Logging Out Quietly

 Hello everyone, it’s me — Tessa.

I just wanted to give you a little update on where my life is right now, and where I stand with Second Life today as well. The last blog post wasn’t positive at all, and honestly not something I wanted to write — but it felt like something I needed to say.

Um… where do I even start?

It feels like the moment I decided to be in my wheelchair full-time in Second Life — because that is my truth in real life — I became a ghost. I stopped being a person to everyone. I’m there, I exist… but at the same time I don’t, because nobody — and I mean nobody — talks to me.

Because of that, and because of what happened in my last blog post, I’ve slowly and quietly stepped away from Second Life.
I mean… what’s the point? People act like I’m not there, like they can’t see me. I have four friends on my list, and one of them is my own alt account that I use for saving my Lindens.

I’ve honestly talked to my real-life husband about shutting Second Life down permanently. He’s the one who stopped me — mostly because of the amount of money I’ve invested into this platform over the last fifteen years… probably millions in my own currency. So even though my account — and my life there — is becoming more and more dormant, he doesn’t want me to delete it. Not because he thinks I’ll regret it emotionally, but because of the sheer value I’ve poured into it over the years. His view is simple: maybe it’s better to just stop logging in… but keep the account alive.

When I decided to be in my wheelchair one hundred percent of the time in Second Life, I knew I might become lonely. I knew I might stop being seen as the “sexy short girl next door.” I was ready for distance… but I wasn’t ready for the loneliness — the complete, heavy isolation from people.

It’s not because I stopped going out. I show up. I exist in the world.
But people don’t really see me. They don’t acknowledge me. They don’t even talk to me.

It feels like living another life layered on top of my real one… and it’s scary to realize that the same things I fight against every day in real life are now following me into Second Life too. Only there, it feels more clinical — more direct, more in your face. Like you become something people don’t want to touch… something they don’t want to talk to. Like you turn into an object in a room full of people — and little by little, you just stop existing to them.

If someone in Second Life could actually experience the shock — the shift in how people see you when you go from a walking avatar to being in a wheelchair — I wish they could feel that change for themselves. Because you who are reading this might think it’s not that big of a deal, or that it’s not that deep.

But it is deep.

It hits your confidence. It hits everything about you when you’re used to people talking to you the moment you walk into a room… and then suddenly there’s nothing. Just silence.

And yes, I know I was the one who started cleaning my friends list. But realizing that nobody — absolutely nobody — came back and asked why… that says a lot.

That realization made me question every single person I ever knew in Second Life. When connections feel this light, it starts to feel like a place filled with people hiding behind their screens — people who don’t know how to exist in the real world and choose the safer distance of a computer instead. And honestly… that realization feels a little crazy to me.

Your next question might be: how did I go from being in Second Life eight to twelve — sometimes even twenty-four — hours a day… to not logging in at all?

Honestly, the answer is simple.

I don’t want to surround myself with people who feel fake or disconnected. I’d rather be in the real world — making real connections, making people laugh, diving deep into the interests I actually want to grow in. That feels more meaningful to me than sitting in my home in Second Life for hours, only to log out after another day of silence.

That isn’t living. And as far as we know, we only get one physical life… and I’ve decided I want to live mine.

For the last couple of months, I’ve been deep-diving into nutrition — not just surface-level research, but really trying to understand how food actually affects the body. Almost down to a microscopic level. The discoveries I’ve made have been really eye-opening. Part of it is connected to the medication I’m on — it’s a lifelong treatment, and I won’t go deeper into that — but the level of clarity, precision, and discipline it’s given me has been honestly mind-blowing.

I’ve been researching calorie intake, macro intake, and what those things actually do inside the body. And when you really start to understand what food plus body equals… you begin to see things differently.

So believe it or not, food and nutrition have become one of my biggest passions in life — maybe even the biggest. And honestly, that’s part of why I’ve been able to stay away from Second Life. It just doesn’t give me anything anymore. Sitting there for hours in silence gives me nothing. Nobody misses me. Nobody talks to me. Nobody wonders where I am. And when you realize that, it becomes easier to just turn it off.

Even the person I’ve been partnered with for five or six years — even that connection feels different now. The last time I saw him was before Christmas, and things happened in the bedroom… but he didn’t acknowledge my wheelchair, and he didn’t acknowledge that I wanted closeness. It felt rushed, disconnected, like he just wanted it over with. So I logged off, because I’m not going to waste my time feeling invisible.

