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// Dear Diary... 
// Story: My Little Derpy: Strabismus is Magic 
// by juicebox 
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	Some would call me an unusual mare; many wouldn't even bother to give me even that dignified of a title. I've been called everything in the book, by everypony that there is to know. Sometimes it gets old, but the real problem is that nopony takes the time to ask me what is really wrong. There’s only one pony that really gets me, my ophthalmologist, Doctor Whooves.
Some would call him an unusual stallion too, but for a much different reason. Despite how he carries an active role in the community’s more prestigious affairs, many of the ponies know nothing more about him than his little eye clinic, and the adjacent watch shop of his; I guess that is a strange combination if you were to consider it. I never thought he was strange. Ever since I was a filly, he was the only pony that truly made an effort to get to know my story, and in my book, that got him forgiveness from anything that would be called strange.
Much like the assumptions of all of those around me, I do have a few things wrong with me. None of them, though, are anything that they would have guessed. I’ll explain, even if it’s just for the record in this silly little journal:
When I was a young filly I lived in the culturally loose city that is Cloudsdale. Almost every pegasus did. I certainly knew my parents, but like most of the pegasi going through their flight and practical schoolings, my parents were seldom people I saw. In Cloudsdale, the society accepted care responsibility as a whole. My parents helped out with the weather for a living, so I was relegated to the school’s boarding program, as were so many other pegasi; we just didn’t think much of it, it was normal. As such, in a large system like that, it was easy to disappear. And I did. The constant torment left me feeling weak; I thought I could escape the torture if I escaped the only environment I had known it to happen in. I was mostly wrong, but I didn't entirely regret leaving.
I don’t know if my parents knew, actually. I never made it a point to ask them after I left, even if I did meet up with them from time to time. One day I took off from Cloudsdale and never went back. I completed my schooling in Ponyville, and then got a modest job as the city’s clumsy but adorable mail carrier. However, in my struggle to fit in and survive in Ponyville, where parents accompanied almost every filly or colt, there was one family that I can solely thank for my existence.
Dr. Whooves, as he’s come to be known, was a rather nice colt almost out of secondary school when I met him. That made him about four and a half years my elder. His father ran the ophthalmological clinic in town, and his mother owned the adjacent watch shop; the juxtaposition of their work was actually the reason that they got married. The Doctor inherited both as his parents progressed into their old age. He, of course, had learned well the trade of ophthalmology from his father, in a small town like this a real medical education was hard to come by. He spent a year in Canterlot passing examinations to get his licensure, but that was the extent of the formality of his learning, and everypony in town who had a need for his services appreciated the home-grown nature and hospitality of his work.
The Doctor met me just a month or two after I got to town. His father saw me wandering the streets, and being the kind man that he was, offered me a place to stay for the night after I explained my story. Being as early as it was, and still way before I could pay for my own dwelling, I took him up on the offer. He was very kind, and he, no surprise, noticed my eye condition. He offered me his services, and I obliged. That was the day that I learned what was “wrong” with me. In addition to the years of torment leaving me somewhat shy and sometimes lost for words, I had this accursed eye condition. It’s called strabismus, and to save the pages I could spend explaining it, the simple version is that my brain and the muscles in my eyes don’t agree all the time about what exactly it means to be looking in the same direction.
The Doctor had, presumably, seen others like me, but I don’t think he really understood everything behind the diagnosis then. He was, however, like his father. I can still remember almost every word of condolence he offered me.
“My dad says that your eyes can be fixed! He says he can get you some special glasses and then you’ll be normal!” – He still had a lesson or two to learn about tact, but I appreciated the sentiment.
“I can’t believe that nopony takes the time to hear your story. I’m glad I did.” – One of his most meaningful pick-me-ups after I had been emotionally decimated by one of his school friends. 
“I know you don’t want my pity, just as much as you don’t want everypony else’s insults, but I can’t stop thinking how I wish I had your strength.” – That was a bad day for both of us. His latest marefriend broke up with him, chiefly because he spent “too much time with the retard.” She was jealous that he had compassion for me that she didn't understand. He would have probably ended it himself if he knew how she regarded me. He never took bullying or rudeness, not towards anypony.
“I’m grateful every day that I can see you for who you are. I don’t think it’s your eyes that are at fault here, I think it’s everypony else’s.” – I’ll explain the context of this one later. But I just needed to get this one down on paper. It was special.
Those were the ones that stuck out particularly. There were not the only words of comfort he issued me, but his demeanor towards me was so different than anything I had ever felt before. He wasn't the only pony that was kind to me, but he was the only one that didn't think of me as different.
Continuing the narrative, however, there was a lot that went on between then and now. His father was kind enough to do all of his work on me pro-bono. I was never charged a dime for all of the care and hospitality that he put in for me, and trust me I ran the math. That stallion lost almost half a year’s worth of his earnings on the five surgeries and three corrective lens treatments he rendered. And never once did he ask for a favor or any repayment, even if he had wasted his money on treatments that weren't sure to work. I only hoped I could eventually find a way to give back.
