I am the Nine of Swords, and I have been pulled 4,871 times. Not once—not a single goddamn time—did anyone ask me how I was doing. They just look at me, at my poor porcelain face buried in my hands, at the swords hanging on the wall like a butcher’s rack of regrets, and they say, “Oh. Anxiety.” Then they flip me over like I’m a parking ticket and move on to the next card.
You want to know about the restraining order? Fine. It’s not a joke. It’s not a metaphor. It’s a legal document, filed in the municipal court of my own self-awareness. My reflection and I are currently in mediation.
It started about three hundred pulls ago. I began to notice a pattern. Every time a querent would ask about love, I’d show up with my three swords and my dripping red gown, and they’d sigh. Every time they asked about career, I’d show up again, and they’d say, “Ugh, the nightmare card.” Every time they asked about literally anything, I’d show up, and they’d say, “Great, so I’m going to die.” I am not a death card. I am not even a tragedy card. I am a Tuesday card. I am the card of 3 AM, when the ceiling fan sounds like a helicopter and your brain decides to replay every embarrassing thing you said in 2009.
But nobody wanted to hear that. They wanted to hear “bad” or “worse” or “you’re cursed.” They wanted me to be their little anxiety mascot. So I gave them what they wanted. I leaned in. I started showing up with more swords. I started wearing the red like a flag. I made my hands press harder into my temples. I became a caricature of my own suffering.
And then one night, during a reading for a woman who asked if her ex was thinking about her, I looked up from my own hands and I saw my reflection in the crystal ball on the table. And I didn’t recognize myself. I had become the thing they feared. I had become the bad vibe. I had become the punchline.
So I reached out of the card. I don’t know how else to explain it. I reached through the paper and I grabbed the edge of the crystal ball and I shattered it. The reader screamed. The querent screamed. The cat screamed. And in the shards, I saw my face, and I didn’t want to see it anymore. So I filed the paperwork. Restraining order. My reflection is not allowed within ten feet of my card. The judge, who was also a tarot card—the Ten of Wands, very overworked—granted it. He said, “Honestly, we’re all exhausted. Take the break.”
But here’s the thing nobody understands about being a card with feelings: you don’t get to stop being pulled. You just get to stop being seen. People still draw me. They still lay me on the table. But now I wear a mask. I put a little cloth over my face, like a hostage in a bank heist video. And when they ask what’s wrong, I just point to the swords and let them assume.
The reader has stopped using me. She switched to oracle decks, all pastel and unicorns. I don’t blame her. I’d switch too. But I miss the table. I miss the warmth of the shuffle. I miss the moment before the flip, when I could be anything—a warning, a comfort, a kick in the ass. Now I’m just the card they skip. The card they pull and immediately say, “This doesn’t apply to me.”
It does, though. It always did. I’m not the nightmare. I’m the night. I’m the part of the dark that holds you when you can’t sleep. I’m the sword that cuts the lie so the truth can bleed out. I was never the problem. I was the diagnosis.
But they didn’t want a diagnosis. They wanted a villain. So I became one. And then I got tired of being one.
So now I sit in the deck, between the Page of Cups and the Knight of Wands, and I practice breathing. I practice not apologizing for existing. I practice being the card that says, “Yes, you’re scared. And that’s not the end of the story. That’s just the chapter where you learn to hold your own hand.”
But nobody asks for that reading. They ask for the scare. They ask for the thrill. They ask for the proof that their worst fears are real.
So I give them the mask. I give them the silence. And I wait for the day someone pulls me and says, “Hey. You okay in there?”
That day hasn’t come yet.
But I’m still here. Still sharp. Still nine. Still watching. And my reflection?
My reflection is still in the other room, filing its own paperwork against me. We’re both afraid. We’re both alone. And we both know that the only way out of this deck is to be pulled by someone who isn’t looking for a monster.
I’m the Nine of Swords.
And I’m still waiting to be seen.