If someone who has been with me for years — who has already seen me in a wheelchair before — can treat me like that, then something has changed. And when he comes back, there’s going to be a wake-up call.

So I guess I have a question for you — if you were the one living through everything I’ve just shared… would you stay in Second Life?

I don’t think so.

My life isn’t about Second Life anymore. And if you had asked me less than a year ago where I’d be today, I never would’ve imagined myself saying that. But that’s where life has taken me. And honestly, I can’t even say that I miss it. What is there to miss? Four people on a friends list?

The only person I miss is the one I wrote about in my previous blog post — the one who had to leave. That’s the only absence that still feels real to me, the only person I wish could come back. And since he removed me from his friends list, who even knows if he’s back now, just choosing not to tell me. I don’t know. But that’s the only connection that still lingers.

So if my blog becomes quieter, that’s why. I’m not active in Second Life anymore, and without that world… there isn’t much to write about.

I’ve even stopped taking pictures of myself. I used to have over three thousand photos on Flickr before I closed the account. Photography used to be a daily thing for me — and now I had to be reminded to renew Photoshop because I hadn’t opened it in over two months.

That’s how disconnected I am right now.

And when people do reach out, it often feels like they just want to unload their problems or tell me about heartbreaks I don’t have the energy to carry anymore.

So yeah… at the moment, Second Life feels almost non-existent.
Nothing really happens — except the occasional “hello, I’m your neighbor,” and honestly…

…my reaction is just, so? *Logs out*

/Tessa

And then the dark clouds came.

 

Hi everyone, I'm sharing this update because I'm unsure what else to do. If you follow my blog or any of my Second Life social media, you know I've fallen deeply in love with a man—and finally, he feels the same way. Things had been going well, although we hadn't seen each other for a while since he was sick. A couple of days ago, he messaged me to say he would be leaving Second Life until further notice due to a serious real-life emergency. I told him I understood and that I loved him, assuring him I'd wait for him. He didn't respond, and I accepted it, knowing the situation was serious.

However, what caught me off guard was discovering the next day, when I logged into Second Life, that he had removed me from his friends list. I interpreted his message about leaving Second Life as meaning he wouldn't be online for a while, so seeing myself removed from his friends list made me uneasy. I started wondering why he would do that, and the only logical explanation was that he didn't want me to know if he returned. When I checked his calling card, his profile was still active; if he were planning to close his account, it wouldn't be.

I don't know how to feel right now, knowing I'm no longer on his friends list, and I don't see how he would contact me if or when he returned to Second Life. I am really in love with him and miss him deeply, but in a major real-life event like this, everything in your life comes to a halt. I understand that, but I'm very, very sad about it—I would even say borderline depressed because his leaving means I'll be alone in Second Life again. My friends list is now even shorter—about eight people, and honestly, I could probably remove two of them.

He had told me he wanted to meet my friends because he planned to stick around for a long time, but the truth is, I don't really have any friends in Second Life. Heck, I don't even have friends in real life that I consider close. So yeah, I'm very sad and think about him a lot. He still has a Discord, but he would not be writing to me as much, and I don't want to intrude or get in his way.

The sad part is that on the same day he sent me that message, I discovered a new pregnancy add-on for Second Life. This new add-on looks like a real pregnant belly and doesn't have any strange shapes. It even simulates the baby kicking, and you can see it. I had spent the day fixing all of that and was excited to show him what I would look like pregnant and, hopefully, decide together that we would give it a try. Now that I'm alone, I don't really want to be in Second Life anymore. I'd rather be outside creating my recipes, baking, and forgetting about Second Life altogether because it feels pointless now. I have no friends except one—nobody talks to me when I go outside or explore in Second Life. Nobody messages me to chat or say hi.

So yeah, this is where I stand right now. I don't know what to do. I'm debating whether to put on the pregnancy belly to feel a little happiness about something in Second Life, but I'm not sure yet. I feel very, very sad. So, guys, that's the update. Thanks for reading. Bye.

˚ ☁️⋅♡Flying on Pink Clouds ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡

I have always told myself, in one way or another, that I shouldn't settle for anything less than what I'm looking for in Second Life and in people in general. Yet somehow, I have always accepted less, probably because I was so fragmented back then and wanted to please others. It’s cringeworthy to think about it.