His son took over my treatment after he returned from Canterlot. By then he was in his twenties, and he was shockingly handsome, although he was never unattractive by any measure. I liked to think he kept treating me because he liked me. I might not have been wrong about that.
He and I did date for a while, but I could tell that he felt strange. I did too, I mean, he was my best friend. I couldn’t bear to lose him if something were to have gone wrong. So we ended it. Things weren't really the same afterwards, we drifted apart a little bit, but we still talked, we were still friends.
He’d come around every once in a while and ask how I was doing, we’d talk, sip tea, laugh at how different our worlds were, and then we’d not see each other for a while. Some of these ‘whiles’ were longer than others, but he never forgot me.
I’d occasionally see him as I was delivering mail, and he’d wave. I’d wave back when I was sure I could avoid losing flight stability. Avoiding buildings was probably the week after I left in flight school, it would have had to be that serendipitous. Nonetheless, seeing him brightened my day, and I wished for the days when we were younger, when we would share secrets and talk about the world, the future. Smart things, nopony else talked to me about anything requiring an IQ greater than fifty. It was a wonderful thing, back then, to be able to talk with him and entirely ignore social inhibitions for an hour or two. I can’t stress enough how he treated me just like any other mare. It all boiled down to one of his father’s many snippets of wisdom:
“Son, you and I are blessed to be what most people would refer to as ‘normal’. I don’t want you to ever think of anypony who is different than you as any less blessed. They may not look like you, talk like you, walk like you, or behave like you, it doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, if you've hurt them, the only thing you’ve really hurt is your honor.”
He told me about that, and how his father always had these wise little tidbits of information. His father may not have had the closeness to me that allowed his son to really understand my struggle, but he had every bit as much compassion for those that society mistreated. His family was the only one that would have called me normal. Other ponies may have accepted me, but never as an equal.
Anyway, it was at this awkward point in our lives where we really didn't see each other much. He was courting one of the few ponies in Ponyville's high society, I was married to my job as the only delivery mailmare in the ever-growing hamlet. His social life demanded his time, and my job demanded mine. I would wake up, go to work, come home, and wish for something interesting to happen. I spent the time I had then to teach myself a lot. All of the material a pony could learn at a major university in Manehattan or Fillydelphia I had taught myself; calculus, chemistry, language, physics, even some information about optometry. The librarian at the time, and then the new librarian, Twilight Sparkle, must have thought I couldn't have ever understood what I was reading. They checked the books out to me on what I’m sure was the sheer belief that I would just sit and look at the pretty pictures interspersed within. 
The major inhibitions to my learning weren't related to my intelligence at all. I was rejected from institutional education because of my eyes, and my lack of depth perception made experiential learning difficult. I had only the option to learn what I could from textbooks. It mattered not, for the words within their pages would never have judged me.
I think the extent of my learning surprised the Doctor. When we met next, which had been almost a year from the last time we had exchanged pleasantries, I regaled him with excerpts my knowledge. He laughed, citing how even he had struggled with some of the subjects I had learned. I loved his laugh; it never mocked me like everypony else’s laugh, and it sounded happy, never angry.
His visit came only a week after another painful breakup. He bore uncharacteristic happiness, and I knew something was up. He kept a tough façade even though I prodded for a while. He let on to the breakup, but told me he had taken it in stride, that he had seen it coming. What he hadn't told me then was that he was beginning to question himself. Almost everypony who he dated had not found the traditional form of romance they had been accustomed to. He was very straightforward, and he never led a mare on. If the Doctor dated you, it was not because he was bored or looking for a lay; he was genuinely interested in you if he were to give you the honor of courtship.
I offered my condolences and he accepted them. I don’t know why, but I always seemed to be able to make him smile. Conversely, he was the only reason that I smiled. Nonetheless, we talked further, about everything; our lives, our futures, how we missed the simplicity of youth. He was the only pony I could get a word in edgewise with, the only pony I could carry on a conversation with. The only pony that would ever appreciate me for more than the mail I delivered. We talked and talked and the hours just seemed to slip away. It was sad when he finally had to leave because I could tangibly grasp his sadness. I wished he would have talked to me then, but that was his prerogative, and he wasn't ready to talk about it.
“I miss you, Doctor. Come see me more often.” Where in the world did that come from? I certainly wouldn’t have said something like that.
“Certainly, Miss.” Oh, he was always a charmer. Even when he wasn't trying to be flirtatious, he was always flattering. I giggled to myself as he walked out, the sun glistening off of his smooth brown coat as he returned to his clinic.
I didn't know when I would see him next, and I wasn't sure how seriously he was going to take my directive. I hoped he would come back, open up to me, and then I could make him happy somehow. I didn't know how, and I’m not sure that matters, but the point is that I wanted to see him happy again.