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// Entry One: Self-Assessment 
// Story: The Psychological Journal of Inkblot 
// by Hjspalenka 
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	Before beginning my endeavor to analyze all the ponies I see in my everyday life, I find it only fair that I subject myself to the same harsh judgement I shall impose upon the others. As I have come to learn in my profession, nopony truly knows themselves until they begin to try to understand why they are. Not who, but why. Having not yet taken any steps to learn as to why I am, I expect there will be more entries revolving around myself as I uncover more about myself, including some parts I fear I cannot admit to myself are problems. As the mere existence of this journal can attest to, I have an obsessive personality, which I believe began when I was but a colt. After the accident from which I got my cutie mark, my father never truly felt I had gotten it, but that the mark was simply paint that refused to come off of it. He tried to get me to do new things, and do them well, to discover my talent, but my talent truly is with Psychology. He still thinks I am a blank flank, but that is for another entry. I did take something away from his pushing, if something is worth doing, it is worth doing right, and indeed I intend to do this journal right, and have no intentions of ending it before I feel I understand everypony I see more than they understand themselves, or more than they want to.

Of course, my obsessions have sprouted yet another problem for me. I have a sort of anti-social problem, I don't avoid meeting other ponies, but find that I judge them too harshly, a sort of pessimism that comes with the job. I do have a few friends, but far fewer than many of my fellow citizens in Ponyville. Unfortunately, even with friends I am never off the job. as I often find myself analyzing my friend Grey Matter, and finding the flaws in his own mind. A peculiar case that one, but again, a story for another entry. 

Perhaps most disturbing about my psychology is the thought that I was not always like this. There was once a time when I was a carefree foal, like everypony else, but my chosen profession, and my father's reaction, changed me, and dulled my emotions in some capacity. I still feel things, and I await the day that I shall meet somepony who can warm my heart (One thing Grey and I share is our desire for an emotion neither of us have ever felt before). I suppose there is no point in teasing whoever may read this journal, so to give you more understanding into who, and why, I am, I shall explain how I got my cutie mark. I was aiding my father in repainting the kitchen, and my mother was quite an inspired woman, so amidst all the new colors, she wanted to add some black accents to the walls. It was quite an aesthetically pleasing design, so much so that I payed more attention to the art on the walls than my father on his stepladder. Sure as I am here today, he fell off of it and spilled the small bucket of paint, which splashed on me. My white coat was splattered with black paint, and upon figuring out what had happened, my eyes were drawn to my flank. There I saw a splotch of paint, and immediately a Rorschach test came to mind. I realized then that my interest in the topic was actually something more, and as luck would have it, my Cutie mark took the form of that same exact patch of paint. My father, fearing that the paint would stain my coat, rushed my to the bathroom to wash it off. Upon my return, still having that spot, he sent me back to wash again. No matter how often I told him it was my Cutie Mark, he felt he had robbed me of my talent. The remainder of my foalhood was filled with him rushing me from one activity to another, trying to find my true talent. I faced activities with a cold, calculating mind by some point, and have remained that way ever since. 

I would not go so far as to say I was raised in a broken home, but it did seem to be near crumbling. My father and I still rarely speak, not that we hold anything against each other, my father just feels nervous speaking to me, because to him, I am a full grown stallion who was robbed (by him) of a cutie mark, and in turn, his obsession, which sparked mine, has caused him to neglect my mother. Their relationship remains strained to this very day, which I am left to fear I caused, in some indirect way. It makes me wonder, what would my life be if not for that day? Would I have found another talent? Would I still be here today? Would I be on the receiving end of a phychological visit?

I think, above all, I suffer from anxiety, but not for what may happen, but what may have not happened. I fear what things would be like is a certain event went differently. I firmly believe that years from now, I will be left to wonder what would be different in my life had I not started this journal, just the same as I wonder what if the paint had not spilled, or had been a different color. At the end of the day, however, things happen a certain way, and we have no way of knowing what life would be like had they not happened, so my brain is at a disconnect. The left side is trying to decide what life could be, while my right tells my left it is meaningless to obsess over. Alas, that is simply who I am. For now at least; we shall see how that changes.
~From the desk of Inkblot.