This exercise is about shadow work, but sick and twisted.
Your character is taken into the fog in total isolation. The only way out is to spend some quality time with themselves, or a version of them at least.
This shadow self is to represent the worst version of your character by their own definition. They have to stay alone with them until they learn a lesson or reach their breaking point in their mental stability. After either event, they will be freed from the fog.
Ephiphanies can include, but are not limited to
A truth they are denying
That they aren't as bad as they thought
They are worse than they thought
An answer to a question they've been asking
Something about someone close to them
Entries will be due December 1st to the Therapy Blog. Good Luck.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
It's the time of year to open up the windows and let the sunshine in after a long winter's haze. Out with the old and in with the new! House leaders, we encourage you to organize spring cleaning days for your houses to freshen up and declutter. A house that cleans together thrives together, and a clean space does wonders for mental health!
For this session, your character will be exploring their belongings that they hold dearly (or not so) and should reach a decision whether they should keep the item or get rid of it.
Items can include, but aren't limited to:
Childhood Toy
Old Diary
Photograph
An Old T-Shirt
Etc.
Entries will be due July 6th to the Therapy Blog.
Let's get cleaning!
Jacob looked at the email on his phone through bleary eyes, having just woken up. Spring cleaning? He set his phone down and sat up, rubbing his eyes and then took in the room. Yeah, it could use a thorough cleaning; homework and notes strewn about his desk, various memorabilia lay haphazardly in clumps on his shelves, clothes piled up in and around his hamper, and his garbage can was absolutely full. He got dressed and immediately dove straight into cleaning.
Jacob threw on some Mario Galaxy music in hopes of entering a kind of flow state. After starting his laundry, he then vacuumed his rug and swept the rest of the floor. After that he emptied, cleaned, and refilled Frasier’s litter box and food and water bowls. Aiming to clean under his bed, Jacob had reached his arm into the shadows to pull out the various storage bins of nicknacks he had accumulated, but instead recoiled as his fingers happened upon something sharp and jagged. He had quested carefully enough that he hadn’t drawn blood, but he had the shallowest of slices at the tip of his finger. Frowning, Jacob then nabbed his phone and returned to the edge of his bed, this time illuminating the space beneath with his phone light.
The perpetrator that cut his finger, turned out to be shattered edge of the neck of a former bottle of booze. Jacob delicately picked it up between his thumb and forefingers before setting it on his nightstand and reaching back under the bed to pull out an old, beat up cardboard box that was heavily reinforced with duct tape. Jacob shut off his phone light, tossed his phone onto the bed, then opened up this dilapidated box to reveal, a collection of empty bottles. Years and years of glassy mementos taken from parties. Some of them were from his freshmen year of high school.
The broken bottleneck on Jacob’s nightstand was special in that Jacob was fairly certain it’s the first addition to his collection that wasn’t something he himself drank from. He wasn’t even sure if he was present, or even conscious when this remnant of a whiskey bottle was broken by Schlatt, Jacob was just the guy to pick it up. He didn’t know why he decided to save it instead of throw it away, but now it seemed to glint with new light. It was a bottle that he didn’t drink from, he frankly couldn’t drink, not unless there was a good reason to try but it was the mark of the first party he ever had on campus.
Jacob picked up this newest memento and regarded it, holding it above the box. First piece that he hadn’t drunk from, first piece that was broken… Wait. Jacob looked in the box, and in the corner, disregarded, nearly hidden, was another broken bottle with darkened jagged serrations where the bottom ought to have been. Jacob zeroed in on that bottle. Seeing the bottle, made him see something in his mind’s eye, like a puppet show hidden by so many layers of thin curtains that the details of the production can only be discerned through a violently combative effort. Jacob’s forehead prickled with sweat, his eyebrows pinched with consternation, he began to palpitate on unsteady feet. Jacob fought in his mind to unveil the memory, and in his struggle he saw black, blue, and red, so much swirling red…
Jacob found himself sitting next to the box, staring at the wall opposite him, remnant of Schlatt’s whiskey bottle in his hand. He blinked several times, what was he doing? Where was he? Oh yeah, spring cleaning. He put the neck of that bottle in the box, reflecting on it. So interesting, first piece he hadn’t drunk from, first memento he had a memory attached to. How nice! He was sure he was blackout drunk when he brought the rest of his collection home.
