Mark Spragg

Seattle: because my Saturn conjuncts my midheaven.

Ley line translation: the city where I will experience a gradual unfolding of my truest self. As opposed to the strip-mall-cul-de-sac-Neptune-midheaven town of my adolescence and teen years.

Translation: the city where the world had zero actual meaning. So, yeah, this is me in Seattle, in rehab.

Not: because I promised my parents. Although they do now have ninety days of no worries about me ODing, burning my house down, getting so blasted I limp out into the wilderness and am never seen again.

Also, not: because the brochure brags about having the lowest recidivism rate in the country.

Seattle: because I felt compelled to put 900 miles between ex-boo Aiden and my unavoidably bad influence on the boy.

Think: major compassion flex.

Me: kicking in my nearly non-existent sense of inner discipline. Good for me.

Do: no more harm than I already have.

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Most significant rehab ah-ha: the un-stoned me isn’t a girl I’d willingly hang with. The stoned me being a far more interesting person, given to surprising philosophical musings, less stressed, and a shitload more fun to be around. Which was an insight I disclosed in group. Admitted that highness has become such an integral part of my personhood that the high me feels way more me than the straight me ever has.

Group sharing insight #2: it would devastate my mom and dad if I did actually clean up my act and was still the disappointingly surly daughter they’ve learned to tolerate.

Group sharing insight #3: I’ve always been lazy, willful, and a ruinous bitch. Even before the accident that took my right leg, from thigh to tippy toes, gone. Even before the drugs.

Fact: the sweet two-legged child they so fondly remember is merely a myth created by them.

Because: as parents, it was too painful, psychically at least, to acknowledge the fact of my foundational fuck-upped-ness.

Their sweet girl never existed.

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Primary rehab relationship directive: none while in recovery.

Suggested emotional surrogate: a plant. Preferably, a plant that doesn’t need to be watered often.

Motivational enticement: if the plant survives a year, it might be safe to move on to a pet.

Suggested pet: cat. Preferably, a very aloof cat.

Additional emotional enticement: if the cat’s still alive twelve months later then maybe you’re ready for a relationship with an actual person.

Timeline: obvious bullshit.

Because: Paulo.

Paulo mainly: because I deserve a pretty boy. Streaks of neon blue through his raven black curls, left side worn collar length, right side shaved, yoga lean, both arms sleeved with sacred geometry tats he designed himself.

Real name: Austin.

Paulo Coelho: the name change inspiration.

And: the boy who, first day after group, told me he’d been watching my throat chakra shift from a smudgy brick-color to deep-sea turquoise, and that, when the transformation was complete how I’d be able to express my truth with ease.

Also: obvious bullshit.

Because: everything is. Boys especially, rehab boys specifically.

Relationship rationale: my focus should be on my overall health and happiness.

And because: celibacy is the exact opposite of therapeutic.

Plus: my Mars sextiles Paulo’s moon.

Translation: cataclysmic level physical attraction.

Emotional perk: the chances of me fucking him up even more than he already is simply does not exist.

Which is: the real reason for the particularly mean girl way I crushed Aiden’s softboy heart.

Necessary: because Aiden was never going to stop trying to save me from myself.

Tragically: was becoming me. I’M BREAKING UP WITH YOU. DO NOT REPLY. That was the text I sent.

Which: I do feel shitty about. But, as already established: lazy, willful, and ruinous.

DO NOT REPLY: The decent thing to do.

What an un-stoned girl would have done.