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

If it doesn’t exist in Second Life, make it exist

 For the longest time, I felt like an outsider in a place that promises freedom — a world where everyone should have the joy of existing in their own way. Yet for me, something was always off. To see myself walking in Second Life was to live a version of myself that wasn’t my truth.

I’ll admit, it was liberating for a while — to see myself walking, to move freely in a way the physical world doesn’t allow. But even in that freedom, something was missing. My truth.

I’ve always told myself: I will never accept my disability. But I am learning to live with it. When I speak of my truth, it is because I’m learning to live with something I cannot change.

In the beginning, Second Life was, for me — as for many others — an escape. But as the years went on, it became something else. I began to feel safe, secure within myself, and more willing to let my true reflection show. The same reflection I see when I look into any mirror in my real life.

A couple of years into my Second Life, I realized something: there was nothing out there for people who wanted to reflect their disability in an honest way. Wheelchairs existed, yes — but too often they were made into jokes, or turned into tools for adult performance. Nowhere could I find a chair that looked like what I use every single day. A normal wheelchair. Something that felt like me.

That realization sparked an idea: if I couldn’t find a wheelchair that reflected my truth, I would have to make it exist. I hired someone to create one for me, and that dream came true a couple of years ago. For a time — a year, maybe two — it felt like enough. But slowly, I felt the gap again. I realized what was missing: I had created a manual wheelchair, when in my real life, I use a power chair. My truth was still waiting to be seen.

So I went back to the same creator who had built my manual chair, hoping this time for a power wheelchair. But instead of progress, there were only delays. Promises stretched out into silence, and eventually I had to say: enough is enough. I stopped waiting for something that would never arrive. And so, I returned to walking in Second Life — always with the quiet ache that something was missing.

Fast forward to 2025 — the year everything changed for me. And I mean everything.

2025 has been the most grounding year of my entire existence on this planet. And that says a lot.

The fundamental change came because one single doctor chose to listen to me — not just as a patient, but as a person. When I was finally diagnosed with a disorder I had known, deep down, all my life, everything shifted.

I didn’t know that being put on the right medication would change me so deeply. I didn’t know something so small could be so fundamental. So life-changing.

When I walked into the doctor’s office and we finally decided what we decided, it felt like I left the old me sitting there in that room. That version of me was broken into fragments. But when I began taking this medication, my whole being started to knit itself back together. For the first time, I felt whole instead of shattered. And let me be clear — this wasn’t psychological medication. This was something different. Something my body had been waiting for all along.

That’s the best way I can explain it. The person I was before this medication was scattered — fragmented into tiny, tiny, tiny pieces. But when I finally began taking it, those fragments came together. They solidified. For the first time, I felt like one whole person again.

That wholeness began to show itself in the choices I made. I found the strength to step away from connections in Second Life that were ridiculous, shallow, and did not serve me anymore. I cut those ties without apology, without explanation — because I don’t owe anyone excuses for protecting my own truth.

The empowerment I feel now — the self-confidence I carry — is incredible. I speak with clarity. I hold my head high. I move through life in a way I never have before. And I no longer care about people who so clearly do not care about me. That weight is gone.

I don’t have time to waste on people or things that no longer matter to me. My energy belongs to what is real, what is important, and what helps me grow.

I used to get so offended when people disappeared for months without a word. Now, I don’t even care about the silence. The silence speaks louder than words ever could.

In that silence, I began to wonder if I should leave Second Life altogether. There were days I felt it gave me nothing anymore — no meaning, no joy, no truth. I could spend my time in ways that felt more efficient, more nourishing, more true to who I am now.

Then a spark lit inside me. I realized I had the ability to create the very things I had been longing for in Second Life. If you remember from a previous post, I once wrote about how I used to shop endlessly, trying to fill the void of having nothing else meaningful to do. But when I discovered I could create — not just anything, but the exact products I wanted and no one else was willing to make — everything changed for me.

Within that spark, I reached out to a woman who, like me, was living her truth in Second Life — in a wheelchair. Her chair was the closest replica I had ever seen of a real power wheelchair. I asked if she would be willing to share it with me, and she said yes. She gave me a copy, and I spent six hours scripting it by hand until it behaved exactly the way I needed it to.

And then, seeing myself portrayed correctly for the first time in Second Life, I broke down. I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. It was overwhelming — to finally be reflected as I am.

In that moment, I realized I could find ways to create one-of-a-kind things. Not for the marketplace, not for the world at large, but for me — and for the people I love.

So that’s what I’ve been doing for the past week or so — leaving people to sit with the silence from me, instead of the other way around. My energy is finally where it belongs.