Jacob closed the box and stood up. How had he worked up such a sweat? He wiped his brow and sipped from his water bottle. He felt shaky, so he turned up the Mario music as the theme for Rosalina’s observatory played and sat on his bed helping him regain a more sure sense of homeostasis. After the theme ended, Jacob got back up into the swing of things.
He gathered, organized, and filed away his strewn about schoolwork to the music of the honeycomb galaxy. He emptied his garbage to the space junk galaxy song, and reorganized his shelves to the beach side song. By the time he had folded his laundry and put it away, he had exhausted the soundtracks for Mario Galaxy, Sunshine, and 64. But hey, his room was niiiiiice. He christened the clean space with a scented candle and then lit up a joint, blowing the smoke out his window and enjoying the crisp, clear air of spring.
Spring cleaning is normal, right? Decluttering, getting the junk out, all was normal and seemingly fine for Jaiden while she was dusting out her room and belongings. She was in full blast, Hatsune Miku on her speakers, her hair in a messy ponytail, and three boxes laid in front of her. A myriad of her belongings were strewn about the room, obvious attention to detail going into everything.
She was sitting on the floor, her music having come to a mute, legs folded and bouncing anxiously, and haphazardly biting the skin on her lips as her eyes flicked past the three boxes.
Keep.
Donate.
Trash.
The boxes were decently full already, mostly of random knick knacks and receipts and such that she didn’t need to keep or decided she would. But as she’s bouncing away on the floor anxiously, her hands are gripping a small tupperware box.
The box was fogged from condensation, from switching from freezer to room. Her hands clutched it desperately, more desperate than she realized she was, causing the contents inside to rattle. Rattling her back to the present moment.
The eggs.
Such a simple thing that she’s grown so attached to. A talking point. A starter of friendships. A gift from her beloved pet.
The relighting of her addiction.
She knew she wasn’t addicted to the eggs. But the fact that one of them broke, by the hands of a friend on their first meeting. The fact that she was able to see an inkling of someone’s true self, how they act in moments of desperation and guilt.
It was stupid and selfish. But it was almost like a trophy to her.
A memento of the truth.
She’s kept them so long, she knew that surely the eggs themselves could sustain more time in the freezer before rotting.
Was it worth it?
Her bouncing slows to a stop, and her eyes fall to the tupperware in her hands. Her fingers find themselves opening the lid, popping it off and taking a peek at the eggs inside. 6 left.
So small. So delicate. So perfect.
She begins gently flipping them around in the container with her index finger, inspecting them. Doting on them.
Some weird thought has Jaiden relating these eggs to her relationships. Rose, Schlatt, Tara. Different in size. Not perfectly round. Smooth to a fault.
She flips one egg over, and frowns when she spots the crack.
And fragile.
She takes the small egg in her hand, cradling it gently, putting the box of the uncracked eggs safely on the desk behind her.
Her eyes are locked on the egg, her expression unreadable. Guilt? Grief? Anger? …Disgust.
Her fingers gently close around the egg, and she rises to her feet, taking a deep breath.
Before crushing the egg between her fingers.
5 left.
The tupperware box closes, and it returns to the freezer.
“People really fuckin’ do that here?” She muttered to herself, reading her email. Minx slumped back in her chair with a huff, spinning around a bit as she took a gander of everything that was in the room.
Yeah, yeah. There’s some soda and beer cans she could get rid of. Empty alcohol bottles too. Probably should clean the litter box today while she’s at it…
And with that, she huffs again, hoisting herself out of her chair.
As she’s wiping down her dresser, her eyes of course keep haphazardly glancing on the contents of her desk.
Pictures, mementos, perfume bottles.
A vase with dried, dead roses.
Her jaw clenches.
Spring cleaning, yada yada. Starting fresh, whatever the fuck.
Why is she attached to these dead fucking flowers??
She knew the reason why.
Roses were their thing. The flower he always bombarded her with.
Always left the fucking thorns on the stems.
Not that she hated it, though.
The rag in her hand is folded gently on the table before she takes the vase of the roses in her hands. The water has long since dried up, leaving a weird film inside the vase. There were dead leaves scattered inside and outside the vase, which she gently scooped into her hands, and put into the garbage.
She grimaced as she turned the vase in her hands.
It looked gross right now.
But as much as she hated to admit it, it was beautiful when it was first hers.
…The grimace turns to a frown as she realized that without proper care, that’s probably why they died quicker than they should’ve.