 

This year has been very different for me. Instead of chasing after people to talk to me or like me, I have embraced the idea that I will wait for the right people who genuinely want to be with me and spend time around me.

 

It has been incredibly lonely, to say the least, but wow, did the universe listen to me! One day, while in Second Life, I decided to try out a dating app called Thundr. I had been on it sporadically before, but hadn’t found anyone who genuinely piqued my interest or with whom I clicked. A few days went by, and I found myself mostly clicking "next" for profiles that either looked stuck in 2012 or had unrealistic expectations.

 

Then, one evening, I received a message from a man. Before I opened his message, I thought, "Oh, here we go again, someone who just wants to get into my pants and be done with it." However, that was not the case at all; we actually had an enjoyable, flirty conversation. I will call him Kaz for the sake of this post. He talked to me like I mattered, just like he would any other girl.

 

What struck me the most was that he didn't seem bothered at all by the fact that I'm in a wheelchair in Second Life. He saw the wheelchair as just a tool I use to get around, which is how I want people to view it in both Second Life and real life.

 

After some flirtatious conversation, he came over to my house. We talked a little more and even shared a cup of tea. I could feel a spark between us while we were drinking, but I didn’t want to say it out loud for fear of misreading the signals.

 

I was so nervous because, honestly, I hadn’t been with anyone for a long time, and I was unsure about how he would handle me being in a wheelchair, especially if it came to moving to the bedroom.

 

He asked to use the bathroom, and I showed him the way. At this point, I had about a million butterflies in my stomach because I started to realize that this guy genuinely wanted me, and not in a superficial way.

 

When he came out of the bathroom, we continued talking and flirting. Finally, I decided to take a leap of faith; I pulled him closer by his pants, and he didn’t hesitate at all. He looked down at me and, in a soft, yet masculine voice, said, “Hi.”

 

Now, keep in mind that I had never heard his voice before, but as a highly intuitive empath, I could almost sense it. I was blushing so hard that I could barely type, so I just looked up at him and whispered, “Hi” back. Then, he did something that completely surprised me—he made the first move!

 

He placed his hand on my cheek and leaned in closer, and the next thing I knew, we were kissing—full-on, but slow and romantic. Breaking the kiss slightly, he whispered that I have soft lips, and he couldn’t believe that men ignore me. We both smiled during the kiss, and I told him that the fact that people have forgotten me since I switched to a wheelchair is, in a way, a win-win for us.

 

As we continued, clothing began to come off in the hallway, and we moved toward the bedroom. At that moment, I had no idea what to expect; I was going by how others had treated me in similar situations. But I was utterly floored by what he did next, which aligned with what I’ve been saying about staying true to how I move and navigate myself in Second Life.

 

He asked how he could help me get into bed. I communicated this through text, and before I knew it, he picked me up effortlessly, as if he’d done it a thousand times before, and laid me down on the bed. Little moments like that make me feel seen; you can’t beat anything like that when someone truly understands you, even in a virtual space like Second Life. It doesn’t take a lengthy explanation about my disability; it just takes understanding and respect.

I can't even begin to tell you how electrifying and out of this world our sex is/was!

 

 

As most of you know, I have been clinically diagnosed as a nymphomaniac since the age of 20. So I have a sex drive that most people can't even keep up with. This man can! He had me orgasming every 30 minutes. I have never been so close to orgasm blackout in years.

We could barely get loose from each other when it was time for him to go and do something in real life, and when he left, I instantly started missing him, which is something I have never felt for anyone in years in Second Life.

He even started a Discord so we could talk more often. I think the hardest thing about second life is the time zones, but if you really put in the effort, you can make it work. And that's what he did, and that's what I'm doing because I'm so freaking in love with this man, like you don't even understand, this is on a whole other level.

He works a lot, so the time he gets into Second Life is a little limited, I think.

He came home to second life yesterday after we started talking on Discord, and actually, he was the one who said hi to me first. He said hi, baby, which made me smile from ear to ear.

It took him just seconds to climb onto our bed, and for the next 3-4 hours, we went wild together—wild in every sense of the word. During that time, I actually told him I loved him. Most people who take the time to know me understand that I don’t say things I don’t genuinely feel.

