The Realm of Developmental Growth and Projection

To preface this post, I want to share that I am a therapist who hangs out with other therapists who are all big ol' nerds. We have before discussed the benefits of table top or literate roleplay from a therapeutic perspective (typically over our current D&D campaign.) While this is a reflection of my own formative experiences with a literate roleplay group, I was constantly reminded of and inspired by the idea of therapeutic RPGs. Anyway, thank you for reading; this has been such fun to write. 

When I was 12 years old, living in southern West Virginia, I fancied myself a rebel. As an adult, it is easy to recognize the irony in this; being “rebellious” is perhaps, developmentally, the most normal and expected thing an adolescent can do at this age. Teenagers define their identities and social preferences by testing boundaries, asserting their individuality, creating and resolving conflicts, and grasping for power within an environment that often renders them powerless. I felt this powerlessness. My body was changing, my attitudes were changing, and I was burdened with the complete and utter (albeit misguided) confidence that no one understood me or these changes. I was an outcast, searching for other outcasts with which to build my social circle.

           

I was, however, fortunate to find not only friends, but aesthetic mediums and activities to reflect my feelings and engage me endlessly. Music was, perhaps, first and foremost. The passionate commentaries vocalized by the nasal timbre of the “emo” movement powered me through every heartbreak, bus ride and math assignment. I picked up a flute in band class, then a guitar on my own volition, and began to make music. Every vision of what I longed for was mirrored in my magazine cut-outs and band t-shirts. The pulse of the bass drum welcomed all; if you were angry or sad or confused—or just hated everything around you, you were safe in your headphones. You were not alone.

           

Second only to music in my search for teenage relief came in the form of literate fantasy roleplay, an activity introduced to me by my friends from summer camp. Literate fantasy roleplay, for those who are unfamiliar with the subject, is a type a free-form roleplay in which you act out chosen or created characters via writing passages to describe their actions. The only goal, aside from demonstrating acceptable writing abilities, is to be as creative and entertaining as possible. When invited to join their online forum, I remember feeling very special; most of my camp friends were older than me (high schoolers, even!), and, they were cool, with exotic collections of comic books and real punk rock CDs. I accepted their invitation before even understanding entirely what I was agreeing to.

           

Sitting before my family’s old desktop Dell computer, I entered The Realm of Unknown Fantasy, or, as it came to be known, Trouf. I read about the characters my friends had created, and was excited to create my own and begin engaging in this wonderful world which existed only in our words and imaginations. My first character was Fae, a fairy who was not welcome among the other fairies because she was different. While I directly identified with Fae in this aspect, I also wanted Fae to represent those qualities I never felt I possessed, but desired to: beauty, strength, unconditional kindness, and purpose. Fae was a warrior, a master sword fighter with long brown hair who was feared by her enemies, yet loved and cherished by her friends. Fae would willingly put herself in danger to save the world—Fae actually had the opportunity to put herself in danger to save the world. Fae mattered. Fae was who I wished I was.

           

After many months of roleplaying Fae, I began to desire something more. Fae was, for all intents and purposes, flawless. She was good—so good and beautiful and perfect that I could no longer express myself through her. I missed the angry energy of my music, the satisfying emotional resonance felt by a whining electric guitar. Even if she weren’t in a medieval fantasy world, Fae would never wear a black band T-shirt or draw nasty cartoons of George W. Bush. Thus, the contrived idea of a twin brother was born, and I ran full speed ahead with it, introducing him without warning or announcement during one evening session. Alaster, as I randomly decided he would be called, was initially the exact opposite of Fae in every imaginable facet. He was cruel, angry and conceited—yet he had no great strength, no sword fighting-warrior power with which to support his poor behavior. In many ways he was a farce, a male fairy, nicknamed “Pansy” by the other characters, who had nothing better to do than sling sarcastic one liners and complain about every situation he found himself in. Alaster was the new resonator for my teenage angst, an exaggerated mask I could hide behind whilst comfortably rehearsing my own defense mechanisms and illustrating how one can be seemingly worthless, yet still matter in the grand scheme of some story somewhere. He was modeled after my musician idols—thin and pale with dark hair and garb.

           

As our story grew, however, my characters grew, too. Alaster and Fae, who initially were very cold to one another, recognized the value of forgiveness and reconciled. Alaster’s confident façade was cracked when confronted with responsibility and the suffering of others, and he developed humility, as well as alcoholism. Perfect Fae was forced to make decisions that were not black and white, such as killing her own father. Alaster memorably fell in love with the character of another player.

            

Although so present in my music, these themes of substance abuse, violence, grief and romantic love were very much above my head at now13 years old. My characters stumbled through them, sometimes comically, but only to the extent of which I understood them—which was, of course, not at all. However, the concepts of stress, responsibility, courage and teamwork were ones that I was confronted with daily. Despite the comfortable degree of separation the computer screen provided, I do believe that writing about these ideas through the eyes of the characters I identified with helped me to gain experience with them in a safe, controlled environment. Without the support this provided me, I think my transition from childhood to adulthood would have been very different.

            

Aside from my creative and expressive experiences on our online Trouf forum, I also found happiness in the social life Trouf provided me. I had a built in friend group with which to create, laugh and share. We were almost closer than ordinary friends because we had two shared worlds in which we existed as allies. We would meet at the local library and attempt to transcribe our roleplay into literature and draw maps of Trouf’s many landmarks and territories. While I remember very little work being accomplished, I do recall extremely satisfying time spent together in our endeavors. We had Trouf themed parties and I made my friends Trouf mix CDs—even into my undergraduate years at college, I would find myself picking out a Trouf short story to send to a friend or read for my own amusement, despite the fact that we fell away from our Realm during my freshman year of high school. I remember when I finally realized it was over; it just hit me one day, sitting in the school building I hated and felt so alienated in, and I excused myself to the bathroom where I cried.

            

Today, as a helping professional, I often work within those afore mentioned themes of substance abuse, violence, grief, love and stress. I try to create a space in which clients can find their great power. And great power, of course, is not a sword or magic—it’s your ability to cope with the things in life that challenge you, to write your own story and thrive within it. Although I am fulfilled in the life I now lead, and have become an avid Dungeons and Dragons player (as well as expanded my musical preferences,) a part of me will always want for The Realm of Unknown Fantasy. 

-Shey