If someone would like to see my creations, I can always share them. But the core of this reflection is simple: if you are longing for something, find a way to make it exist. There’s always a way. You just need to find it.

/Tessa

When a World No Longer Holds You

 For the past fifteen years, Second Life has been part of my every single day. It was my safety blanket — the place I always returned to. A constant, a comfort.

But something has shifted. Yesterday, for the first time in over a decade, I didn’t log in at all. Not because I was avoiding it, but because I was too absorbed in something new: creating with my own hands, with help, with love. Part of that shift comes from the medications I’m on now — they’ve changed how I see myself and the world around me.

And here’s the surprising part: I didn’t miss it. The people I meet there, the energy — it doesn’t hold me the way it once did. It feels like I’ve outgrown it.

Even the things I used to buy there don’t fit me anymore. What I shopped for never really reflected the things I use in my daily life, or matched my style. Apart from lingerie, most of what’s out there just isn’t me. I used to shop every weekend, filling in that gap. But now? I haven’t gone shopping in over two weeks. And I don’t feel like I’ve lost anything — because I don’t need to. I can create my own things, and they finally reflect who I am.

One big shift came when I finally got the wheelchair I had wanted for over fifteen years. Seeing myself in Second Life with it — moving as I truly do in real life — changed everything. For the first time, my avatar wasn’t just an image, it was a reflection. I could really see myself. And once I did, I couldn’t go back to the things that didn’t feel true anymore.

When Second Life introduced actual mirrors, everyone rushed to them. People were excited to see themselves in a new way. But I didn’t care about those mirrors — they never showed me the truth. My real mirror was my wheelchair. That was the moment I truly recognized myself, and that reflection meant more to me than any surface ever could.

And then another shift came: the moment I realized I could create things with my own hands. With the right tools, it wasn’t nearly as complicated as I had feared. Suddenly the question became: What else can I do? What else am I capable of? The spark of creation turned into possibility, and possibility turned into freedom.

It’s becoming clearer to me each day: I’m outgrowing something that once kept me grounded. And yet, I don’t feel sad about it. I feel free.

And maybe the next spark is already waiting for me.

Seeing Myself in Second Life: A Surreal Breakthrough

Last night was one of the most emotional experiences I’ve ever had in Second Life. It wasn’t about some big event, a new sim opening, or meeting new people. It was about me. For the first time, I saw myself in Second Life exactly as I am in real life — in my wheelchair, with my backpack hanging just where it should be.

It hit me harder than I ever expected.

I’ve used wheelchairs in SL before, but those were just objects — something I wore or sat in. They weren’t mine. They didn’t carry the small, personal details that make something feel real. This time was different. This time I wasn’t just using “a wheelchair.” I was using my wheelchair, customized, accessorized, and scripted until it felt right. And when I finally sat in it, it was like looking in a mirror.

And that’s when it all came crashing down.

I wasn’t just crying. I was uncontrollably sobbing — waves of emotion hitting me all at once. It felt like a panic attack and yet it wasn’t fear. It was happiness, sorrow, shock, relief, and recognition all tangled together. I could barely breathe because it felt so real. For the first time, I was seeing myself fully, without hiding, and it overwhelmed me.

Because here’s the truth: my wheelchair isn’t my identity. It doesn’t define me. But it is part of my life. It shapes how I move, how I navigate the world, how I live. And seeing it honestly reflected in SL — not erased, not hidden, not avoided — was surreal.

For the first time, I felt like I belonged in this virtual space exactly as I am in reality. Not as a performance. Not as a test of how others would react. Just as me.

And here’s the part that caught me off guard: it almost felt like I was saying goodbye to who I used to be in Second Life. The version of me who stood, who “blended in,” who hid this part of myself. That avatar no longer feels like the truth. Last night was a shift — the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.

I also know this decision may put people off. I saw proof of it already. A friend asked if I was enjoying myself, and I said yes, absolutely. I even joked that it would be interesting to see how many people don’t talk to me anymore. He replied, “Oh, so that’s the test.” I told him, “No. This isn’t a test. This is how I want to see myself in Second Life.” And then he never answered me again — maybe because he didn’t know what to say, maybe because he was busy doing something else. Either way, the silence spoke volumes.

I won’t be sought after the way I was when I was walking. And that hurts to admit. But at the same time, it doesn’t change my truth. This is me.

Last night changed something in me.

I realized that authenticity in SL is just as important as in real life. It’s not about being defined by my chair, but about including it in my truth. And when I saw myself, really saw myself, backpack and all, it felt so real I could barely breathe.

It was shocking, overwhelming, beautiful. Almost like letting go of an old identity and stepping fully into my real one. And it’s something I’ll carry with me every time I log in from now on.

