Lying out on a bed, I stared at a blank sheet of paper before me. With a typewriter on my lap and hooves just touching the keys, I hesitated. For me, I had faced writer’s block before but… there was something different about this. It’s not that I don’t know what to write. There have been several days in which I let out a stream of consciousness right onto the page. Hammering out sentences until I had reached that end goal of a minimum of a thousand words a day so that the story could make progress. This time, however, is different. Because I know perfectly well what the subject for this final chapter is going to be. Frankly, it is something that I knew deep down that I wasn’t looking forward to.
Know Thy Self.
The motto of the great Socrates himself. A method to give the readers a medication guide into themselves. To gain self-knowledge that, in hopes, provide them with the information they needed to become more enlightened. Yet, the irony was that as easy as it was to have ponies that weren’t me to go through the lessons, the hardest I have to face would be myself.
The truth I have to face is that… I’m scared. Not because of the lesson itself, but the fear of after spending years upon years in the dark, that if I turn on the light to face a mirror, I would see a monster staring back at me. What if I release this honest self-portrait to my readers, I would be sent in letters of shock, disgust, horror from them. That they would condemn me as a charlatan, a coward, an ignorant amateur who Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle would gladly slap across the face.
I can almost see it now. “Dear CrackedInkWell,” every reader would start, “I cannot believe that I have wasted a good couple of years, closely following what you put out only to find that in the end what you’ve written up is nothing more than a gigantic letdown! Your grammar is terrible! The spelling is atrocious! The punctuation is in a depressive state! And the so-called ‘lessons’ you’ve let out? Good Celestia! What were you thinking! They were boring, uninheritable, long, inaccessible, stupid, incoherent, and it would make any Philosophy Professor weep. You’re a terrible writer and you deserve to be forgotten forever and ever til and after the end of time! If there’s anything that you did prove, it is that you have written positive proof that you are, beyond all doubt, as retarded as the two disabilities that you have. Unsubscribed, all your readers.”
You know, if your readers found out that’s what you think about yourself, I wouldn’t be surprised they would send you straight to a nearby mental hospital.
I blinked ‘Those words were not on the page a moment ago.’ But no sooner had I thought that the typewriter was moving on its own.
Of course not. If you’re going to be doing this, then the least you could do is have me as your guide. Discord?
Giving out a disgruntled sigh, I pushed the typewriter to the side of the bed. “Okay, where are you? And what do you want?”
“My my,” I looked over to the side to see that my typewriter has now been given a face. His face, “after spending a good couple of years writing about me, you’d think you’d know every hair, wrinkle and pore of my face by now.” He pulled himself out from the confined space of my typewriter and onto the bed next to me. “If anything, I’m hurt that after all this time you fail to realize that I could be of assistance at any time. Oh, for shame.”
Rolling off the bed, I told him, “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“And I’ve already told you. I’m here to help.”
This gave me pause. “Help me?”
“Well do you see anyone else inside this orange room that’s gonna do it? No? Well c’mon, are we gonna do this or what?” He asked, his tail wagging about like a dog.
“I thought this lesson was going to be about you, isn’t it?” I questioned him. “After all, this was meant to be your crowning lesson. Your big meditation that might inspire many readers throughout the world because you showed them how to do it.”
“Ah, Ah, Ah!” Discord wagged his talon at me. “You’re not gonna get away that easily! It may not look like it to our devoted readers, or yourself for that matter; but YOU need this. This is something that you have put off for far too long now. You stall, and stall, and stall, and waited, and pushed back, and delayed it further and further. Well, guess what buddy?” He grinned wickedly, “Today’s Judgment Day.”
I flinched back until I bumped into my desk behind me. “C-Come on… This is supposed to be about you. Nopony wants to hear anything from m-”
“Stop!” He said sharply and sternly like the sudden strike of a gavel. “That, right there, needs to stop. You’ve been the therapist for everyone; the entertainer for everyone; the silent writer that’s never expressed his views because it makes it easier for everyone for far too damn long.” He craned his neck over towards me. “Well guess what, buddy? Today’s your turn to be on the therapist’s couch.”
Before I could protest, he snapped his talons. Suddenly, I’m lying on my back on something soft. Looking around, I’m on a couch that has the same pattern as the enormous carpet next to me. Patterns of red, white and greens that look Saddle Arabian in origin. I noticed a wooden desk nearby, along with a few pedestals of mostly classical Pegasi busts, along with some Ancient Southern Equestrian statues, the Buddha, and next to the bookshelves was pictures of ancient Pegasi frescos. Reproductions by the look of it.
“Now that you’re finally taking the time out of your oh-so-busy schedule,” I looked over my head to find Discord, sitting cross-legged on a low green chair. He was holding a clipboard, had on a suit and a pipe blowing out bubbles. “Perhaps we could finally get around to you telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing except the truth about yourself.”
“Discord, why are you dressed like Sigmund Freud without the accent?”
“Because we both know how bad you are writing accents that aren’t American Southern or your own – now!” He turned to me. “On with your lesson.”
I sighed in annoyance, landing my head on the pillow beneath me. “Fine… Let’s get this over with.”