Her fingers gently wrap around the thorn-covered stems, not wincing as the prickles sunk into her palm. The dry leaves and petals crunched and shifted together as she gently pried the dead bouquet from the dusty vase.
She didn’t know what she was doing, or why she was doing it, but she found herself washing the vase once it was clear of the leaves and dust. It was shinier than she remembered. Yikes. How long has it been this gross??
She moves back to her room with the dried, clean vase in hand, eyes locking on the bouquet of dead roses still lying on her dresser. Thorns and stems still attached.
Minx places the vase on the table, and lifts a single rose up by its stem.
She plucks a dry petal off.
And drops it in the clean vase.
It takes longer than she would like to admit, and she was being way too gentle and delicate than she would ever tell anyone, but after a while, she is back to cleaning normally. She finishes wiping down her dresser, her eyes locking on what she was working on for the past hour.
The clean vase, filled with the dry rose petals.
Not a thorn in sight.
She bites the inside of her cheek, rolls her eyes, and turns around with a trash bag on her shoulder to leave her room.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
:: YOU’RE JUST THINKING IT’S A SMALL THING THAT HAPPENED. THE WORLD ENDED WHEN IT HAPPENED TO ME. ::
End of classes, which meant… Fall would be right around the corner, bringing with it new classes, new beginnings and adventures… new dramas and pain. Her heart hurt at the thought, she was no stranger to drama, no timid little thing to confrontation. No that wasn’t the issue here, it had become so much more than that since she received those emails. The emails everyone else seemed so happy to forget, to just move along like nothing happened. But it did happen, it happened to her and she hadn’t been okay since it did. Unable to talk to anyone about it, unable to move on, unable to go out without looking around her shoulder- paranoia sinking into her at every waking moment.
She was a soldier lost at battle, she didn’t even know if she wanted to come home. And that seemed to be the problem as she looked around her room, chewing on her lip, indecision coating her every thought. In one hand, a registration form, in another a box. Her eyes darted around the room, trinkets and doodles lining every surface, each a new memory made here, each cherished more than the last. She then focuses on the box, a sinking feeling settling in her stomach as she starts to pick up item after item, determined to pack them away, pack her whole life away in a night. But, she can’t find the strength to, all she sees are the disappointed faces of her friends.
The words from her last therapy session come flooding back to her, “maybe it’s time to inspect things, get rid of anything that isn’t serving you purpose any longer.” She knew this isn’t what was meant by that, up and leaving, giving up… But it did feel easier. Was this school still serving her purpose? Were her friends? Had anyone been concerned about her absence in their life lately… or was it better she had been away?
Again, the thoughts ate her up alive, leaving her with no real decision once more. She was lost at sea, without a raft or life jacket to aide her. The ocean ebbed and flowed, with her as its willing victim, to be pulled down whenever it so willed it. There was no accounting for the weight of her emotions, they were too heavy, too mixed and too often volatile. There was also no accounting for the uncertainty of what another year here could look like, it could be better, she had made progress in the beginning… or it could be worse, her stalker could sink their claws in deeper, could ruin her completely. Who was to say? With a huff, she sits in the middle of her floor, grabbing her sketch book and willing some clarity to come through. Forty five minutes later she’s sketched a rough doodle of Eugene, Jaiden, Rose, and a handful of her other friends and she knew what she had to do. Reaching out for the registration she takes a deep breath, and begins signing up for her classes for Fall semester.
Rosanna sits in front of the box. She stares at it. It stares back at her. She was fine moving it from the back of her things, her fingers brushing it then, but now, she was afraid. As if it would hurt her. Cut her delicate hand open. Seer her soft grasp. Bite the hand that once fed it so nourishingly. She blinks a few times, regulating her breath. Telling herself, somewhere in her thoughts, that she was okay. But everything felt so loud around that notion, despite no real sound outside herself.
*“House leaders, we encourage you to organize spring cleaning days for your houses to freshen up and declutter.”* - the email flashing bold in the inbox of her mind.
She takes another sharp inhale and then gives one firm nod.
Her hands tremble as she goes for the lid, and although they shake, they finally make contact.
It doesn’t hurt. The box itself is the delicate one. Old. Worn. Soft and fragile with age and wear. It feels so familiar.
As she places the lid down, she slides the container closer to herself now, crossed legged on the end of her bed.
She carefully starts to sift through the items within.