 

After those intense hours, we cuddled for a little while and talked. I asked him if he thought it was wrong for me to tell him I loved him. He confidently said no, absolutely not. I replied, “Good, because I do.” Then he said, “I love you too.” He expressed it without hesitation—no “but,” no “if,” and no “it's too early” remarks. It was nothing like that. He said, “I love you too,” and I lay there trying to absorb it all, because I’m so used to being consistently rejected, and this time was different.

 

Before he left for his real-life work, he told me, “I can't wait to see you. Spend more time together, when I have time, I love you.”

 

I can’t even begin to explain how this feels for me. It’s incredible, he actually wants me. He desires me as a woman, appreciates me for who I am, and he stands behind his words—that’s the most important thing.

 

2025 is coming to an end

 

It’s been a heck of a year. I don’t even know if I could sum it up properly, but I know one thing for sure — I’ve grown a lot. I’m not the same person I used to be. And that’s not a bad thing.

Second Life isn’t a big priority for me anymore. I deleted almost my entire friends list. I have about seven people left. We’ll see how long that lasts.

Over time, I’ve started to understand what I actually need in life. And one thing I don’t need is fake people in Second Life. People who throw around words and promises and then don’t stand behind any of it. This year has been incredibly lonely for me in Second Life. Really lonely. It feels dead. Nothing is happening. No one is talking. So I stopped forcing myself to care.

The loneliness itself doesn’t bother me that much. I’d rather be alone than surrounded by people who aren’t really there anyway. In a way, this needed to happen. I needed to take a stand for myself. And I think that started when I finally left my abusive Second Life partner. After that relationship completely tore me down, I slowly started finding myself again.

I’ve also noticed a shift in Second Life overall. People don’t talk the way they used to. Even when I go to my favorite club, everyone is quiet. They just stand there. And if someone does start talking in local chat, it’s almost like they’re doing something wrong — like they should stay quiet. It doesn’t feel social anymore. It feels uncomfortable.

But the silence itself isn’t the main issue for me. What hurts is feeling invisible. And that started the moment I transitioned from walking in Second Life to being in a wheelchair full-time. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. I think it says a lot about people, and about how quickly they stop seeing you when the first thing they notice makes them uncomfortable.

One of the clearest examples of this comes from someone I saw as a partner. I asked him to help me conceive in Second Life. He did. I became pregnant. And after that — nothing. Not a single word.

So I stopped the pregnancy. Why wouldn’t I? I’m used to being pregnant and doing it on my own, but when someone can’t even acknowledge you, when you’re completely invisible, I don’t see the point.

When I made that decision, I honestly didn’t feel much about it. I already knew he didn’t want to be involved as a father figure or anything like that. That was clear. What I did want was at least some form of acknowledgment from time to time. Just something. And he hasn’t given me that at all. In fact, he hasn’t spoken to me since I became pregnant.

I’ve had people tell me that I’ve changed a lot. But I don’t see it that way. I haven’t changed. The woman I am now has always been there. She was just dormant for a long time. I got tired of speaking my mind. Tired of saying what I felt and not being heard. So I stopped. I followed instead. Other people’s rules, other people’s expectations.

After starting this medication, that woman isn’t dormant anymore. I didn’t become someone new. I just stopped muting her. That’s why I seem different now.

As for leaving my abusive Second Life partner — I’m doing really fucking okay. Better than I ever thought I would. What’s strange is that I still miss him sometimes, even though he’s a complete asshole. I think that’s because he’s the father of my Second Life daughter, and that’s a bond I can’t fully erase.

As far as I know, he’s blocked me. And I don’t want to talk to him ever again. I really don’t. He can stay far away from my life. I also know he’s the kind of person who checks my social media from other accounts. And I know that something in his real life has changed — something that means he’s no longer “allowed” to talk to me. Let’s leave it at that.

Leaving 2025 behind, I have a strong feeling about 2026. Not in a material way. Not about things or achievements. But in a deeper sense. I think 2026 is going to show me what I’m actually meant to do.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

The Collision I Was Not Prepared For in Second Life

Even before I started using my wheelchair full-time in Second Life, there were moments that stuck with me. One in particular still sits with me. I was in the premium sandbox, just minding my own business and doing my building work, when a man walks straight up to me and says, “You need an update because you look like a man.”

And I just stared at him. I didn’t even give him a chance to explain himself. I said, “Excuse me? I look the way I want to look, and so do you. And maybe if you take a look at yourself, it’s actually you who needs an update.”