“Now the mind is usually the greatest source of trouble.” He began. “Usually, they come from thoughts that have not been untangled, carefully looked at, or properly confronted with. Because life, yours especially, has been moving so fast, you gather up these un-thought thoughts throughout each day. Sometimes, not being able to sleep at all at night is the revenge of your thoughts from not being given a voice. Because they are so muddled and unfocused, they generate static anxiety. Even give rise to looming clouds of doom and gloom without understanding why they’re there. Doing so is dangerous.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”
“Because if left unattended for far too long,” he said, “you can get snappy and become enraged. Have mental breakdowns without having a clue as to the cause of these inflections. So, I’m going to have you exercise your mind, to give you the techniques to clear up your mind and make sense of your silent feelings and ideas. Now, these priorities should ideally be set aside a few minutes a day either in the early morning or late at night. Have something to write down to anchor your self-interrogation with.”
“Huh… That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Then, you should ask yourself three important questions.”
“And there it is…” I said sarcastically, throwing my hooves up in the air.
“But, before I ask,” he added, “I know that having to respond to these, the mind gets nuts and probably easily frightened. Often times, something will come to mind, but it’s not clear as to what it is yet. It could be a word, a mental image, a place, a time, a name, even a set of numbers. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. For this to work, you must catch as many ideas that come to you without thinking too much. Just write everything you could down, no matter how minor, and don’t worry if it doesn’t make any sense.”
“So, this is an author’s version of the inkblot test?”
“If you like.” He nodded. “But the goal is through these questions is to give those silent thoughts and feelings room to speak.” With a clap, my typewriter appeared on my lap. “Now, are we ready?”
My hooves on the keyboard, I asked him to fire away.
“So, ask yourself this: What am I anxious about?”
Facing my keyboard and knowing very well that I’m about to turn on the light for me and the whole world to see. I’m about to paint my portrait in the most unflattering of lights. So, I let my mind go and give in to let a stream of consciousness flow out onto the page.
failure school Shakespur Equinities disappointment philosophy no future homelessness joblessness death outed sexuality loneliness forgotten never heard voiceless tyranny concentration camp news losing friends time persecution humiliation loss of audience helplessness parents truth Beatles unfinished war cold disease poison mom dad grandparents brother sisters damnation depression no way out environment left out faceless no impression help gone money dependence selfish abandoned
“Time’s up.” Discord suddenly said, ripping the page out from the typewriter. Looking over, he hummed in thought. “Fascinating…”
“Okay so I did that, now what?”
“The next step is to take this and put it through a sieve…” He then took out a sieve out of… hyperspace, I guess and dumped the paper into it. After shaking a bit, not only the letters fell out, but the office changed too. It got darker, bleaker and more ominous with every passing second. “Now, we look through what you’ve written and ask one important question: what is all of this anxiety really about?” He blew bubbles out of his pipe and several of them floated just above me. “Think back to what you’ve written and tell a story of an upcoming anxious event or events in great detail. Confront head on everything that may go wrong with these ideas. Don’t give yourself hope but still find a way how you’ll be okay regardless.”
“Well…” I put a hoof to my chin. “I think first off, I’m worried about this semester. I mean, can you blame me? After years and years of taking it slow, I’ve finally gotten the last two classes where I can finally get my associate's degree. The Cultural Anthropology class I’m sure I’ll be okay. But the Shakespur…” I sighed uneasily, “Okay, that one I’m worried about. I admit that now.”
I could feel Discord raising an eyebrow. “How come? I thought you didn’t mind the old Bard if he’s taught well.”
“Yeah, and he is here. Only… I’m worried about several things like watching films even though I don’t have the money to do so. Or the fact that I’ll have to perform in front of the class.”
“And what’s wrong with that? I thought you did it before a Speech class and you did fine.”
“Giving a lecture about classical music is one thing,” I informed him, “but it’s completely different when I have to memorize and act out a monologue from King freaking Lear! The famous storm speech no less! ‘Blow winds and crack your cheeks!’ And the worst part is I can’t change or add anything to it. If I fail this class, or Anthropology then… I’ve already failed Statistics and it cost me. Hugely too this time since I’m so close to graduating now.”
“Okay, now picture what that failure would be like.”
It didn’t take long. I spotted one of the bubbles floating nearby enacting that fear. I saw my embarrassing blunder in front of a very disappointed teacher. Immediately getting an F, followed by a graduation ceremony in which my name was not called upon, and the disappointed looks of my family.
“But even still,” Discord said, “how would you still be okay without sugarcoating this?”
“Well…” I said softly. “I suppose that if the worst comes to worst, I can still do another class again. Sure, I’ll have to jump through hoops like writing an appeal to try to convince whoever to grant my scholarship back. Even if I fail, that doesn’t mean I would just give up like that.”
“Good. And the other stuff?”
I thought for a moment. “I suppose the future is in question for me. There are so many things that I’m actually afraid of. On a personal level, I’m afraid of being jobless forever, no matter how hard I try to send applications or get degrees from the school. Recently, I figured out that I wanted to teach at a college level but, the stuff I like such as the Equinities and Philosophy… There’s no future in that. There are no hard-paying jobs of teaching a subject nopony wants to attend if it wasn’t a requirement.
“And on the bigger ends of life, there’s a reason why I avoided news like the plague because it’s all saying the same thing every day: Die now! There’s no hope! Being someone that is in the minority, I wouldn’t be shocked if my country turns to dictatorship, willingly. I wouldn’t be shocked if one day I’d be sent to a camp to be worked to death or die. And if that doesn’t happen, I’m afraid that the environment would in one way or another cause an apocalypse that no one is prepared for. Heck, maybe a war or a new black death that could wipe everything in an instant while we’re at it. But you wanna know the worst part of all of that? There’s not a single damn thing that I or anypony could do!”
