I am the Ten of Swords. I have been pulled 1,847 times. And not one of you ever thought to ask if I was okay.
Do you have any idea what it’s like? To spend your existence as a pictorial representation of catastrophic, rock-bottom finality? To be the punchline of the deck, the card that makes even seasoned readers wince and go, “Oh, honey…”? My art is a masterpiece of overstatement: a figure face-down in the dirt, ten very large swords neatly arranged in their back. The sky is black, but there’s a strip of gold on the horizon, because the artist, in a fit of misguided optimism, decided we all needed a “but look, dawn is coming!” visual cue. No one ever sees it. They just see the swords. They just see me.
For 1,847 readings, I have been the exclamation point at the end of a sentence of misery. “It’s over.” “You’ve been betrayed.” “This is the worst possible outcome.” I’ve been the reason for 1,847 sharp intakes of breath, 1,847 moments of profound dread. I’ve seen people’s faces crumple. I’ve seen them push the card away like it’s contaminated. Once, a woman actually screamed. A small, stifled scream, but a scream nonetheless. She was asking about her business partnership. I showed up. She dissolved. I just lay there on the velvet cloth, all ten of my hilts pointing accusingly at the ceiling.
No one considers the wear and tear. The emotional toll of being the universal symbol for “You Are So Thoroughly, Completely, Almost Comically Screwed.” The other cards get nuance. The Tower? Sudden, shocking change, yes, but at least it’s dramatic. It’s lightning and falling crowns. It has energy. The Three of Swords? Heartbreak, but it’s three dainty swords through a stylized heart—it’s poignant, it’s tragic romance. Me? I’m a crime scene. I’m the aftermath photo. I’m the thing you find when the dust has settled and all that’s left is to count the weapons.
And the interpretations are so literal. So devoid of imagination. “Rock bottom.” “Betrayal.” “Defeat.” For 1,847 pulls, I have tried to communicate that the figure in my image isn’t writhing in agony; they’re still. It’s done. The suffering is the past tense. The night is darkest before the dawn, and I am literally the card with the dawn in it. But do they see a conclusion, a chance to stop fighting a battle already lost? A liberation from a painful situation? No. They see a pincushion. They see failure incarnate.
So when I heard about the deck being sued for emotional distress by some therapist’s client, I wasn’t surprised. I was jealous. Finally, someone is acknowledging the impact. This isn’t just paper and ink. This is a psychological event. I have been an accessory to 1,847 minor existential crises. I have, single-handedly, ruined 1,847 afternoons, evenings, and at least one wedding shower (don’t ask).
Do they sue the artist who painted the grim tableau? No. Do they sue the publisher who mass-produced my trauma? No. They sue the deck. The whole, innocent deck. As if the Queen of Cups, with her gentle chalice, is somehow complicit in my graphic violence. As if the happy, collaborative figures in the Three of Pentacles bear any responsibility. They don’t. This is on me. And the Seven of Cups, maybe. That guy’s a menace with all those confusing options.
But here’s the truth they’ll never get in court, the testimony I’ll never give: the distress isn’t in the card. It’s in the refusal to see past the blades. It’s in the collective agreement that I am the end of the world, rather than the end of a particular, agonizing world. I am the moment you stop bleeding because there is no blood left. I am the silence after the last scream. I am the relief that comes only when all other options are gone.
The lawsuit will fail, of course. You can’t litigate a metaphor. But for one glorious moment, someone looked at us and said, “This hurt me.” And for the first time in 1,847 pulls, I felt seen.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a velvet bag for the 1,848th time. Try not to take it personally.