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# System prepended metadata

title: Addiction

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# Addiction

Many scholars and psychologists have wondered and researched why a pony might go insane. Some have suggested that those who do were influenced by their surroundings, that certain factors in their environment whittled away at their psyches until it broke; others posit the theory that they were predisposed to madness and that anything could have triggered a psychological break.

It doesn’t take much to break a pony’s mind. Sometimes it’s a traumatic experience, other times it’s something that has been building for years and some event triggers a collapse. What happened to me was the latter.

For years I had been suffering from anxiety and obsessive compulsive disorder. The nature of the disorder was thus: thoughts of the most perverse nature would enter my mind unbidden, exasperated by the company of my friends when we met on Sunday afternoons. I would have imaginations of violating the mares in my friend circle, as well as of myself being violated by the stallions; of stabbing them to death while I bore the wide grin of a maniac. These thoughts would terrify me, for surely these were not the thoughts of a righteous pony, but those of a moral degenerate who only wanted to kill and destroy. 

I would battle with these thoughts and obsess over them, repeating to myself that I wasn’t a bad pony and that I would never commit such acts, trying my best to replace them with wholesomeness. However, this battling would lead to me not enjoying the company of my friends, for the battle would direct my focus inwards rather than outwards; I would not appreciate the joke of one, or the laughter of the other; I would not have compassion for the trials of another because I was too busy enduring my own. I would become furious at my thoughts to the point where my chest felt as though it was on fire; I would inwardly curse my mind for conjuring up such thoughts when I was not and never would be the type of stallion to ever commit such atrocities.

After our engagements, I would return to my apartment and often seek relief from my mental battles by reading books. In books, I found peace; my friends were not there to trigger my psychotic thoughts, and I was free to immerse myself in a world different from my own, one where I would not have to contend with my thoughts. The novels that I read were mostly of the romantic and dramatic sort. It was the emotions of the characters being laid bare and the intimate moments between them that made me enjoy these stories. I often entertained the idea of courting one of the mares in our circle of friends, named Summer Rose. But I never went through with it because I was too much of a wreck to be able to manage a relationship more intimate than friendship.

I started seeing a therapist regarding my condition after it had become clear to me that it would not be improved by my current methods. He was instrumental in helping me understand my condition. He was the one who told me the name of my disorder, understood my struggles and told me that just because I had these thoughts did not make me a bad pony. He gave me sound advice on how to manage my obsessive behaviour. One such technique that he emphasised was mindfulness, a method of accepting the negative thoughts for what they are—unbidden thoughts that you had not authorised—and simply focus on what is going on around you.

I failed in applying this technique. No matter how hard I tried, I would end up aggravating my thoughts by trying to stifle them rather than let them be. An errant thought would come and my first reaction would be to combat it. Then I would remember that this was the wrong way of managing my mind, and I would then berate myself for it, to which I would grow frustrated for not applying the technique with which I had been provided. These repeated failures on my part added more fuel to the fire that was my anger towards my thoughts. So large became the blaze that one day, while out with my friends, I began to direct my anger towards them. I blamed them for my constant mental torture, for it was in their presence that the thoughts were at their worst. I had been tempted to do this in the past and had always resisted it, knowing that it would lead to resentment towards my friends and most likely a breakdown in my relationships. But on this day I grew tired of resisting. I didn’t lash out at my friends in my anger, however; I kept it all hidden away for I did not want to hurt them, despite my anger, for the consequences of such action would be too much for me to bear. Soon the desire for relief from my frustrations outweighed my desire for friendship, and I began to seclude myself in my apartment.

I threw myself into my books; I decided to become lost in their worlds, for, as I have stated before, I found peace in them. I was well aware of the fact that I was only running away from my problems and that this behaviour would most likely end in misery, but I didn’t care; I was tired of fighting and needed respite, and I would decide when I was ready to begin fighting again. 

I had remained secluded in my chambers for about a month when, one afternoon, there was a thrice-knocking upon my door. I opened it and was surprised to find Summer Rose standing outside. She wanted to check up on me, she said, for I hadn’t visited with our friends for several weeks. I responded to her inquiry hastily, saying that I was doing fine and that I was just working through some things and that I needed to be alone. Unfortunately, that turned out to be an unsatisfactory answer, and she tried to convince me to start joining their company again. At this, I shouted, “Leave me alone!”, slammed the door and locked it. My heart raced after I had done this and I felt lightheaded. I had never fought with any of my friends and this first experience was altogether unfamiliar and unpleasant to me. 