Discord hummed. “Now, look at these and ask, even if they were to happen, how would you be okay?”
“I…” I shut my eyes. “I don’t think about it.”
“Try.” He said, “If you don’t, these fears will never go away unless you look them in the eye.”
It took a good… ten or so minutes to do so. But cracking open an eye, I saw in one of the bubbles me, unemployed and old while my friends already got jobs. And in others, I witness my beloved Equestria turned into something that resembled Germane during the Trozi reign, with uniformed ponies dragging me away to a death camp. In another, I saw infernos of forests, deserts of farms, and cities destroyed by heat, floods, winds, and snow. In another, I saw blood in war without end. And in another, sickness and death.
“Well…” I began. “I could say that in my personal case, even if I wouldn’t be able to find a job, I am on social security because of my disability. And that I still have my family that’s willing to support me as long as I have that drive to be in a job that helps us all.”
“And in the stuff the news fears?”
“… Seneca.”
Although I couldn’t see it, Discord was smiling. “Oh? And what about him?”
“There’s a story about him, his death. He was ordered by Emperor Nero to kill himself before his wife and children. And while the family wept bitterly, he on the other hoof slit his wrists in a bathtub calmly. He wasn’t hysterical. If anything, he had expected that something like this would happen. Close to death, he famously said this before he died: ‘What need is there to weep over parts of life? The whole of it calls for tears.’ I think that, even if the absolute worst thing could happen, when death comes by tyranny, or by nature itself, what else could it do once I’ve passed on? Once I’m dead, what further injury could it inflect when I’m beyond consciousness? It would, in some ways, free me from living a life of misery. If anything, because I have that one power that is beyond any tyrant’s or nature’s control, I could turn my wrists to the sky and declare ‘Freedom!’”
“Time out for two milliseconds,” Discord called out, blowing on a coach’s whistle. “Are you advocating thoughtless suicide where everyone should throw themselves off at the first sign of trouble.”
“No!” I shouted. “No! NO! NO! That’s not what I meant!”
“Oh? So, what are you trying to say? That suicide is fine as long as you have a reason to do so?”
“Okay, stop! That’s not what I’m talking about. I am not advocating for ending it all thoughtlessly. Nor am I suggesting that as soon as a crisis comes up that you should pull out the nearest knife. There are a few things that I need to make absolutely clear here. First off, I did try to kill myself once.”
The room got deadly quiet, and Discord’s head came into view. “Say what now?”
“Look, back when I was a little foal, I was upset by my parents for me being ordered about like a slave doing chores. I hated it. As a little kid, I had thought that this sort of tyranny would go on forever and ever without any stops. At the time, I thought that if I just stopped existing, then that too will stop. Then late at night, I took out the sharpest knife I could find and was going to plunge it into the stomach. Luckily for me, I tried to do it slowly. Turns out, I couldn’t do it, even when I tried to ease into it. That night I learned two important things that many find out only too late: that death is very painful; and that I realized how old I was.”
“What does that have to do with not killing yourself?”
“Because even as a little foal, I came to this realization, just because mom and dad are being so bossy to the point, I wasn’t much allowed to be a kid, doesn’t mean that it will always be like that forever. I asked myself how long, really, truly, would they keep it up? What if I die just right before things were about to get better? Sure, the sun goes down at night, but that doesn’t mean that it’ll never come back again. Perhaps it’s best to wait, so I put the knife back and went to bed. Now, while I had sometimes thought about ending it all when I was growing up as a teenager, the memory of the lesson I learned never went away and, in some ways, saved me.”
Discord sank back into his chair out of view. “And the other?”
“Seneca once said that ‘The wise will live as long as they ought, not as long as they can. They always reflect, concerning the quality of their lives, not the quantity. As soon as numerous events in their life give them trouble and disturb their peace of mind, they have the option of setting themselves free. And this privilege is theirs, not only when the crisis is upon them, but as soon as fortune seems to be maltreating them. The wise will look about carefully and judge whether or not they ought or ought not to end their life on that account. They’ll hold that it makes no difference to them if taking off should be natural or self-inflicted. They don’t regard it with fear as if it were a great loss, for no one can lose very much when but a driblet remains. It’s not a question of dying earlier or later, but of dying well or ill. And dying well means an escape from the danger of living ill.’ In other words, even the philosopher wasn’t advocating of random or thoughtless exits, rather he was trying to give all of us courage in the face of anxiety to remind us that we have a power within us to rationally choose a noble path.
“With me, I am not suicidal, let’s make that clear. I know how blessed I am, and I know perfectly well that I do have others that care about me. Even if I was, I won’t be satisfied by the ‘They’ll grieve for a bit, but they’ll get over it’ crap. If I die purposely by my hooves, they’ll never forgive me for it, even if I had a good reason. All I’m saying is that if I knew that there was truly, absolutely, no way that a situation is surviveable or that my captors are planning on torturing me, and intend to keep me in that state till I die, then I won’t give them that satisfaction.”
“Moving on,” Discord said, “What about the other things you’ve mentioned?”
