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My fingers are itching.

I just found out I can play a new character up to level 20 for free in WoW, and my inner gamer is screaming, mostly because I know if I buy a subscription, I won’t be able to stop. It’s a dangerous discovery, especially now, right in the middle of my dissertation.

Long ago, I was a games tester and a photographer. That is how I met my special someone, during a lunch break. We talked about what games we played outside of work. At the time, the only game I played was Age of Empires.

My identity as an online player began in 2006 with the username HoneyBunny (inspired by Bugs Bunny cartoons) when I started playing WoW. It eventually transformed into JazzySegfault when I bought an Xbox, a name I still use today in Age of Empires and Fortnite.

However, I ran into a classic gaming dilemma in Overwatch. It felt a bit ridiculous to see “HoneyBunny” pop up on the kill feed every time I died, so I decided to sync my identity. But since “JazzySegfault” was one character too long for the limit in the Battle.net account settings, I had to drop a “z” to make it fit.
Even the name Aistriana, from my books, evolved years ago from a Pandaren character. Before her, there were Ashlia, Aistri, Aisis(renamed Joséphine), and now Aisias.

Now, the temptation is real. Do I focus on the “real-world” requirements of my master degree, or do I take a 20-level break in Azeroth?

Therapy taught me about intentional movement, but I’m pretty sure my therapist/mentor didn’t mean “teleporting to a new realm” as a study break.

If you want to see the actual “glitch” in the system (or just check if I’m actually studying or secretly grinding for XP), you can find my gaming footprint here: https://xboxgamertag.com/search/JazzySegfault

Do you use gaming as a bridge to your kids’ world, or is it your secret escape? What are you currently playing together (or against each other)?

Tell me I’m not the only one whose dissertation is being threatened by a game.

The Fortnite Time Glitch

Today, as I am playing Fortnite with my family, and I remember “The Fortnite Verification Incident” from the pandemic like it was yesterday.

We were in Creative Mode: a full lobby of eight, including me, my partner, our two kids, and four of their classmates. As soon as we loaded in, the game split us into two squads of four for some 4v4 practice.

After a few rounds, through the comms, we heard one of the other parents scolding his kid for “playing with strangers.”

Our youngest tried to explain: “But these are my parents!”

The parent didn’t believe him. He thought he was partying up with randoms and insisted he log off. It got so serious that we actually had to jump on a call to prove our identity before he was allowed to stay in the match with us.

Then the next Monday, the online class was restless because of our “appearance.” We felt quite guilty for disrupting the teacher’s hard work, so we had to step in and apologize through a deal with the kids: we promised to play with them every Sunday, if they promised to stay quiet and let the teacher finish her lessons in peace.

That “deal” ended up lasting throughout the entire pandemic. Every single Sunday, no matter how tired we were, we logged on to keep our end of the bargain. That’s why now I am very careful what promises I make to kids.

It was a lesson for us, too. Being a “responsible adult” sometimes means fixing the digital chaos you accidentally started.

Also we still have weekend play day with our kids.

I am currently in a committed, toxic relationship with my dissertation.

I’ve finished 2 chapters out of 4 of where the “scientific research” lives. You’d think I’m halfway there, but Chapter 3 is basically a digital cemetery where my brain cells go to die.

To write these chapters, I have to digest 20 scientific articles and at least 5 heavy books, which I need to analyse and categorize from my own perspective while strictly maintaining the scientific facts. Reading a novel is a poetic journey; reading a scientific paper is like fingernails on a blackboard (the old ones where teachers used chalk) while someone screams the alphabet in Sumerian.

I don’t just “read” an article. I have to haunt it. I re-read the same paragraph four times until the words lose all meaning and start looking like tiny, judgmental insects. I’m fighting my own mind for custody of a single coherent thought, and honestly? My mind is winning.

I’m a psychologist. I understand how the brain works. And of course, because the universe loves a good joke, I chose to write about the psychopathology of burnout. Why? Because back in 2023, I lived it. I went through a burnout so severe it reshaped my world, and I chose this topic because I wanted to dismantle the monster that tried to undo me.

So here I am, analysing the mechanics of exhaustion while my own nervous system is playing circus music in the background. I’m staring at data about burnout until I’ve practically become the case study again.

I wanted to finish the research part of my paper by now; instead, I’m just waiting for Chapter 3 to apologize for existing.

Whenever I catch myself staring into space, I’m not “reflecting.” I’m just checking if I’ve reached the “depersonalization” stage of my own thesis.

In our house, we aren’t “social media people.” We’ve seen where it’s gone lately, and we usually stay away. I use YouTube for actual useful information(and the occasional cat short, obviously), and Pinterest for finding worksheets and ideas for the kids I work with.

But there’s a reason I’m here now, and it’s buried in a memory from a therapy session. I remember talking to my therapist(my friend and my mentor) about an essay I had to write. I had chosen a quote by Aristotle: “Humans are by nature social animals.”

I used to joke with her about it all the time. I remember one time I told her, “Then, why do I feel like a stray cat in a dark alley living next to a dumpster?” We would have these long, deep conversations about what it actually means to be “social.” She used to say that being a “social animal” doesn’t mean you have to be at a party. It means not feeling that you are alone.

