//------------------------------// // Session 1 (Twilight Sparkle) // Story: Mind over Midnight // by Moproblems Moharmoney //------------------------------// The 'Therapy Room' as Sonata dubbed it, was meant to be an oasis of calm, created by following the general themes suggested by my peers and teachers in its design. Cool colours, neutral paintings, that kind of thing. I'd specifically chosen the floor though. Black linoleum covered in a complex, interweaving, golden pattern of my own design. Cost a pretty penny, but most definitely worth it in my line of work. Complementing the design were some new handcrafted wall hangings. The brushwork wasn't perfect, unfortunately, the book from Constantineighple had been a real pig to copy. Even with all this though I wasn't exactly relaxed. The 'special' cases were hard for me but necessary. It's why I entered my field in the first place, but it never got any easier really. Echoes of the past I suppose, fear lurking under the surface, all the good stuff. Even with all the data telling me otherwise though, I had to prepare for the worst. Ever since I called Velvet Sparkle my days had consisted of a mixture of mundane client work, with more esoteric labour in my downtime. Despite the infrequency of the 'special' cases though, I'd mastered the ability to cut them off from my standard work. My clients paid good money for their therapist's attentiveness and I wouldn't sacrifice that by daydreaming on the merits of arcane formulae. I'd even slept better, a dark irony in hindsight. Like a flash the door opened and shut, its harsh click signalling a familiar, subtle, shift in the air pressure of the room. It was expected, but the feeling still threw me every time. Meeting Twilight Sparkle, the first word that came to my mind was 'fragile'. With a rail-thin physique and a natural petiteness that enhanced this to an almost unhealthy state, she looked as if a strong breeze could knock her down. Yet part of her parents' notes said she'd flipped an oak table during an 'episode', something that required three waiters to right. The next word was 'victim', it was almost an addition to the first really. Not only did Miss Sparkle appear physically weak, but there was her dress sense. I'll admit to not being 'down with the youth' when it came to sartorial eloquence, but even I knew she was dressing a tad...young. Between the mary janes, the puffy shirt, and the bow tie, well it was as if a child had picked her outfit for her. Not to mention the coke bottle glasses. I respect everyone's individuality, and officially can't judge anyone's actions or lifestyle choices. Realistically though, I remember the horrors of high school, and she looked like a prime target. Throw in her ludicrous intelligence and you had an outsider, someone who was sold the lie that they could be whoever, or whatever, they wanted with zero repercussions from their peers. The paperwork had spoken for itself. A lamb to the slaughter. Furthermore, she was nervous, shifting and fidgeting in her seat every few seconds, with eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. Her parents should have damn well explained the situation to her, I'd highlighted how too many sessions with my younger clientele fall apart in the first five minutes if their family dumps them at my practice's doorstep. Those concerns increased however when she paused at the wall hangings for a few seconds too long. That was...worrisome. Still, there was only one way forward. “Hello Miss Sparkle.” I pause for a second, allowing time to smile while I asses the basics. Equal seat and height spacing? Check. Non-threatening body posture? Check. Coffee table with tissues, water, glasses and generic plastic flowers as a natural barrier? Check. “My name is Calmy Storm, I'll be your psychotherapist for this session, are you ok with that?” She nods swiftly, an audible gulp hanging in the air. Why is she so frightened? “Good. I have a general rule, 'If you don't want to be here, you don't have to'. This process is all about communication after all, in my experience those most reluctant to engage tend to be the most unready for the healing process, unfortunately.” “I guess...” She's speaking into her navel, her voice barely a whisper. It's clear she's not here willingly, but there's something else at play. Maybe her parents threatened her? No, no, I need to focus on facts, not theories. They come once the puzzle starts to fit together. “So Miss Sparkle-,” “Twilight!” she practically yells at me. There's a beat before her posture softens, some kind of realisation kicking in. “I-I prefer to be called Twilight, please.” Shame crosses the girl's face momentarily before melting back into the nervous indifference of someone in a new and unhappy experience. I was very familiar with that look. “That's fine Twilight. So, how are things going for you, right now that is?” A simple icebreaker, but you can't just start where you think you need to be, especially if the client isn't willing. It's almost like a videogame, fighting the final boss early isn't ideal until you've gone through all the sidequests. She's cagey now, looking for some kind of hidden meaning. One of the few benefits of working with conventionally smart clients. They tend to be high IQ and poor EQ, trying to out-think me as if this is a trap, rather than a genuine attempt at outreach. It takes a minute of fidgeting, but she finally settles on an answer. “Things are...ok, right now.” it's slow and measured, testing the waters to see if there's a bomb. Hopefully, this wasn't how the entire session would pan out. I was a patient man, but it did get tiresome being seen as a threat for a whole hour. Then again she wasn't suggesting violence, so it was going