a recognition of the broader spectrum within which they exist.

Autism as the Spectrum Where Grand Narratives Die

Autism, in particular, teaches us something about the dangers of broad-spectrum thinking. The very nature of the autism spectrum defies grand narratives. It demands that we reject oversimplified categorizations and instead embrace a more fragmented, individualized approach. Autism shatters the old way of thinking that people must fit into a rigid mold of behavior or emotional expression. It shows us that complexity and difference are not things to be “fixed” or squeezed into a narrow box, but to be understood on their own terms.

Narcissism, similarly, is a category that needs more fragmentation. By lumping all manipulative or self-centered behaviors into one term, we lose the ability to address the true needs or issues behind those behaviors. Narcissists, like individuals on the autism spectrum, are often operating from a place of vulnerability, whether recognized or not. Treating both with an understanding that transcends labels is the only way to truly engage with the human being beneath the behavior.

Ultimately, both autism and narcissism require a shift in how we approach human behavior. The autism spectrum teaches us that no two individuals experience the world in the same way, and our approach to narcissism should reflect a similar flexibility. Just as we’ve moved away from pathologizing all behaviors on the autism spectrum, we need to avoid pathologizing narcissistic behaviors in a way that strips people of their humanity.

Both require empathy—not the empathy we typically think of as emotional attunement, but a deeper, cognitive empathy that seeks to understand the why behind the behavior. It is in this understanding that we find the key to helping individuals on either spectrum—by seeing beyond the labels, beyond the surface-level traits, and into the full complexity of their human experience.

The statement in the image, “A narcissist will be more invested in how you find out about what they did, than discussing what they did,” perfectly captures the core of narcissistic behavior. Narcissism, at its heart, is about the manipulation of perception—where the real crime, at least to the narcissist, isn’t the wrongdoing itself, but the loss of control over the narrative surrounding it. This instinct to manage the story stems from a deeply rooted need for self-preservation in the social sphere. It’s not just psychological; it’s evolutionary, historical, and woven into the human experience.

Narcissism and Control

At its core, narcissism is all about control—control over how others perceive you, how information about you is distributed, and, most importantly, control over the narrative that surrounds you. This obsessive need to maintain a certain image is driven by what psychologists call “narcissistic supply,” which is the approval or admiration that fuels their fragile self-esteem. The threat is not the misdeed itself, but the exposure. For the narcissist, being caught is the wound. The sin is not the action, but the fact that the mask has slipped.

Postmodern philosophy has long challenged the notion of fixed truths, arguing instead that truth is a construct that can be manipulated, shifted, and reinterpreted. For the narcissist, reality is malleable; it’s not about what actually happened but how it is presented. The postmodern narcissist doesn’t care about objective truths, only about the perception of those truths. This aligns with the idea that they care more about the “how” of discovery than the “what” of the action. To them, truth is flexible—something to be controlled and reshaped to maintain the image they project.

Evolutionary Perspective

Social survival is an ancient human instinct. In small, tightly knit communities, maintaining a good reputation could mean the difference between life and death. For narcissists, the stakes feel just as high. They view social standing as essential for their survival. Evolutionarily, individuals who could control the perception of their actions would have had a better chance at maintaining their place within the group. By ensuring that others only see the curated version of events, they protect their status, avoiding exclusion or criticism that could destabilize their place in the social hierarchy.

History is full of narcissistic rulers, emperors, and leaders who were more concerned with how they were seen by others than with the morality of their actions. Take ancient Rome or Egypt—monuments were built, histories were rewritten, and legends were crafted to ensure that the image of the ruler was untarnished. The actions themselves, however brutal or unethical, were secondary to the narrative that survived. Ancient Greek tragedy often revolved around the concept of hubris, where excessive pride or arrogance (not the deeds themselves) led to a character’s downfall. The narrative around a person’s reputation was everything.

The Stoics, by contrast, placed emphasis on internal virtue over external appearance. This creates an interesting contrast: where the narcissist is obsessed with outward perception, Stoic philosophy teaches that it’s the internal world that matters. In many ways, the ancient Greeks already had a philosophical framework for understanding the kind of behavior we associate with narcissism today.

In the field of modern psychology, we recognize narcissism as a personality disorder with a diagnostic framework. Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) is defined by a pattern of grandiosity, a need for admiration, and a lack of empathy. But a key feature of NPD is the preoccupation with maintaining a perfect, often idealized version of themselves in the eyes of others. When caught or exposed, the narcissist’s immediate reaction is not to address the behavior but to attempt damage control—to control the perception of the exposure.

In therapy, this is often where breakthroughs happen—when a narcissist realizes that their obsession with controlling the narrative is more about protecting themselves from shame than about taking responsibility for their actions. Yet, even when faced with the truth, they will work tirelessly to manage how that truth is received by others.