So, I made this blog. I want to show you the “glitch.” I want to show you that whether you smuggle books, struggle with the world, or use art and stories to sit with the dark, you are not alone.

I’ve also reactivated my Instagram account and later linked it to Threads. But I’ll be honest, the first few days there were a glitch of their own. For nearly a week, my feed was a parade of indecent poses and noise that made me want to delete the app instantly. Then, slowly, the algorithm finally “learned” my heart.

Now, my feed looks like home: it’s filled with artists, quiet writers, people rebuilding their lives after trauma, and an endless stream of cats that actually help my nervous system settle. I finally found my corner of the alley.

I’m here because of that joke about Aristotle. And because we are social animals, after all, we just need to find the right pack.

Credits:
• Slide 1: Aristotle bust (Public Domain/Archives)
• Slide 2: My stray-at-heart, Puffy
• Slide 3: Cover of my 2026 desk calendar

It’s been over a week since I bought those 20 books, and my conscience finally won. Every night since that day, I’ve been waking up around 4 AM, unable to sleep because the secret was weighing on me. I spent those quiet hours reading, but the guilt was exhausting.

So, I staged my confession: The Double Frappé Peace Offering.

In the car, I handed over the drink with my best “innocent” face. The questions were rapid-fire:

“How many this time?” and “Where are you going to nestle these new little soul-sparks?”

I took a long sip of my drink.

“I’ll keep them at the office! I’ll just bring one home at a time…”

Then came the laugh. “

Are you wondering how I knew about your little quiet huddle?” came the reply.

“You only wake up that early to work, and I heard you rustling through your nightstand every single night. I was just waiting for you to tell me.”

My partner already knew.

The dam finally broke. I finally showed my Instagram and my website. My partner already knew they existed, but I hadn’t been ready to actually show them yet. And honestly, I wasn’t ready for the weight of that encouragement yet. I needed to let this grow in the quiet for a bit, to make sure I was standing on my own feet before letting my partner in crime in.

But as we drove, the conversation shifted. I said: “I want to build a little library at the entrance with three shelves: ‘Adopt Me,’ ‘Switch Me,’ and ‘Borrow Me.’“

Right now, I share a workspace, so I can’t make changes yet. But I’ve decided: this will be my very first project when I have my own private practice.

In the end, it wasn’t just about the books. It was about finally deciding to be unapologetically myself. And my partner is just happy I found my voice.

These are my original sketches. I used a digital tool, created by my partner in crime, to finish my new Quietling, acting as a creative prosthesis. For me, this process is a form of healing, not artistic performance.

It happened again.

I called customer service for a technical issue at my office. I explained that, as a psychologist, I needed it fixed immediately to do my job.

Once the problem was solved, the conversation shifted. The person on the other end started sharing how much therapy had changed his life, how essential it is to have someone to talk to.

And because of that, if you give me a tiny spark of a human story, I’ll turn it into a bonfire. We talked about anxiety that sparked even deeper, because I’m an anxious-avoidant, and I’m also secretly obsessed with the weight of people’s stories. I can’t help it. And subconsciously, I don’t think I want to.

Today, for the first time, I felt this magnetic pull to share a moment like this here. I realized that maybe someone out there needs a story that feels like sitting down for a coffee or a tea together.

If you’ve ever been “on hold” for 40 minutes, it’s probably because of people like me turning a resolved ticket into a deep conversation. My apologies. I worked in debt collection during my accounting days, I know the struggle.

P.S. The image? It’s what my colleague sent me to lure me out for coffee right after the call.

Quietlings and Contraband Books

I had a therapy session today that got canceled because the child who was supposed to come caught a cold.

So suddenly I had time.

Which is always dangerous.

I started sketching these little creatures instead, using an app that my special person created only for me. I didn’t know exactly what they were yet, just something soft, a bit strange, somewhere between tired and comforted. I think I’ll name them Quietlings.

And then I made the mistake of opening a website with old books. The kind that cost less than a cup of coffee. And I ordered twenty. Because apparently my self-control also took the day off.

The truth is, I love rereading the same books over and over again. Not just once or twice, endlessly. Some stories feel like places I return to when I need to breathe.

And old books… the smell of them is almost a drug to me. I open one and something in my nervous system just settles.

The problem is… I’ve lost most of my books over the years. I kept lending them to people and never asking for them back. I always thought: if someone needs a book, they probably need it more than I do.

However, I am officially forbidden from buying more books because we have no space left in the house. So my partner in crime did something very sweet and very inconvenient: this precious soul searched for digital versions of the books I lost.

Which means that this person believes I am no longer buying physical books.

I am now considering keeping the new ones at my office and smuggling one home per week like contraband.

But I’m fairly sure “someone” will notice when I’m suddenly reading suspiciously unfamiliar books and I’ll end up sleeping on the couch FOR A WEEK.

So at the moment I’m making an adjustable A4 book cover with velcro to hide what I’m reading.

Therapy teaches many coping strategies.

Apparently this is mine.

Also I think this is how my Quietlings are born.