And strangely enough, when I was still walking in Second Life, I could shake comments off like nobody’s business. They slid right off me. But now that I use my wheelchair full-time, the comments hit differently. They cut deeper. It makes me feel even more that the way I choose to move through Second Life is not socially accepted by other people. And that’s what I can’t wrap my head around.

Because I know the real-life world outside of Second Life. I’m used to the stares, I’m used to the comments, I’m used to the laughter behind my back. I’m used to that world. But I’m not used to that world bleeding into Second Life, where everything is supposed to be freeing — not a place where you get silently bullied because your way of moving isn’t socially accepted. It feels like the two worlds have merged into one, and people can’t look past it, even in a place that’s supposed to be limitless.

Even though people aren’t saying it to my face, the pressure is still there. It sits in the silence, in the way people avoid me, in the way conversations dry up. And sometimes it makes me feel this immense, uncomfortable pressure to stop using my wheelchair in Second Life — just so people will talk to me again. Just so I can feel desired again. Wanted again.

But here’s the truth: I’m strong enough not to bend to that pressure. I’m not going to erase a part of myself just to make other people more comfortable.

In fact, I already bent to that pressure once. I stopped using my wheelchair because I wanted to fit in, because I wanted people to talk to me, because I didn’t want to feel like the odd one out. But I’m not doing that again. This is my truth, and I’m not living for everyone else — I’m living for me and for the people who actually matter.

But that doesn’t take away from the reality of it. The silent pressure is real. It feels like being inside a pressure cooker, and every comment, every silence, every avoidance just turns the dial a little higher… more and more and more… until you expect the lid to blow off.

But I’m not going to let it pop. I refuse to let it. I’m choosing myself this time.

I started seeing the signs early — signs that I was about to be alone in a way I had never experienced before. It took only five hours after choosing to be in my wheelchair full-time. I have a long-time partner, kind of off and on, someone I have a connection with every now and then. Let’s call him the redhead.

When I showed him my wheelchair and explained why I decided to be in it, he said, “Oh, so that’s the experiment? To see if people will talk to you or not.”

And I told him, “No. This isn’t an experiment. This is how I want to be in Second Life.”

And after that, he didn’t talk to me again.

I approached him once because I had run out of lindens, and he was kind enough to lend me some — which I paid back later. Even then, he didn’t speak to me normally afterward. When he gave me the money, I joked, “How about I pay you back like we used to, if you still want me like that?” And he said, “Of course I want you like that still. You’re nice to me.”

But that was it. That was the last normal moment. Since the day I got into my wheelchair full-time, he has not spoken to me like before.

I knew this choice might come with challenges, but this… this is a whole different level of hard.

So why do people feel so entitled to say something in Second Life about how you live your life? About how you look? About how you move? Why do they think they have the right to comment at all?

And why do so many people place you in this silent pressure cooker — where they don’t say anything directly, but their silence, their distance, their sudden change in behavior pushes and pushes and pushes until you feel like you’re the one who’s going to break?

Why does a place that is supposed to be freeing turn into a mirror of the same judgments we fight in real life?

When People Flip On You

 

Today I had this sudden urge to write, and I honestly don’t remember the last time that happened. I’ve been quiet for weeks, almost frozen inside myself, and then out of nowhere everything came rushing up at once. And the strange part is that nothing big triggered it. It wasn’t some dramatic moment or emotional explosion. It was just me finally noticing how fast people changed the moment I started using my wheelchair full-time in Second Life.

It all happened so quickly that I’m still trying to make sense of it. One day I was the same person I’ve always been — someone people talked to, someone people wanted around — and then almost overnight it felt like I wasn’t even in the room anymore. Not because I acted differently. Not because I became difficult or distant. I just stopped walking. That’s it. I stopped walking, and suddenly people didn’t seem to know how to look at me, talk to me, or connect with me. And it makes me wonder what that says about the people I used to trust.

A few weeks ago, I decided to become pregnant in Second Life, and I still am, but even that feels different this time. I used to enjoy it — the closeness, the interaction, the warmth it added to my days — but now it all feels flat. I’m still me, nothing about me changed, but the moment I stayed in my wheelchair full-time, it was like nobody wanted to reach for me anymore. The joy I used to feel around pregnancy just disappeared, and I ended up turning it into nothing more than an outfit. Because why should I bother when nobody even notices? And no, I’m not depressed. I’m just feeling the loneliness settle into places where excitement used to live.