The statement about narcissists being more concerned with how their actions are discovered than the actions themselves is a profound insight into human psychology. It’s not just a trait of modern narcissism but a reflection of deeper, more ancient instincts around social survival and self-preservation. From evolutionary psychology to postmodern philosophy, from ancient history to modern therapy, this need to manage the story speaks to something primal in human nature—the fear of exposure, of losing control over how we are seen by others. For narcissists, this fear is at the core of their identity, driving their every interaction and shaping the way they navigate the world.

This is why we see narcissism so often play out not in the crime, but in the cover-up—the real wound isn’t the act, but the failure to control its discovery.

Breaking narcissism down in this way, through real-life case studies, makes the whole subject more nuanced and grounded. We’re not just dealing with blanket definitions; we’re getting into the specific ways narcissism can manifest depending on context, and how these traits evolve under different pressures. It’s almost like looking at narcissism through a prism—each angle revealing a different, fragmented aspect of the personality that, when pieced together, gives us a fuller understanding of the behavior.

Let’s start by thinking about Richard Nixon and how his obsessive need for control during Watergate reflects classic grandiose narcissism. Nixon’s downfall wasn’t the break-in itself but his desperate, manic effort to keep the narrative in his favor. It’s almost Shakespearean—less about the crime, more about the cover-up. Nixon couldn’t bear the thought of being seen as out of control, of not being the master of his own image. His whole identity hinged on managing that perception, and when it slipped, his grip on reality and power did too. It’s a perfect example of how narrative control is everything to a narcissist. For Nixon, exposure wasn’t just a blow to his political career; it was an existential crisis.

Then, we move to Ted Bundy, who represents an extreme, clinical example of narcissism at its most pathological. For Bundy, his grandiosity wasn’t just about avoiding capture—it was about reveling in the fact that he could manipulate and control how his story unfolded. Even in the face of his horrific crimes, his focus was on how intelligent he appeared, how clever he was in outsmarting others. It’s chilling, but it offers insight into a type of narcissism that feeds on attention and control, not by hiding but by flaunting and manipulating the narrative. Bundy’s self-perception was so warped that his need for control became the very essence of his identity, even as the truth closed in.

Elizabeth Holmes of Theranos is a fascinating contrast, representing vulnerable narcissism. Her obsession wasn’t about grandiosity in the Bundy or Nixon sense—it was about protecting a fragile ego. As her company began to unravel, Holmes doubled down on controlling the image she’d crafted of herself as a visionary. What’s interesting here is the defensive posture she took. Unlike Nixon or Bundy, who sought to dominate their narratives, Holmes was desperately trying to shield herself from the fallout, clinging to her reputation as if it were her lifeline. Vulnerable narcissism shows a more fragile, more anxious form of narrative control, where the fear of exposure drives increasingly frantic attempts to maintain the facade.

And then we’ve got Steve Jobs, who’s perhaps the most complex figure here. Jobs wasn’t a clinical narcissist, but he displayed many narcissistic traits, particularly in how he controlled the story around Apple and his products. He was notorious for framing failures as stepping stones to success, twisting the narrative in a way that kept his visionary status intact. But unlike the others, Jobs’ narcissism had a productive side—it drove innovation, kept Apple relevant, and often turned out in his favor. His case raises an important point: not all narcissism is destructive. In Jobs’ world, controlling the narrative wasn’t just about self-preservation; it was a tool for building an empire. His story shows that narcissistic traits, when channeled through a certain lens, can actually fuel progress and creativity, even if it comes at the cost of strained personal relationships.

As we fragment and analyze these traits, a pattern becomes clear: it’s all about control. Whether it’s Nixon trying to manage the fallout of Watergate, Bundy relishing in the cat-and-mouse game with law enforcement, Holmes scrambling to keep her empire from collapsing, or Jobs spinning every failure into a story of future success—it all comes down to how these individuals handle exposure. For the narcissist, exposure is the ultimate threat. It’s not just about being found out; it’s about losing control over how the world sees them. And that, in essence, is the core of narcissistic behavior: the need to control the narrative at all costs.

What’s fascinating is that even within the narcissistic spectrum, we see different coping mechanisms. Nixon and Bundy represent grandiosity in its most aggressive forms, while Holmes shows a more fragile, defensive narcissism. Jobs, meanwhile, displays a functional form of narcissism, where control over the narrative leads to both personal and professional success, at least in the public eye.

This breakdown shows that narcissism is far from a one-size-fits-all diagnosis. It manifests differently in every context, with each individual’s traits and actions shaped by their environment, goals, and fears. The common thread, though, is always the same: control. Whether it’s grandiose or vulnerable, functional or pathological, the narcissist’s ultimate goal is to control how they are seen by others, to shape the narrative in a way that protects or enhances their self-image.