“Well…” I became quiet for a long time. “My family still doesn’t know that I’m gay. And like that one story I wrote, I have no idea if my family would be… okay with it. Sure, a good chunk of my audience and my friends know and don’t care about it. But to my family? The ones that control the food, the shelter, and money? If they’re so disgusted by me just being there that they kick me out onto the streets… where would I go? Where would I turn for shelter? How would I get around? How would I get food? How would I get ahold of the money that a good portion of it is in my mother’s control? Then again, even if they were okay…” I sighed, sadly and deeply, “I wouldn’t be able to find love.”
This caught Discord by surprise. “What? Why would you say that?”
“I’m only stating the facts. Even if everyone is okay with it, I live in a town where I highly doubt there would be a significant part of the population where… Oh I don’t know, is male, has an attraction to the same sex, is roughly my age, isn’t boring or too crazy, that doesn’t drink or do harmful drugs, is smart, funny, won’t hurt me, doesn’t have a criminal record, has good taste in food, I can go on. But the point is that I have come to the conclusion a long time ago that I have just as much chance of finding a coltfriend than I do walking on the moon.”
“Yet, even with all of these things, how would you still be okay?”
“I… I suppose we do have homeless shelters here in town. If the worst comes to worst, I can always walk over there and… then figure out how to get those basic necessities. Besides, I still have my friends, although few they may be. Perhaps they could help me back as I have helped them. Besides, if my family did kick me out because I’m gay, I would rather live with them, the ponies that see me as… well… a pony. And besides, even if I believe that finding a coltfriend is impossible, as long as I still have those friends, I’ll be alright.”
“Good, good.” I heard Discord jotting something down on that clipboard. “But I believe there’s one area that you’re leaving out, is there?”
I nodded. “My audience. The readers. Discord, I’m not going to lie, I do appreciate the audience that I’ve built over the years. When I started, I didn’t think I was worth being listened to. For a long time, I wanted to be an author, a storyteller that would inspire ponies far and wide. That I would put down intriguing ideas, fantastic characters, and stories that others would engage in. But given my disabilities, my lack of speaking clearly all the time, my poor writing skills, and the fact that I still have no clue how to publish a book into print… For a while, I gave up.
“But then, I found them. Slowly at first, I earned the attention of so many from across the world. Yet, the more stories I’ve worked on, there was a growing concern that I wouldn’t be able to finish some of those stories I’ve started. And I don’t want to be that guy. I want to be the sort of pony that once he does something, he finishes it. But now… With The Beatle, The Lioness and The Unicorn, the Inverno Sequel, just to name a few that haven’t been touched in months… At times… I wonder. You know?”
“Care to elaborate?”
“I mean… What if in the end, I disappoint them? It’s really stupid, I know, but I can’t help but think that after all these years of not having that voice, of being faceless, of being invisible, that nopony wants to listen to what I have to say, of not having an impact on anyone… What if I’m condemned forever, even when I do have an audience, to end up being… forgotten? Forever. And if I fail them… What then? What purpose do I have left in life? A storyteller is nothing without an audience after all. As much as I’ve grown to appreciate them, trust in their constructive criticism, and humbly appreciate their compliments… What do I do when they go away?”
Discord didn’t say anything at first. “But even here, how would you still be okay?”
I breathed in deeply. “If… When they go… And I’m not able to publish a word, all I can do is try to learn something truly difficult.”
“And what’s that?”
“That the only audience I still need to please… is myself. That I should still continue to write good things. In the beginning, I never expected to gain so much as a following. I have to remember that between writing for popularity and writing stories that are good, I must always choose the latter because while popularity fades, the good stuff has always had something to come back to. I won’t lie in saying that it’s hard to think otherwise that now I do have an audience that it isn’t hard to prepare myself when I may not have it. For it is. I’m not ready yet, but I still must be ready.”
“Good, that covers the first bit.” Discord said, a snap later and there’s a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter. “Now to answer the next question to ask yourself: Who am I upset with and why?”
Facing the blank page, I lifted my hooves over the keys and, once again, let my consciousness type.
Jannat – betraying my trust. Brother – getting angry at things that shouldn’t be angry over and at times being oblivious to others. Mom – more butler than a son. Shakespur teacher – turning me into an idiot. The lady from Upper Valley – never saw me as an adult. Editors who said they would edit before suddenly stopping. Dad – for continuously asking me to do things right in the middle of writing/studying.
“And time’s up.” Discord ripped out the page from the typewriter and hummed. “Now this is interesting.”
“What? That it’s shorter?”
“That, and your ire is targeted at seven individuals for oddly specific reasons.”
“Hey, you asked me who I’m upset with and why.”
“Yes, but let’s take a closer look at these, shall we? Now I want you to retell all the upsetting incidences you’ve faced, in detail, but towards a friend that’s extremely kind, interested and patient.”
“What? Like you?”
“No,” he whistled, “him.”
Looking around at the office, I didn’t know what he was talking about until I heard the tapping of glass that was coming from above me. It was then that I spotted that in the reproductions of an Ancient Pegasi fresco, was my best friend, Artie. A Pegasus that had a coat that was a couple of shades lighter than mine, a curly blond mane and beard, and a cutie mark that I instantly recognized to be his – a pallet of every primary and secondary colors with a crossing paintbrush and pencil underneath. The drawing of my friend waved at me.
“Hey Brony,” he waved at me, “are you doing alright?”
