The King of Wands
The King of Wands is pure fire energy. Like the rest of the Kings, the ruler of the Wands suit will appear in two ways in your life: either as a person or as a part of yourself that must be awakened.
As a person, the King of Wands is the ultimate leader, who looks forward to challenges because he enjoys the rush of adrenalin that solving a difficult problem can induce. He not only dispels his own fear but that of others, by ensuring them that they shall succeed. He is not all talk, though; when the going gets tough no one hangs in there longer than he does. The King of Wands has a deep and innate respect for other people, and his compassion extends farther than most people would expect.
As with all of us, the King's faults emerge from his strengths. He can sometimes make things even worse by doing what he thinks is the right thing - and he always thinks that what he is doing is the right thing. Most of the time his high sense of ethics proves him right, but in those few times where he is on the wrong side of the argument, he can do more harm than good. But one thing that can never be said of him is that he walks away from problems, whatever they are. He will defend another man just as vigilantly, if not more so, than he would protect himself.
The King of Wands invites us to act as he would to solve our problems. His vision is one of ideal reality, and his vision is that humanity might always be better
than it is. He is the warrior of light who stands up for something that matters, and his appearance is an invitation for you to do so as well.
Copyright 2000 James Rioux, ATA Tarot
One morning, after Jessica’s funeral, Sam woke blinded by a hangover on the floor of Brady’s room, and his friend gave him a glass of water and two pills he swore were aspirin, and Sam was in too much pain to care that Brady had a habit of lying.
The pills were better than any aspirin on Earth-they cleared his head and chest and wild, burning grief, all in a matter of minutes. Sam felt relaxed for the first time in weeks: free of pain, of guilt, of fear. Not even looking at his phone, blown up by Dean’s frantic calls and texts full of ‘Sammy’s’ could get to him.
He curled up on Brady’s couch and slept without dreaming.
Later, Brady would smile shyly and cop to the lie-“oxycotin, man, just a little, seemed like you earned a break”-but he was preaching to the converted. Dean and Cas had opened their home and their wallets and their arms, but nothing penetrated the rock of depression and despair like those pills had. He took two more before he went home-and an emergency bottle from Brady’s private stash-where apologizing to Dean and helping Cas cook dinner was a synch. Sam slept deeply that night, so much that Cas remarked, in his polite concern, if he was trying something new.
Oxy made smiling, and lying, oh so easy.
For a few blissful days, Sam believed life could be normal again: that this was all he’d been missing, a little boost to take the edge of off losing Jess. Armed with his pill bottle, he could do laundry, do dishes, cook meals, drive to class and work, even complete assignments. The lines of exhaustion around Dean and Cas’s eyes began to wither, and Sam woke with a feeling of renewed purpose, feeling he’d finally gotten over the hump.
But of course, it didn’t last. Less than a week later, Sam needed to take three to get the same effect, and it wasn’t long before he was burning through bottles of pills, drinking to keep the numbness going. He tried pot, which made him paranoid, and Xanex, which made him inexplicably jittery. Klonopin, Valium-nothing hit quite as well as Oxy had. He’d spend days at time on Brady’s floor, trying all sorts of cocktails he’d cook up, hoping to get back those few days of blissful normalcy. Sometimes he almost called Dean. Sometimes he’d talk to the texts that appeared, saying “I’m worried about you too,” and “I love you too,” and “I miss you too,” and “I want you to come get me, come get me, come get me, Dean,” until someone shouted at him to shutup.
Sam couldn’t keep track of the roommates: Brady moved around a lot. Brady also began to charge him. So Sam stole and pawned and lied his way to his next couple doses of whatever he was supplementing the Oxy with, telling himself as soon as he found that magic mix, he could pay it all back, and then some.
In Health class, they say drugs come from friends, come from people wanting to fit in, come from peer pressure. No one says they come when your girlfriend dies and all of a sudden your life looks like one useless exercise after another. No one says it comes from a text that Brady can’t get you pills for a week. No one says you go into withdrawal so horrific you think you’re dying, and you text back saying give me anything, anything, anything, and that anything is a little white powder you put on your tongue, and there, just like that morning, is your life back.
Sam never thought he’d be a junkie, but then, he never knew junkies could have lives like others, shooting up in secret and moving around like nothing was happening. The pictures they showed were only the end result: not the start. There were times during the day when Sam would function. He got a job. He tried to complete school. He tried to pay back Cas and Dean. He tried to care enough not to steal, not to fight.
Heroin took away the guilt and grief and the shame. Heroin was Oxy times thirty: warmth and relaxation down deep, with a magical euphoria attached.
And it only took a touch, a taste, to send him there.
A taste, or two.
A taste, or two, or three.
Four, five, six.
And then there was snorting.
And then there were needles.
It was easy, in retrospect, to see that he was never chasing a high, or trying to kill a dragon: he was trying to circumvent the black hole of grief and trauma that had been trying to slip out of his head and slither under his feet all his life. In retrospect, he should have gone to counseling, tried antidepressants, finished his degree.
In retrospect, life was easy. Choices were obvious. Sober, properly medicated, educated, counseled, it was crystal clear how stupid and weak and selfish he'd been. But denial wasn’t a conscious decision, and Sam had always believed that what he did was right, whether he was full of nuke or not, but there’s a difference between believing and knowing.
Sam believed drugs were right behind the bars of his own psychological death camp. Now, when he gets out of Andy’s van and walks up the steps to see Dean and Cas smiling, he knows that sobriety is right, that counseling is right, and-finally-that living, happily, is his right too.