Because in Second Life, people often fall in love with the idea of you, not the reality of you. Last night, I chose reality.

Rising From Abuse: My Story in Second Life

 

⚠️ Trigger Warning: abuse, gaslighting, emotional manipulation, coercive control

I’m a resilient person. No matter what knocks me down, I get back up. I’ve always told myself and others: if something bends you, you’re not broken — and there’s no reason not to rise again.

People often ask how I can be so “untouchable.” The answer is simple: I don’t care what others think of me. Their perception is their problem, not mine.

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Gaslighting and Control

I spent three years with an abusive partner in Second Life. His real-life brother pretended to be my friend, but behind my back he pressured my partner to leave me — especially when I became pregnant in SL.

One day, my ex told me point blank: “I don’t like how pregnancy looks on you, so please just have the baby right now.”

For some, Second Life is just a game. For me, it’s an extension of myself — freedom despite my real-life disability. So when he said that, it cut deeply. It felt like he was telling me to end something real, not just pixels.

What his brother did only amplified the abuse. But the truth is, my ex was a narcissist. His brother’s interference made it worse, but the abuse came from him.

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A Moment I’ll Never Forget

One experience changed me forever. The three of us were working on a project in SL while I was also writing a blog post. A song came on called My Brother’s Girlfriend is Now My Girlfriend. His brother laughed and said, “Oh, this song really reminds me of something.”

I laughed too, because before I was only with my ex, I had been in a polyamorous relationship with both of them. That had worked well — until my ex ruined it because he wanted me all to himself.

So there we were, months later, the song playing, both me and the brother laughing at the irony. And then, in the middle of the conversation, my ex IM’d me privately: “Shut up.”

I told him never to speak to me like that again and I left. When I got home, he was furious. He raged in caps, accusing me of ruining his honor, of making him look like an idiot. And then he said something I will never forget:
“You’re so blinded by your self-pity. You disgust me.”

Those words cut deeper because he knew I’m disabled in real life, and he also knew there isn’t a “pity me” bone in my body. I’ve never wanted pity, because pity doesn’t help anyone.

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Living by His Rules

He constantly told me I didn’t prioritize him, that I didn’t love him. The irony is that for three years straight, I shaped my entire life around him. By 6 p.m. every evening in my time zone, I made sure to be at home in SL, waiting, because that’s when he might log in.

If I wasn’t there, he would accuse me of cheating. So day after day, year after year, I stayed home before 6, trapped in this routine to avoid his accusations. Eventually, I spent hours every night doing nothing but waiting, because I knew it was the only way to keep him calm. And still, he said I didn’t put him first. How is that not prioritizing?

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When I Tried to Build Something for Myself

Another experience stays with me. I had a job I loved, working at a hotel in SL. It functioned like a real hotel: serving dinner, doing room service, checking people in.

I asked if I could work on Valentine’s Day, knowing he never celebrated holidays. He agreed — but then abused me in IMs all day, demanding “proof” I wasn’t in someone’s room having sex. He even made me take a picture to prove I was really working.

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Finding My Power Again

I went through all of this, and finally knowing I wasn’t crazy — that this was actual abuse — made me feel empowered again.

I still think of him from time to time and the moments we shared. Even though they were few and far apart, there were good moments. Those are the memories my mind goes back to, because in those moments I felt safe and secure.

Those moments of love-bombing made me feel like he was the love of my life. For a while, they erased the thoughts of “Why don’t I leave him? Should I leave him?” The love-bombing blurred out the bad — and that’s why I stayed as long as I did.

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The Truth

But here’s the truth: love-bombing isn’t love, it’s manipulation. He broke me down, but I got back up. And now, while he’s nothing more than a bad memory, I’m still here — stronger, louder, and impossible to silence.

What This Was: A Checklist of Abuse

Sometimes survivors doubt themselves and wonder, “Was this really abuse?” Let me be clear: yes, it was.

Here’s how what I went through fits into recognized patterns of abuse:

• Gaslighting: making me doubt reality, insisting I didn’t prioritize or love him, calling me “self-pitying” when I wasn’t.

• Emotional & psychological abuse: constant accusations, rage in caps, shaming me for laughing or being pregnant in SL.

• Control & isolation: forcing me to be online by 6 p.m. every night, demanding proof of my work, trapping me in routines.

• Coercive control: shaping my entire daily life to avoid his anger and accusations.

• Love-bombing & trauma bonding: rare “good moments” and bursts of affection kept me hooked, erasing the abuse temporarily.

Online or offline — abuse is abuse. The pain, confusion, and damage are real. And so is the strength it takes to survive and reclaim yourself.