“Artie?”
“Eh… kinda.” He said, “I’m more of that extremely kind, interested and patient friend that Discord here thought would make it easier to talk to.”
“That sounds a little on the nose, isn’t it?”
“Hey, truth in advertisement and what have ya. Now come on, what’s wrong?”
‘I’m really doing this,’ I thought, ‘I’m gonna talk to a drawing of my best friend. Then again, Discord is here, so this should be a Thursday to him.’ So laying back down I looked up at the drawing. “Well… The truth is that it may not look like it, but I guess I’m still… upset by a few things.”
“You are? Why?”
“Well… Where do I start? You remember Jannat – let’s just call her that. That young lady that volunteered to voice one of my characters for an audiobook?”
“Eh… kinda, not really.”
“Okay well… to make a very long story short, she got depressed at one point to where she not only turned suicidal but got all of us involved too.”
“In what way?”
“By trying to talk her out of killing herself. I remember one day that the narrator of the story we’re doing called me up in a panic saying that she has made up her mind to end it all and wouldn’t listen to anyone except for us. Looking back, I guess it made sense as, at the time, I was more or less the therapist for the group. In short, I did manage to talk her down from it and let go of the rope. Now, you would think that at this point that her friends and family that were near to her would – oh, I don’t know – get her some help. And for a while, it looks like that was what was happening.
“Eventually she got ahold of a therapist called Sage, now the reason why she asked for us is to create a sort of failsafe that, if we got ahold that Jannat was gonna do that again, then we could inform her of what’s going on so she could rush over and save her. And the thing was, her suicide attempts got a little more frequently because she tried to kill herself every two weeks or so. We would try to have her keep talking while Sage would rush over to make sure things are alright.”
“That sounds really stressful, dude.” The copy of my friend in the picture said.
“Oh, that’s nothing. Then one day she told us that now this bully’s not only stalking her, but attempted to foalnap her, and then, one very stressful day, we got word that Sage was suddenly disappeared. Jannat told us that she was being held for ransom and if she doesn’t comply by going with ‘em, then they’ll kill Sage. We told her not to give in and… well, they killed Sage.”
“Holy crap!”
I shook my head. “But, do you wanna know something? The day after, I started to investigate by looking into the local newspapers of that area where she lived. One would think that maybe Jannat or her family would have called the police and the very least report Sage missing or maybe get their assistance from someone so hostile. And do you know what I found?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing. There wasn’t a single report about it anywhere. Well, I thought that, well, maybe it’s because they don’t have any significant evidence or something. But a week later, Jannat called in a panic saying that she was home alone with her friend when the house got broken in. And although while she escaped, her friend wasn’t so lucky and was murdered there in the house. Now I thought that there’s no possible way to kill some pony and not pick up any evidence such as blood or broken stuff or… something. So, I tried to look into it for a good two weeks, and did you know what I found? Nothing!
“But then, several weeks later, she got me and the narrator together and told us the truth – that she lied and asked for our forgiveness. And for many out there, they would have been angry and wouldn’t be so forgiving, after we have been lied to twice. However, as a guy that does believe in second chances, I did forgive her.
“However, from there, her attempts at suicide increased to the point where it was a daily occurrence. Every evening I was in dread that maybe, this would be the night where she would go away for good. But the longer this went on, the more I couldn’t help but think how neglectful her friends and family are over there. I mean, if I did anything remotely what she has done, my parents would send me straight to rehab, no questions asked! And the next morning when we were checking up on her, she said that she’ll be fine and she really needs to get to school – as if nothing has ever happened!
“Then one night, while I was out with the guys, I got word that she had recently escaped from a foalnapping, that she is trying to head back home by train and she’s really tired. It was stressful several hours, but eventually, she did return home. But, guess what happened not too long after that?”
“She called up to say that she lied?”
“Bingo! And you know what, while I have forgiven her, she had officially crossed my three-strike rule. At this point, I could not trust her enough to so much as talk to her.”
“So that’s the end of it, right?”
“Oh, if only that were so easy. You see, while I did cut her off, she also happened to be part of a few groups that I and the narrator were in. The kind where we get together and try to make audiobooks. Well, one night, after saying that she wasn’t going to try to be suicidal anymore, she sent a picture in the group of her swallowing a hoofful of pills. That, royally ticked me off.”
“Why? Because she was doing it again?”
“That, and I caught her in another lie.”
“Really? Which was what?”
“That she said at one point that she had a hard time swallowing pills, she, in fact, said she didn’t like doing it because of a gag reflex or something. Yet, there she was, swallowing an entire hoofful without so much as a glass of water. Oh… I was furious that night that, while we did talk her down and her family got her to safety, I was so angry that I had to walk away from the group entirely.
“But the thing is…” I sighed, “while as much as I don’t talk to her anymore, sometimes, I still check up on her to see if she’s still around. Yeah, I know I shouldn’t, but the thing is that when I first met her through those letters, she didn’t seem at all the manipulative type. She was still in high school who was, overall, a nice enough person. She wasn’t what I would call evil. And yet… She lied. For whatever reason be it her mental state or whatever, she lied to us. I still remember the panic she induced on us, how we, including myself, tried every argument we could think of to convince her that life was worth living for. Who knows, maybe she had Schizophrenia or something, but the fact that she dragged strangers into a state of dread day in and day out, continuously worried, continuously scared for her safety? I just…”
I fell quiet for a while. “Do you think that maybe… I did the right thing of letting her go? While a part of me is still upset over the lies, the manipulation, and sending the narrator into a series of panic attacks… Am I still checking up on her from time to time because of how much I realized that I’m a monster of sorts?”