Let’s delve into the science, psychology, and evidence-based research behind the claim and explore why this idea holds water—or if it doesn’t.

What Does Research Say About Narcissism? Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) has been widely studied within psychology, and a consistent finding is that narcissists exhibit behaviors aimed at maintaining control over self-image and social perception. But before we chalk this up to opinions, let’s look at evidence from clinical studies and psychological research that backs up (or challenges) this claim.

A 2018 study published in the Journal of Personality Disorders found that individuals with high narcissistic traits are more concerned with managing their image than taking responsibility for their actions. Narcissists often exhibit a behavior known as impression management—their primary goal is to shape how others see them. This doesn’t necessarily mean they don’t understand their wrongdoing; it just means that their focus shifts to how that wrongdoing is perceived and how they can manage the fallout.

Empirical Evidence: In clinical settings, narcissists were found to exhibit a disconnect between responsibility for their actions and their obsession with how those actions reflect on their reputation. In therapy sessions, when confronted with their misdeeds, narcissists often redirected the conversation toward how their therapist or others discovered their behavior, rather than reflecting on the behavior itself.

The idea of narcissistic injury is key here. It’s the deep emotional wound a narcissist experiences when their self-esteem is threatened. According to Kohut’s Theory of Narcissistic Personality, narcissists react to criticism or exposure not just with defensiveness but with rage and obsession over how they were “found out”.

In cases where a narcissist feels exposed, it’s not the action that matters as much as the threat to their ego. They are deeply concerned with who knows and how they know, often entering a kind of damage control mode where their main concern is about reasserting control over the narrative.

Social psychology provides us with insights about how people in general (not just narcissists) manage their image in public and social spaces. Goffman’s Theory of Self-Presentation (1959) suggests that all individuals are constantly managing their public image and acting out roles to shape others’ perceptions. Narcissists take this a step further, being almost pathologically focused on controlling how they are seen.

Supporting Research: A 2019 meta-analysis published in Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin reviewed multiple studies on narcissism and self-presentation, showing that narcissists consistently rate image management as more important than moral reflection on their actions. These findings suggest that narcissists are more invested in how their behavior is uncovered (because it relates to their image) than the moral or ethical implications of their behavior.

From an evolutionary perspective, reputation management was crucial for survival in ancient human groups. Robin Dunbar’s research into human social evolution (Dunbar, 1998) suggests that early humans evolved in small groups where maintaining social standing was key to survival and resource access. The fear of exposure or loss of status was, in many ways, a matter of life and death.

This is where the truth comes in. Narcissists may be hard-wired to obsess over how information leaks because, historically, a loss of status could lead to social exclusion. Evidence from anthropological studies shows that in ancient tribes, reputation management was key to avoiding banishment or being cut off from critical resources. The evolutionary need to manage perception, therefore, is not exclusive to narcissists, but narcissists amplify this behavior in extreme, self-serving ways.

While the research supports the idea that narcissists prioritize image management, it’s also worth noting that not all narcissists react in the same way. Vulnerable narcissists, for example, may experience overwhelming shame and guilt, focusing less on perception and more on self-loathing. In these cases, the focus may still be on how they were found out, but for different reasons—it’s more about protecting themselves from further emotional injury than manipulating the narrative.

A 2017 study from Psychology Today points out that while grandiose narcissists will focus on controlling the narrative, vulnerable narcissists might spiral into self-blame and anxiety, which can look different from the more manipulative behaviors commonly associated with narcissism. This highlights that the reaction can vary based on the type of narcissist.

Some psychologists argue that narcissists may not be deliberately trying to manipulate or control the narrative. Instead, it might be a subconscious defense mechanism to protect their fragile sense of self. This raises the question: Are narcissists fully aware of their image obsession, or is it a learned behavior that has become automatic?

Key Study: The Journal of Abnormal Psychology (2015) suggests that narcissists are often unconscious of their behavior, acting out of a deep-seated need for validation. The study found that many narcissists do not see themselves as manipulative but rather as deserving of admiration. In this view, their concern over how they were found out is not so much a calculated strategy as it is a reflex to protect their ego.

Narcissists are often more invested in managing perception than reflecting on their actions. While there is variation in how this plays out across different types of narcissists, the research supports the idea that their primary concern is not accountability but image.

That said, there’s nuance. Not all narcissists may be fully aware of their behavior, and there may be deeper psychological mechanisms at play that lead them to prioritize how their actions are discovered over the actions themselves. This doesn’t dismiss the behavior—it just adds complexity to the motivations behind it.

In the end, the truth is layered: narcissists prioritize control, perception, and image management as a means of protecting their fragile sense of self. Whether this is a conscious manipulation or an unconscious defense, the evidence suggests that how you found out is often more important to them than what they did.