//------------------------------// // Pain-filled Cycle // Story: Prompts from Ponies // by Sycamore //------------------------------// The room is cold. Not because the it is winter or the cooling spells are in overdrive, but because of the thoughts tearing their way through my head. Sitting on these hard, clinical chairs puts the topping on the proverbial cake. It makes an already bad experience even worse. A door opens. A pony steps out. The distinct clip-clop of hooves on tile make their way towards me in the small, half-inviting room. I am told that it's my turn to go in. The distance between me and the door grows. Tunnel vision sets in, and a few would-be tentative steps turn into a perceived year-long quest. Moving towards a gaping hole in the wall, half sealed with a piece of flat, grainy wood, my mind screams at me to turn tail and run. The daemons that are to be battled can wait another day. Alas it was not meant to be. Uprising waited for another day as a new quest was formed in my head: get to a seat. Have you ever noticed that those couches in shrinks’ offices are the most demeaning furniture in the world? It allows the psychiatrist to look at you with contempt and whatever other emotions goes through their overly judgmental, yet nonjudgmental mind without you knowing. Needless to say, I make my way to a chair. While this solves the previous issue of not being able to see the shrink’s face, another problem arises. Do you sit in the chair like that green pony with the instrument cutie mark sits on the park benches, or do you lay in them with your head facing forward? I hurts less to lay in the chair, so I guess that's my decision made. Quiet. Awkward silence. Am I expected to talk first? There should be something. A clear of the throat, a tapping of a hoof or quill on parchment, something to break the monotonous quiet. Yet I don't want there to be anything. No distributions from the beautiful silence. Disruptions would mean discussion. Discussion would mean thinking bad thoughts. Bad thoughts would mea— Changing topic. Some things are better left unthought, unspoken. But that ruins the point of being here. Why be at a shrink if there is not going to be any mono-, or even dialogue. Why waste mom’s money by sitting here in silence. Finally something brings me out of my musing. A scratch of a quill on a notepad. Notes. Notes mean observation. He has gotten something out of my silence. Just as I suspected, he starts by clearing his throat and stating that while he would usually let me sit in that peaceful silence until I wanted to talk, there were a few things that we needed to get underway. I was talked at. Things I already know were said. Explained to that my situation is bad. Told how I mustn't think that any of this is my fault. The consolations didn't help. Gaining a parent after your birth is the most joyful, and painful experience that could happen in somepony’s life. Being adopted means more than just having a parent, it means that you weren't just had. You, out of a crowd of possibilities, were chosen. Picked singlehandedly, shown that you were worth something. Given that I already had two parents, this hurt too. It meant that one felt so little of me that, despite being able to take care of me, he wouldn't love me enough to keep me as his own. It is hard to lose a parent through death. It is even harder to have one abandon you. When it happens twice, you start to ask what is wrong with you. I guess that is why I am really here. To talk about ‘what’s bothering you?’ As if it wasn't so obvious. I start to participate in the conversation. Enjoy releasing my anger, doubt, and fear of the world into this open, nonjudgmental forum. Maybe I could do this. Maybe life wouldn't be so bad. Maybe dad will come back and talk, or just sit with me again. Time’s up. I thank the good doctor, and clip-clop my way back to where I was sitting before. Mom goes back in, and my little candle-flame of hope slowly, oh ever so slowly, flickers out like a candle with too short a wick. Doubt starts to creep back into my mind. The room is cold. Not because the it is winter or the cooling spells are in overdrive, but because of the thoughts tearing their way through my head. Sitting on these hard, clinical chairs puts the topping on the proverbial cake. It makes an already bad experience even worse.