The drawing of Artie shook his head. “I don’t know, and probably not. I mean, you’re not a therapist, and as far as I know, you never had to deal with anypony who was suicidal before. And maybe the fact that you check up on her probably means that on some level, you think that she’s not entirely evil.”
“I’m sorry, but did you miss the part where she manipulated and lied to us several times, over something so serious and yet she hardly did anything during that time?”
“Yes, I’ve heard from you. But let me ask you a few things: How would you feel if I had ended up doing what she had done to you?”
“Well I… That is different.”
“In what way?”
“Dude, unlike her, you live in the same town as I am. If I had heard that you were being suicidal, if you let me know what you’re gonna kill yourself and don’t bother stopping you, you can forget it because I would be the first to drop everything and gallop as quick as I can to keep you alive because… That’s how much you mean to me. And I wouldn’t care if you protested how much your life sucked, I would, out of our friendship, drag you to rehab or a mental hospital for your own good.”
“Okay, and did you think that she did what she did just to be mean?”
“I…” I slumped into the couch. “Honestly, I may never know. During the whole fiasco, I had started to suspect that maybe she had some mental illness like my mom’s dad did. He was Schizophrenic and what she did kinda sounded familiar. So, I looked up the common symptoms and yep! They were almost beat for beat similar. Chances are, all of those things really did happen in her head and couldn’t tell from a hallucination from reality. But I sometimes wondered that even if she did have something like that, was it really right for her to drag us into it? When none of us know what to do?”
“Cracked,” the drawing of Artie said, “if this happened to me too, what advice would you give me?”
“Well… I would, maybe with help from dad, advise you to go see a therapist who can prescribe something. Maybe pills, maybe psychotherapy, and to remind you that as I’m not so well experienced in mental illness, I don’t know how else to help you. I mean, sure, there is plenty of stuff that I carry, but the last thing I would want is to burden anyone with it.”
“I guess that’s fair.” The drawing nodded. “What about your family? Your younger brother, mom, and dad? Why are you so upset with them?”
“Look, don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate any of them outright. There’s just some… things that really get under my skin.”
“Like what?”
“For example, my parents, as much as I love them and am loyal to them, there are things they do that irritate me. In some ways, ever since I’m able to move around more, I’m pretty much their errand colt. Not just picking up groceries, but at any moment, one of them would call me up and ask me to run or go with them to do something that would take several hours to accomplish. It doesn’t matter for either of them what I was doing, I may be studying up for a big exam for tomorrow and I could be called up to help move a bunch of props or deliver documents around that would take out a good several hours of what little study time I have. On some days, I often think that I’m more of their butler, an employee than their son.
“And my little brother? Look, I know he has to take his medication so he wouldn’t get so easily trigger happy but when it does happen… On the one hoof, it gets so ridiculous as to over what he gets upset about. For us, it would come out completely out of the blue. We could ask him to load the dishes into the dishwasher and he would just go off for almost an hour. And on the other, as weird as it sounds, whenever I see him get angry, I have to try to hold myself back from not screaming at him back. Especially the things he would say that would get any of us upset. You could try to reason with him, but it only makes it worse.”
The drawing nodded. “Why do I have a feeling that your folks aren’t always easy to live with?”
“Well… I guess it depends on what’s going on each day, you know? There are days that they’re alright and what they ask of me is reasonable. And others… not so much.”
“Okay, so how would you think if I had ended up doing what they’re doing to you?”
I paused for a long moment. “Alright, to be fair, I’m not stupid of what my parents had gone through. Both of them had to work hard to get where they have gotten. Dad had undergone several job changes, and mom? She said so herself that she has been brought up to work, get things done right there and then, and no matter how long it takes you to finish it.”
“Sounds like a guy I know.”
“And my brother…” I sighed, “As much as he annoys me, I can’t entirely hold any of that stuff against him. To be fair, we aren’t necessarily close. I don’t talk to him much, which I shouldn’t hold him in the account for asking stupid questions because I don’t communicate with him often, to begin with. And for his anger… Well, he has been working a lot as a student and his new job of being a moving guy. Perhaps he’s undergoing a good deal of stress and just scolding him for being angry isn’t helping much.”
“So, I take it that you don’t think that they did what they did just to be mean?”
I shook my head. “Unlike… you-know-who, they’re not doing any of this stuff just because. They’re juggling jobs and of course, they need help or aren’t fully aware of what the other is doing all the time. Sometimes I barely keep track of what year it is.”
“Now if this happened to me, what advice would you give me?”
“Honestly… I have no idea.”
“Okay, and the others? The Shakespur teacher, the lady from Upper Valley, and the Editors that drop out?”
“Well to put it short, Artie, the teacher because that as much as I try to contribute to the class, I’m starting to get the sense that he might think of me like an idiot as if he’s expecting me to already know some of this stuff. Plus, it doesn’t help that he prefers to lecture instead of asking us for some input… At the same time, I know there’s a part of me that says that’s not necessarily true, but that’s how I feel about it for the moment.
