white noise

Jon and I bought the expansion and started playing World of Warcraft again this weekend. We built Draenei characters and roamed around together smashing things and collecting quest rewards. I had fun, a lot like I had fun the first time I played Asheron’s Call, my first MMORPG.

When it came down to making the decision to buy the expansion, though, I nearly crawled out of my skin trying to choose. I took two copies from the shelf at Target and stood there for a moment as if the boxes had paralyzed me. Do you really want to do this? I asked myself, over and over. Understand that online gaming wrecked my second closest friendship and nearly destroyed my faith in Jon, too. Understand, too, that I love playing WoW, but I don’t love it so much that I want to be married to it. I don’t want to have to spend 7 hours a day in a virtual world to accomplish something in life or to *be* someone special.

I started playing Asheron’s Call late in 2003 because my move from California to Virginia took me 3,000 miles away from one of the most important people to me. I thought spending time with her virtually over the internet would be better than not getting to spend time with her at all. What I ended up with was an endless barrage of negative interaction. By the time I wanted out of the guild and away from the crap, Jon had thoroughly entrenched himself in his own struggle for popularity — as if high school was never bad enough.

There’s an element of anonymity about online gaming that allows people to believe they can do and act as they please. In some cases, it’s blatant. Simply log into WoW, stand in Ironforge or any other fairly busy central location, and watch general chat. But, as I’ve learned, poor behavior can strike much closer, too. Spend more than a month in a guild (I’m guessing in any game) and try to leave. No matter what reason you might have, the remaining guild members will take it as a personal attack. They’ll turn on you like rabid dogs.

The structure of a guild in Asheron’s Call is such that one character swears allegiance to another. This creates a pyramid. When the realization came that I had to leave, I couldn’t. I had Jon’s account sworn under my character. He had several characters sworn under his. It turned into a month-long production with him running around in secret meetings with his new found friends. It stopped being a game. More than once I thought I was trapped in some bizarre nightmare. I had to wake up soon. If I didn’t, I was going to stab Jon with an ice pick.

Two weeks into this fucking trial, it was apparent that he didn’t know what he wanted. Twice I gave him the option to stay. Twice he told me it wasn’t an option. And, dumbly, I believed him.

I think my online gaming experiences would have improved greatly if I had walked away THEN — not just from Sharon, but from Jon and the people he was then associated with, as well. Here’s why: I’m not a tolerant person. I don’t take kindly to backstabbing, two-faced bullshit. I’m not inclined to standby idly with my mouth shut while someone acts like a dirtbag or a schmuck. I’m the big mouth that will tell you that you’re being a jackass and to knock it off. I don’t give a lily-white rat’s ass if you think I’m socially acceptable or not. Hard ass or not, I’m a good person and (for the most part) I treat others with respect and kindness. I go out of my way to help when I can.

At that time, however, I was completely and utterly alone. I’d just moved 3,000 miles into the house of an almost complete stranger. We weren’t getting along, though we were trying. We’d already started counseling, together and separately. I had no place to go, no way out, and the one person I thought would help support me couldn’t shut up about her own misery long enough to listen. I had nothing, and worse, two of the closest people to me were more worried about their popularity than their reality.

Had it not been for Yana, I’d be writing this from a prison cell. Well, okay, I’d be writing this in a prison cell on a piece of paper with a crayon. She called one evening in (I think) October of 2005; I was crying. She asked me why and I told her the whole story. She’s heard parts of it over the last three years, but none in quite so much detail. She may not be able to relate to my ties to an online community, but being my closest friend, she’s always tried to understand it.

She said, rather simply, “I love you. You’re always welcome here, you’re my friend no matter what you wear, how you look, or how good your aim is (paraphrasing). We solve our problems together and we don’t take accountability for granted. That’s what friends do — work on their friendship.”

If you translate that into WoW speak, it means you’ll probably never see Neece in a full set of Beast Stalker armor. Why? Because the time I spend playing with Jon is more important to me than the next piece of uber phat loot or that cushy seat in high council. If he gets wrapped up in game politics, popularity contests, or any other arrangement of bullshit associated with an online gaming community, this time, he’ll have to do so at his own risk.

This time, as the counselor and my best friend suggested — I will walk away. In fact, I’ll fucking run.