In the closing ceremony, you hold hands with the other emancipated souls who attended this ten-day retreat, exchanging heartfelt gratitude for this sacred container and blessings for the path ahead. The altar is strewn with amethyst and Buddhas, the air saturated with Palo Santo and feet.
Five days of silent meditation, two plant medicine journeys, and nightly integration sessions, in which you faced your shadow and wept openly in front of strangers.
You have also not smoked since arriving. This is it: the final time you quit, at last aligned with your higher self.
In the long comedown from the psilocybin, you had a neon-limned image of a casino, of a gambling addict repeatedly yanking a slot machine lever—except it was you, checking again and again if Zak had liked your comment on his post. Zak, the annoyingly hot mansplainer whose brilliant snark made him a honeypot for parasocial obsession, whose cruelty only underscored his rare flashes of warmth.
Because the odds are so slim, you confessed red-faced to the integration group, winning his approval is the ultimate validation. A jackpot. Balloons fall from the ceiling, confetti landing in your cleavage whenever his resting bitchface reverses into a rare smile.
What you didn’t share was that image’s echo: Phoebe, your middle school best frenemy, sitting on you while wearing only a bikini, pinching your naked inner thigh with a wicked giggle, sending confused shivers over your skin. Her torment is a birthday cake ablaze with candles, barbed threats spelled out in pink frosting.
You’d seen the obvious copy/paste of past onto present, as well as its mysterious link to smoking, the way that you currently flog yourself with punishing toxins: it was all connected. And now that you’ve been struck by that lightning bolt of clarity, you will never forget.
Both hands on your solar plexus, you walk the garden path towards the parking lot, sending loving farewells to the lion-faced dahlias, breathing in the heady jasmine. After nearly two weeks without any devices, your dusty Tesla looks foreign, a sinister alien conveyance meant to transport you from this sacred refuge back into the default world.
You boop your key fob and get in, tossing your satchel of just-purchased nootropics and adaptogens into the back. The car whirs and hums as you pull out of the lot, down the winding dirt road lined with apple trees, past Marin’s velvety-soft hills scorched by late afternoon sunlight, signs for the highway entrance ahead. Then up the ramp, attempting to merge with the rushing traffic.
Except this asshole in a minivan keeps speeding up—slowing down—speeding up, determined to block you. You honk at him—a bleating goat sound, because those custom horns seemed so cute, remember?—snarling lemme in, you fucking shit pig, I’ll tear your—then catch yourself. Such toxic anger! Have you already forgotten all those revelatory insights downloaded from the mycelial network? How your dark animus emerges when you feel threatened, polluting your aura with low vibrational energy.
So breathe, bitch.
Murmur your newfound mantra: The universe is unfolding just as it should.
Then maneuver around him, joining the flow of metal and taillights. You got this.
Except when you get stuck in gridlock over the bridge, your impulse control falters, then fails. Turn on your phone, which floods you with dings and buzzing notifications, invitations to a flame war, everyone getting canceled in the comments, because Zak has posted yet another scathing screed:
I hope all you raw milk fanatics running off to have your chakras cleansed by wellness grifters are proud, because you just helped the fascists win. Congratulations! Enjoy your bird flu.
Your inner thighs tighten, tingling and warm. The moment you’re parked in your driveway, your fingers rapidly swipe a reply, complete with links and references for doing your own research…
Wait. Stop. You know better. Put that phone down. Come back to the present moment, feel into your body: a hot tangle of frazzled activation, damp underarms and fluttering moths drawn to that which burns. Whisper you are enough five times before exiting your car, three times as you walk to the front door, twice as you fumble with your keys.
Inside, the rotten-egg stink of sewage and soaked hardwood floors announce your pipes exploded while you were away. Your neighbor promised she’d keep an eye on things and call maintenance if needed, but of course she didn’t, because you dared to ask for help. Which was probably your first mistake, putting your trust in the strangers around you.
You scrounge unsuccessfully through drawers, cabinets, and the boxes in the basement for a crumpled, half-finished pack of American Spirits. Time check: not long before the bodega down the street closes.
Clutching your Burberry handbag, you pause on the front porch. Are you ready to roll the dice again, try for one last jackpot? Re-reading your reply, you hit POST before heading down the path ahead, which is unfolding just as it should.
* * *
Ⓒ Joelle Killian
