In yesterday’s post, I wrote about what it felt like to move through life in fragments. For so long, I carried that sense of being scattered, as if I could never quite hold myself together.
Today, as I began sorting through my Second Life inventory, I realized just how true that feeling had been. My inventory wasn’t just full — it was heavy. It mirrored the weight I used to carry in my own body and mind, before starting the medication that steadies me now. Every folder, every duplicate, every object tied to a memory or a moment I no longer needed — all of it added up to the same kind of heaviness I once lived inside.
While sorting through mountains of old things — pieces collected years ago, fragments of the person I used to be — I stumbled across a folder I had once named “Forget.”
And in that moment, I had to ask myself: why would you even make a folder called Forget?
If something truly needed to be forgotten, why hadn’t I just deleted it? Why did I hold onto the things I didn’t want, giving them a labeled place in my world instead of letting them go? That folder was the clearest proof of how fragmented I really was back then — trying to tuck pain away in corners rather than releasing it.
One folder in particular jolted me back into memories I would rather not revisit. It was the folder where I had saved paintings from the time of my abusive relationship. Back then, he — and his brother — wanted me to “work” for them. And I did. But looking at it now, with the clarity I have today, I can see it for what it truly was. That “work” wasn’t real. It wasn’t valued. It was just a way to keep me busy, to keep me quiet, to keep me from bothering them.
When I finally hit “delete” on that folder, it wasn’t just digital clutter disappearing. It was me permanently saying goodbye to my abusive ex-partner. With a single choice, I erased the remnants of his hold on my world.
I realized then that by deleting that folder, I deleted whatever remnants of him were still attached to me. And now that I live on my own in Second Life, I don’t even feel the need to know what he has been up to or whether he is still married to someone else. He is just pathetic in my eyes — the most pathetic and insecure person I have ever come across. He used to say, “I’m not insecure, I’m not insecure at all,” but his actions told me otherwise.
This medication makes me see so clearly. It feels like I had brain fog for so many years, and now that it has lifted, I can finally see the truth.
In fact, I no longer feel the need to twist myself around for anyone else’s happiness or pleasure. That old pattern of bending, reshaping, and sacrificing myself to make others comfortable — it doesn’t belong to me anymore.
When I began this cleaning, my inventory sat at nearly 64,700 items — an overwhelming weight pressing on me every time I opened it. After today, that number dropped to around 59,311. It isn’t just about numbers, though. Each deletion felt like shedding a layer, like laying down something I no longer needed to carry.
Every day before this, I’d open my inventory and think, why do I need all this stuff? I’m a proven mesh creator now. I can make what I want — pieces that carry meaning, that belong to my life today. I don’t need to hold other people’s things unless they’re truly excellent or deeply aligned with me. The rest can go.
To see my own creations take their place inside a now-structured inventory feels surreal. I never thought I would be here — a mesh creator, building with my own hands. Maybe I’ll never measure up to the “high popularity” standards of others, but the truth is, I don’t care. These are my creations. They carry my heart, my love, my enjoyment. And that makes them enough.
Making space for my own work has done more than clear an inventory. It has strengthened me. It has proven to me that I can do anything I choose, if I set my mind and heart to it.
Another change in me is knowing that I do have a partner — someone who is mine, and who will always remain unseen by the outside world. That privacy is part of our strength. Even though we are long distance, and even though I spend most of my days alone, the bond we share gives me courage. It reminds me that I can stand on my own, but I am never truly alone.
So even though I’m mostly alone in Second Life now — most days, it feels like everyone has given up on talking there — the truth is, I’m never really alone. It might look that way from the outside, but it isn’t my reality.
Because even in the quiet, I am held. I am connected. I am not alone.
As I cleaned my inventory today, I could almost see it in my mind: every single box carried out, one by one, thrown into a dumpster. And then, finally, the door closing behind me.
That door doesn’t need to be opened again. What’s inside no longer belongs to me.
So I guess what I’m really trying to say is this: take a look at your own inventories in Second Life. Many of you might have 2,000 items or more tucked away. Ask yourself — does the chaos inside that inventory reflect the chaos inside you?
And if it does, maybe it’s time to do something about it.
/Tessa