“That lady from Upper Valley? The thing is that while I don’t go to that Adult Developmental Center anymore, that one staff member to this day still gets under my skin.”
“How come?”
“I think it’s because, during the time I was there, I had one of these goals in which I’m supposed to keep track of a budget. I had this little notebook where I write down the receipts so I can figure out how much I have. Now, I would look through the receipts and do the math, then she would check my calculations. If she found that my total added up to hers, she would tell me I've done a good job and she goes away. However, if I made a mistake somewhere, then she would give me a good ten-minute-long lecture on how I should be more careful with my money. Now, this may not be so bad if she did this once, but no! This happened every, single, time, I, made, a, mistake. I mean, what’s her deal? I overlooked carrying the two and then she goes on at me like I was a five-year-old. And she knew perfectly well that I’m in college! I’m convinced that she does that simply because she happens to know I have a few mental disabilities that she thinks I’m stupid.”
“And the Editors?”
“Well… you see, since I have a very limited budget, I can’t exactly pay anyone to be my editor for my stories. Which is why I rely on my readers. You see, nearly everything from the editing to sometimes the artwork is purely volunteer work. I figured that it’s best if they come to me to do this, simply because I know that they’re doing this because they wanted to. However, I have lost track of how many times that some editors (not all of them mind you) would work on a few chapters here and there before suddenly dropping out entirely without any warning. It’s so disheartening to have them just ghost me without so much as giving me a ‘Hey, due to some difficulties, I can’t do this right now so I gotta sort this out.’ Now… I’m not entirely ignorant that those editors have lives of their own. As a college student, I completely understand that some things take up priority. I get that. However, to just suddenly disappear without giving me some notice… it does get to me.”
“I see, but do you think they’re doing all this stuff just to be mean?”
“Well… I guess not.” I slumped back further into the couch. “I suppose the teacher probably didn’t want to come up as a bit… stand-off-ish. The lady probably held on to some faulty assumptions about me (to be fair, most of the clients at that Developmental Center weren’t as high functioning as I am). And the Editors… Again, I can’t hold it against them as they have no reason to stay committed to my works as they do have lives of their own.
“Now, can we move on to the last question you have, Dr. Discord Freud?”
“Oh, very well,” Discord said. “For this next bit, call on your mind of all the thoughts that are related to ambition or excitement. This can include positive emotions which include smidges of interest, whispers of enthusiasm or the like that drive around that highway of your pre-consciousness.
“Now, the question is this: what are you currently feeling excited, envious, or desire for?”
Assuming that this is going to have to be something like the last few methods, I turned to my typewriter with a fresh new page. Letting myself relax at its keys and type out what has captured my interest.
Thorax story. TheVClaw. East Coast. The Beatles Albums. Graduation. Bedroom. Artie. Finishing stories. Home. Independence. Art. New painting. Teacher.
“Time’s up.” Discord took hold of the paper from the typewriter. I looked over in time to see an eyebrow raised. “These are some oddly specific things.”
“Well yeah? So?”
“I mean, these are some very specific things.” He said, an elastic arm stretching out for the windows and pulling a cord, opened the blinds to let some light in. “Starting with this one: Thorax story? What’s that about?”
“Oh!” I rolled off the couch. “Well, recently a certain writer had suggested a story months ago, and I’m thinking of turning it into a comedic one-shot. I won’t give away what it’s about here, but needless to say, I’m looking forward to doing it.”
“But, what about me?” Discord asked, looking puppy-eyed pitiful.
“Don’t worry, I’m close to finishing the Philosophy series with Fluttershy. I just think that I may need a short break before finishing it.”
“Well if you say so. And something about the East Coast?”
“My dad is thinking about having us go on a big trip, but I don’t know where exactly. Filliladelphia or Manehattan? If it does happen, I really would love to go there to see what it's like over there.”
“And I suppose the ‘Finishing stories’ bit has something to do with what you hope to accomplish with your writings?” I nodded. “But the other stuff, however, peaks my interests. Come to the window and tell me more about them.” So I did, “TheVClaw, are we talking about the writer?”
I nodded. “The thing is that, while I have talked to him, and that I admire his comedy stories, as well as glad for him of finding independence with his coltfriend… The thing is that I’m… a bit envious of him.”
“In what way?”
Before I could speak, there in the window I spotted the green author, asleep in bed, snoring. “Well…” I explained to him, “I don’t have anything against him as a writer, nor the fact that he’s in a relationship that sounds happy. It’s just that this guy has gained not just more followers than what I have, but also that he’s in the process of publishing a book. An actual book in print! Honestly, I don’t know how to do any of that and I’m sure that he has enough of an audience to demand to own a copy of his book. Plus, writing for comedy or drama, this guy is a genius. The Moztrot of literature in my eyes that…”
“You feel like compared to him, you’re Salieri.”
“At least I don’t want to murder him but… yeah, I feel envious towards what he has accomplished and is about to accomplish.”
“So you’re envious that he has more followers, has fantastic writing skills, and he’s about to publish a book?” I nodded. “Well, that’s a great start to dive into.”
“Huh?”
“If you have to change your life in certain ways,” he inquired, clipboard in his tail, “what would you think he would have to say to you in light of this?”
“I don’t know… He probably would say that my view is out of proportion. But… Maybe he would tell me not to worry so much about the popularity or my writing. That getting a book to publish is all a matter of research or something of the like.”