better than the last 'special' case so far. “Ok? That's good.” There's silence between us. I don't push. It's an option but this is an odd case, in more ways than one. The quiet is a surprisingly good tool as well. Whilst nominally allowing for reflection, it tends to throw first-timers off. They have certain expectations of what my job entails, mostly inaccurate. “Aren't you going to say anything? Ask any questions?” Case in point. I smile again, trying to keep a calm atmosphere for the rattled girl. She's not angry, but confused and unsure of herself. The clock behind me creaks in a certain way and I know for a fact we've been here fifteen minutes now. Well, that's a record. Usually, they only take five minutes of silence. “What questions would you like me to ask, Twilight?” I say, aware of how irritated people felt when asked. It's not a goad but a valid question, I'm no mind reader after all. “My job is to help you and so far...well so far I know nothing about you.” A lie, but a necessary one. It wasn't the standard practice of course but this whole thing was bizarre, incentivising some openness from her could help smooth this interaction over. Or blow up in my face. “You could ask!” she snaps back, no discomfort with her anger this time. Settling in my chair the sigh forms unconsciously, “Twilight. I could ask you a million questions about your life, I've little doubt it'll all be interesting. Your parents said you're a very clever young woman with a lot of prospects ahead of you after all,” my hands' steeple, it's time to get serious, “But they're also worried about you, hence why you're here. Now if you don't want to talk to me about your problems that's fine, but your body language, your tone, it all suggests you're upset and it's not just because your here-” “Age six.” An eyebrow raises slowly, I can't appear too surprised. She's actually opening up. “That's the first time I really remember being bullied, I think it goes back further but that's the earliest I know for certain. Even eidetic memory has limitations.” Twilight gazes at the floor, her voice still, almost monotone. It's a breakthrough, but I have a feeling it's a painful one for her. “My brother admits he didn't react well to a new child in the household, you'd probably say he felt like he was being replaced. He apologised when we were older, and said he was a brat. The first memory of a bully is still my brother though, tormenting me for simply existing.” I consider interjecting, but before I can the floodgates open. It's long. She occasionally pauses to sip from a freshly poured glass of water, but besides that, it's a never-ending rollercoaster from well-meaning but clueless parents to the grim social Darwinism of crystal preparatory school. A girl who was knocked down at every attempt to stand up, who retreated into her books to avoid the cruel world, where every interaction with her peers highlighted her crippling failure. I attempt to take notes initially but give up, it's a year-by-year playbook of someone's life, with every flaw, error and faux pas chiselled down with ruthless efficiency. By her early teens, we hit the mental health issues, the depression, the self-loathing, the obsessiveness. A brief mention of self-harm is casually peppered with a vague impression of intermittent bulimia and body dysmorphia, the relaxed nature of it all unsettling me. She's earnest, but it feels too much. There's more, but it all starts to blend, the few friends she mentions are never spoken in a positive light, it's always the harm she caused them, disturbingly. When the girl finally stops tears are forming on the edge of her eyes and she looks to be one loud noise away from having a panic attack. Pausing to consider my next words carefully I slide the open box of tissues across the table, this is a monumental amount of trauma that needs to be treated with care, people have made rash decisions with only a third of what's been described to me. “Well Twilight, first of all, I'd like to thank you. It takes an awful lot of courage to be that open and forthright during your first session.” She nods, tears already escaping as the sobs begin. The girl has been carrying this weight for god knows how long. I'd definitely need to talk to her parents later though, we're honestly lucky to catch her now before things got worse. The split personality ridiculousness though was clearly as I initially assessed, self-diagnosis of a damaged teen lashing out. She probably preferred a new name out of spite, then again she did react oddly to just 'Miss Sparkle'. Curious. Beginning to scribble notes, I idly noticed her removing those abominable glasses, the sobs continuing lightly, now into a bundle of tissues. Text runs across the notebook as my attention wavers, vague memories of specialists flooding my mind. We'd need some outside experts that could help us here, maybe a few. This was quickly turning into more than a one-man job. “Next I'd like to book you in for more sessions, and perhaps see if we can talk to your general practitioner, have a look into some medication to deal with the depression first of all before we start...” Reading glasses make a very distinctive noise when damaged, especially when crushed. Watching the self-described 'ten-pound weakling' do so was practically alien. The ruined mass of plastic and metal was dropped from her hand, lens shards scattering across the floor. Now, when the tissues were pulled away from her face, my assessment of Twilight Sparkle quickly changed. The first words that had come to mind initially had been 'fragile' and 'victim'. Now the word was singular and terrifying. “Demon.” “Midnight actually,” her eyes now framed by aquamarine flame, “but I'll take that as a compliment.”