But I couldn’t go back. Simply put, I didn’t want to go back; I had grown comfortable in the fictional worlds of my books, where trouble would not find me, where I was free from mental anguish.

I remained in my chambers for several months, only leaving to purchase food so that I would not starve. I no longer met with my friends for our weekly gatherings, for I refused to endure the mental agony of contending with my thoughts. Sometimes one of my friends would attempt to pay me a visit and I would have to tell them to leave. After the first few weeks they stopped coming, and I was glad. 

As for my appointments with my therapist, I still made and attended them. But I started lying to him about my daily life. I didn’t want him to find out about my reclusive behaviour, for I knew he would admonish me for it and say that I should start visiting with my friends again. So I kept the truth hidden.

I was fully aware of the choices I was making. I knew it was a dangerous game I was playing, that I was moving in the direction of corruption.

I had already taken steps in the direction of corruption by isolating myself from my friends and lying to my therapist; I knew this to be true. So I thought, why not another step? What was stopping me? I clearly no longer cared about my friendships and about being honest; my morality was beginning to break down. Seeing as I no longer had those barriers, I began reading novels and short stories with psychopaths as the main characters; stories of ponies who delighted in the suffering of others. I began to delight in the thoughts I used to battle with. I found myself imagining what it would be like to kill, to wear the grin of mania as my friends lay dying in pools of their own blood.

Further indulging the thoughts of mania in the comforts of my mind, I thought about what deranged ponies do other than become serial killers. My mind drifted to the alcoholic, who drinks away his troubles and experiences euphoric insensibility. I wondered at this, to feel pleasure without cause, and thought it an interesting idea to explore. I resolved to visit the liquor shop and purchase for myself a bottle of strong drink.

After purchasing a bottle of vodka (the cheapest strong drink I could find in the liquor shop), I waited until nightfall before consuming it, for I did not want anypony dropping in unannounced and catching me inebriated. When night fell, I drank two large gulps of the spirits, lay down on my bed, and waited for the alcohol to have its effect on me.

After about five minutes, I began to feel as though my head was drifting upon the waves of the ocean. My consciousness felt as if it was bobbing to and fro, up and down. I found my mind flitting from one thought to another, finding amusement in whatever it landed upon. It was a pleasant sensation, one with which I would become well-acquainted over the following few weeks. I wish I could describe in more detail what drunkenness felt like to me, but, as is the effect of alcohol, I cannot remember much more than what I’ve already written.

I awoke the following morning without what would usually constitute a hangover. Perhaps it was because I had not consumed enough alcohol to cause one. Nevertheless, I was grateful for my lack of a hangover; it meant I could enjoy the advantages of alcohol without suffering the common disadvantages. Well, there was the possible liver poisoning, but I just had to keep my rate of consumption in check.

I continued drinking vodka almost every night and enjoyed the pleasure it gave me.

One night, something changed. Usually I enjoyed being alone; in fact I preferred it to the company of friends. I had always enjoyed solitude. But on this night, I felt utterly, hopelessly alone. I drank twice the amount of vodka that I had come to drink, but it only alleviated the feeling somewhat; it did not disappear. I then thought that perhaps the feeling would pass and I would be fine the next morning.

It did not. I awoke with that same feeling of loneliness. I decided to distract myself from the feeling by reading. I decided upon something light, something simple that wouldn’t be too taxing on my mind. 

The novel I chose was one of romance, a simple story of a stallion and mare falling in love. It was nothing groundbreaking, but it was a beautiful story nonetheless. It reminded me of my foalhood days, of my mother reading me a story at bedtime, of fairy tales that I came to appreciate much more in adulthood for their simplicity, as the reality was not so simple. The novel reminded me of when I was a simple stallion, of when I wanted nothing more than to have a small number of close friends to share my joy in whatever we did, and of loving a mare who returned my affections and how we would enjoy one another’s company.

The novel warmed my heart, and I realised I hadn’t felt that warmth in ages. I recalled the moments with my friends when I wasn’t fighting with my thoughts; they were few and outnumbered by the times of suffering, but they were moments of pure joy. To feel joyous moments such as those again…

My heart ached for those simple days of when I was a simple stallion. I had been happy in those days. Right now I was miserable; I was alone, with no friends to soothe the ache.  All these months I knew that, deep down, I was miserable in my escapism. For I knew that was what it was: escapism. I was running from problems because I wanted to stop hurting. But in the proc

I checked my clock and calendar. It was Sunday and it was just after twelve o’ clock, the time my friends would be meeting for our weekly get-together. Without another thought, I exited my apartment, and it was not to buy groceries or alcohol. 