“Good.” He nodded, scribbling something down. “And what’s this about albums from The Beatles?”
“That’s easy. I’ve recently gained an appreciation for their music so I’m hoping that I would be able to collect their albums to add on to my music collection. At least, get the good stuff.”
“Ah-huh. And Graduation?”
“I’m about to get my associates in May.”
“And what about the Bedroom?”
“Well… It slowly dawned on me that I may want to change up my room a little. That if I had enough money, I would make it nicer and more to my tastes.”
“Which are?”
“A new ceiling fan, for one. A tiffany glass lamp by the bed. A black, wooden rocking chair for the desk. Some new bookshelves to store all the books I’ve collected over the years. And maybe the room could use some new paint for the walls.”
“Interesting… So if this new room could talk, what do you think it would say about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“The thing about a bedroom is that it’s supposed to be a room that reflects you. Right?” I nodded. The windows suddenly changed to where we peer into my room. Only, it’s different. The black but elegant furniture was still there, along with the desk, bed, and books. Except, this room resembled more of a Victorian study. One where there are bookshelves that go from floor to ceiling, light fixtures that wouldn’t seem out of place a good century or so ago, and old fashion furniture. “To me, it would be the ideal room for a great-great-grandpa.” Discord commented.
I laughed. “Yeah, I can see that but… What can I say? I’m an old soul.”
“In what way?”
“Well, I tend to favor older things. Antiques, classic books, music that predates the seventies… Of course, I do like some modern stuff, but the thing with me is that I never grew up playing mindless video games or watching shows that were outside from the media we were fed with. I’ve always known that I’m the odd kid for liking such stuff, but somehow, in some way, having a room that looks like this feels like… home.”
“Alright,” he looked at his clipboard. “And what about your best friend, Artie? Are you envious or is there something excited surrounding him?”
“Well… I guess you could say that now I’m a little envious.”
“In what way?” The window now changed to that of a spacious, yet messy bedroom. And there in the corner with an artist’s desk was my best friend, drawing away.
“Well, he did something that at the moment, I couldn’t do. He moved out. And I say that considering the constricting place that was his mother’s – as well as the lack of privacy that was his brother’s, he recently ended up at a group home. Sure, he has restrictions here as well, but he’s more independent here than ever before.”
“Okay, so why do you want that he has?”
I shrugged. “Independence. A small place that I could call home. I know what stands in the way of that becoming a reality. The truth is that while I’m okay financially, it’s not quite enough yet for me to get an apartment somewhere and move out on my own. I’m still a student that doesn’t have a job that is secured yet. Of course, I don’t know how much I would need to live on my own, but I figured that once I get a degree that’s at least a Bachelors's, I will find that job. With it comes financial support, and from there, independence.”
“So what about the last three things? Art. New painting.”
“And teacher? Well, something tells me that my paintings may have given me a clue about what career to pursue.”
The window changed again, and in a classroom, there is me walking and talking to other students about their paintings.
“You want to be an art teacher?” Discord asked.
“Well… It’s still all up in the air at this point, but recently, while the Equinities may not have that many opportunities for a stable income, perhaps teaching in the field of art might be my best option so far. I mean sure, I may self-taught when it comes to painting, but if I were to accomplish that, I would need an art class. Probably several! But given what skills I have thought, maybe this has some sort of promise for me in the future.”
“That is if something happens to change that.”
I nodded. “True, as I said, this is still up in the air once I get my associates. But I do have faith that going to these classes might be the key to my future.”
“Well, well…” Discord hummed as he looked at his clipboard. “It looks like you have a better grasp on what makes you excited than the other two. By the looks of it, you’ve taken your first steps and,” he pulled out a pocket watch. “It looks like our time is up, Mr. Inkwell.”
The office melted away back into my orange bedroom. While the classical artifacts faded away, so too did Discord’s outfit.
“So, what was the point in doing all of that?” I asked him. “If this was meant to be a sort of therapy, I doubt that it did much.”
“And you would be correct.” He nodded, floated over to me. “But by answering these three questions, you’ve started to unscramble those confusing thoughts that tended to be clogged up. Sure, doing this meditation doesn’t solve your problems, but now, your problems have a name and a cause. Because you can now identify them more easily, you can now start to figure out where to go from here. Tell me, how do you feel?”
“I’m…” I blinked. “Calm, as if there’s been a weight that I didn’t think was there and is gone now.”
“The trick with this is to do this often. Now I prescribe you do this at least once a week and don’t slack off because otherwise, you’ll have much to clean out.”
“Okay, but how does doing all of that getting me to know better about-”
“Think about it. You’ve spent a good deal of time looking at yourself in a light that nobody would want to look at. You did something that a good chunk of the population wouldn’t do.”
“Really? What’s that?”
“Get to know yourself a little better.” He said before he started falling through the floor.
“Hey! Where are you going?”
“I have other lessons to teach! Duh!” He told me before his head and horns disappeared completely through the hardwood.
Now left alone, I sat on the bed. ‘Huh,’ I thought. ‘You know, doing that, it wasn’t so scary. Maybe… all this time I didn’t have anything to be afraid of. For there’s nothing in the dark.’
I turned to my typewriter, still on the bed and the page was still blank.
“Welp,” I told myself, lying on the bed and setting the machine on my lap, “the show must go on.”
I started typing.