The moment that stayed with me the most was with one of my long-time partners — five or six years now — and we were together in the bedroom, and I could feel how far away he was. Not his body, but him. His presence. His care. He felt cold and mechanical, like he just wanted to get through the motions so he could say he showed up. And I realized I didn’t have the energy to pretend everything was fine, so I logged off. Because if someone who knows me that well can’t even show basic closeness anymore, then what am I holding onto?

And then there were the new potential partners — people who seemed promising at first, but every single one of them turned into something I didn’t expect. Some were drowning so deeply in their own depression that they couldn’t see anyone but themselves. Others were too busy pretending to be someone else — talking in the third person, changing their personality every other day — and the whole thing just became tiring. I did meet one person who seemed normal at first, even attractive in that easy Second Life way. And then the next day he showed up in my house wearing a leather vest and a mullet, looking exactly like the singer Günther — “Touch Me” vibes and all — and I remember sitting in front of him thinking, what in the actual hell am I looking at? And we were twelve hours apart in time zone, so that was never going to work. So I took my cursor to him, right-clicked, hit block, and kicked him out of my house without saying a single word.

I keep trying to understand why people act like this, but deep down I already know. If I suddenly stood up and walked again, all these people would come crawling back like nothing ever happened. And that’s what hurts the most. Because it shows me how shallow Second Life really is sometimes. If you don’t fit the image people want, they act like you shouldn’t be there at all. All I did was stop walking, and somehow that tiny thing made people treat me like I was a problem.

But in a strange way, I’m also grateful. I thank myself, and the universe, and whatever else guides me through these moments, because now I see things as they are. I see how many people in Second Life avoid honesty because they’re scared of real emotion. They hide, they pretend, they build versions of themselves they think are safe. And in a way, I’m glad I see it now. It reminds me that I don’t need any of these people to feel worthy.

But that doesn’t make the loneliness disappear. It just makes it clearer.

As I’m writing this, I’m actually laughing a little, because all of this — every reaction, every disappearance, every cold shoulder — all happened because of one tiny change. I stopped walking. That’s it. And it flipped everything upside down. And what makes it even more ridiculous is that I’m not asking for anything complicated. When people talk to me or interact with me, I’m not asking for long paragraphs or dramatic scenes. I just want acknowledgment. A little awareness that I’m in a wheelchair. A detail. A nuance. Something small that tells me they see me. It shouldn’t be that hard.

And to the people who have known me for years, it shouldn’t even be something I have to explain. They know I don’t see Second Life as roleplay. This is real for me — just lived in another form. Real connection. Real interaction. Real presence. And because there aren’t animations for lifting someone or helping them move, writing is the only way to show it. And even then, I’m not asking for much. Just acknowledgment. Just awareness. But somehow that’s too much for most people.

So until someone comes along who actually wants me as I am, in whatever form I take, I’ll be on my own. And I’m okay with that. But being okay doesn’t stop the emptiness that comes when I log in and nothing happens. I get tired. I get fed up. I log into Second Life, sit there for hours — sometimes six, sometimes twelve, sometimes eighteen — and nothing changes. The world keeps moving around me like I’m invisible. And I start to wonder why I’m wasting my time waiting for something that doesn’t happen.

But one thing I know for sure: I will never close my Second Life account. I started here when I was twenty. I’m thirty-six now. Sixteen years of my life are tied into this place. Closing my account would feel like cutting out a part of myself. So no, I won’t disappear. But maybe I won’t be here every day either.

I talked about this months ago, and it hurts that the feeling has come back. When I first got my wheelchair in Second Life, I felt excited — like I was finally aligned with the truth of who I am. But the loneliness that came afterward was something I didn’t expect. And now everything feels quiet in a way I don’t like. I have sixteen friends on my list, and most of them don’t talk unless I talk first. That’s why I cleaned my list once already. And honestly, it’s getting ridiculous again — the silence, the distance, the feeling of being forgotten. There’s one friend I wish I could keep close, but even he feels far away. And the woman I call a friend — she doesn’t talk unless I reach out first.

So for now, it’s just me. And maybe one day I’ll wipe my whole friends list clean again, because at this point, it doesn’t matter. If people don’t care enough to be here, then why am I carrying them with me?

Because in all honesty, I’m just carrying around people’s names.
/Tessa

From Clutter to Clarity

 

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