Back in the middle of April, I had had enough. Even though I had cut out the guy who showed up as the 5 of Swords in my tarot readings for a year and a half, he still lingered psychically. And I was angry:
I knew I deserved better.
I still wanted him anyway.
I grew up in a tumultuous household with mentally unbalanced people who were generally good enough to me, but tore at each other like piranha. I was an embedded journalist in a civil war, trying to make sense of so much destruction among people who were supposed to love each other. Whenever I complained to get them to stop, they treated me like I was crazy. “You think this is yelling?” my grandmother would yell at me. So I started to keep my mouth shut, keep the truth to myself, and just stew in my anger.
The whole point of bringing this up is that I learned to accept good enough for myself instead of good. My family yelled at and hated each other, but they lavished me with compliments. They regularly made me feel crazy for thinking what I thought and wanting what I wanted, but they also respected me and listened whenever I had a problem at school. The believed in me, but only in terms of the dreams they thought were realistic. So I learned that love had a lot of strings: sometimes you’d be made to feel uncomfortable, or crazy, or soul-crushingly alone. And sometimes you’d have to bend yourself to someone else’s expectations in order to get love. And I accepted it.
But I never really believed it. I always knew there was something fundamentally wrong with the entire arrangement, but I didn’t know how to escape. I could identify things that were bad for me, but I still wanted them. And I believed my life was going to follow the pattern of craving something destructive and keeping myself away from it, and that I would live in that middle space of tension and anguish for the rest of my life, at least in terms of relationships. I’ve moved mountains when it’s come to other things in my life, but I accepted that that was good enough.
But after Five of Swords, I was fed up. And I was willing to do whatever it took to shake it.
At night, I took two pink rose buds and consecrated them under the stars. And one I burned on charcoal, and spoke out loud about how I was done with wanting what was bad for me, with being afraid of vulnerability, with the self-destructive behavior. That I was open to love, and wanted something real. I said that I was ready, and that I deserved it–no strings, no conditions. And I kept the other as a guiding light for the new man.
And two weeks later I met a guy, whom I’ve been seeing since. He is warm and kind and tender, and very much unlike anyone I’ve ever met. And the other day, I nearly cried with joy because I realized that I had broken whatever curse was looming over me. I had freed myself by deciding that I wanted something better and believing that it could happen.
Whatever happens with this new man, he is now the standard for what I deserve. He’s proof that I was finally ready to mend my own heart.