Her heart begins to softly flutter, as memories reveal themselves out of the cobwebs of her mind, into the fresh daylight again. Frail papers, brittle decayed flower petals, fine silk ribbons, vulnerable lace netting. The aroma of a familiar musk starts to tickle her nose.
She holds her breath for a moment. Then finally lets it go. It hits her in a wave. She’s taken back in time.
Lingering eyes. Hesitated smiles. Tremoring touches. A small gasp.
It’s only then she realizes the last one was in the present as her finger knicks a hidden pin under one of the envelopes. She pulls her index digit to her lips to stop the blood, her other hand moving the broach out now to examine.
“Ivory Green Poetry Club” the year is so worn she can’t make it out.
She moves it back and forth in the light and gives a little smile. She can’t help it.
As she continues to dive into the box, she finds more husks she once thought as treasures. She sucks in her lip, in thought. A crease taking center stage of her brow.
A torn, little scrap of looseleaf paper sits atop one of the parchments, “Forever Yours - W” in handwritten that still manages to tumble her stomach upon seeing it. She hates herself as it somersaults in response. She looks at it carefully though, the way the lines and letters curl and connect. She reads the words again. The meaning behind both of them. They feel so stagnant. So lifeless. Two words holding so much power. So much depth. So much intensity. And yet. They were so…. muted as they danced across the air with each glance. Not even danced. They sat.
Her lips go flat. She moves the scrap to the side of the pile.
Her hand goes to grab one of the letters now, opening it carefully, the paper so easy to tear and wear now.
The ink is still so vivid despite all these years.
“My dearest Rosanna,
I can’t stop thinking of you. The way your hair curtains around your deep, brown eyes. The delicate flutter of your lashes. The curve of your smile, and how it puckers when you’re in thought. My little muse. You ignite such a fire in me, I feel I could take down a Forest. Embers of Oak left, turned to ash and soot. And still I could go on. Words don’t quite reach the level of your beauty. Still I try to write them to lay as tribute before you. Till I can feel the soft touch of you your ski-"
Her cellphone plays a melody that pulls her from the note, but before she can answer, it stops.
She looks at the paper once more, deciding it’s best to close the page over again.
She folds it back up, placing it back in the box.
The papers, the the dead flowers, the ribbons, lace and all. Right back into their little chest.
She waits for a moment, deciding on where to go.
And. She shakes her head. These are who she is. Or… better. Who she was. Pieces of her past. Maybe they weren’t of use no longer. But, time is gone. This is all that remains. And why throw them away. To be erased forever. One day all we are left with are memories.
Unstitching It All - Quackity's Therapy Session #4
“Wait what??”
Alex sat forward in his chair when he got the email about spring cleaning.
His expression squished together in confusion. A proper stank face if you will. He had JUST cleaned his whole room two days ago out of boredom. He wasn’t messy or cluttered in any particular way in the first place… Well… Maybe mentally.
Keep what suits you? Get rid of what doesn’t??
He really felt like he already did that.
Alex wasn’t the type of person to keep belongings that didn’t serve a purpose.
Still, he rolled back in his chair at his desk, spinning around and taking a gander at everything.
Law books. Need those.
Clothes. All still in season and fit perfectly fine.
Desk. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing unneeded.
All the pictures on the wall had a place, a memory, a meaning, even an aesthetic.
The hell was he supposed to get rid of??
As he spun around again, his eyes fell on one of his beanies that was out of place, on his desk.
Oh yeah. He wore it yesterday. Must’ve forgot to put it away last night.
He picks it up and flips it over in his hands, eyes tracing along the black fabric until they fall to the brim. The white smiley insignia that he used to brand his entire being with is embroidered quite nicely on the rim of the beanie.
He licks his teeth in thought, wondering.
He’s been rebranding, he’s been making new things. Stepping out of his comfort zone. Making a new him.
This was one of his favorite beanies. It was black. He wore it often.
But the smiley…
It didn’t suit him anymore.
After a bit of fumbling, he found his needle-nose tweezers in his bathroom, lazily bringing them back to his desk.
He runs his fingers over the stitching a little bit, before nodding to himself.
Then uses the tweezers to pluck each white stitch out of the beanie.
The sun goes down. It takes a while; He didn’t want to pull out the wrong stitches and fuck up the hat entirely. But once its night time, he sits back in his dimly lit room, white threads strewn about on his desk, smiling proudly at his work.
