Open Letter to The Doctor

Dear Doctor,

Out of the many universes that accompanies ours, I wonder what are the odds of you existing in this one. It would genuinely be hilarious to know that The Doctor exists in the same universe that has a show called Doctor Who, and I would be even more delighted if other planets, as and when we find them, would have their own versions of Doctor Who as well.

It’s a show that has transcended nations, race, religion and sexual orientation. It is amazing, terrifying, fun, frustrating, all at the same time. You, Doctor, embody the strength of the human spirit at its most shining core. Kind of like the Eye of Harmony that powers the Tardis, except that it doesn’t melt our faces and turn us into horribly mutated time zombies. At least, not most of the time. I digress.

This letter is to show as thanks for something entirely different. This letter is my own personal, selfish thank you for being so relatable to me. Now you might be asking, how can a human, whose lives lead up to the maximum of hundred or so years, be relatable to a time travelling, world exploring, thousand over years old alien from another planet? The answer is simple.

I understand you.

And not in a creepy fanboyish way like John Barrowman (Barrowman!), but as a matter of how we’ve lived our lives. Okay, hear me out here.

Imagination has always been my escape, ever since I was a kid. I’ve created worlds in my mind. Planets, universes, stories, and lifetimes, weaved into the very fabric of what is considered my consciousness. Decades could go by in these dream worlds in the matter of time it takes my physical body to age a week. Every tale weaved is a tale that can never be changed. I can revisit them anytime, add new stories in between, but what has been written stays that way forever. A fixed point.

I’ve seen worlds end, the universe began. Saw planets with two suns and clouds of rust. Universe where dreams and realities collide. Been part of a revolution. Saw the rise of kings and the fall of men. Fell in love. Fought friends. Had families. Lived. Died. I’ve saved planets from destruction. I’ve set them aflame with my own hands.

With each new milestone in my physical life, my personality changed drastically with the added effects of my bipolar disorder. For every passing age; child; teenager; young adult, I leave friends and worlds behind, only to revisit occasionally. I laugh at who I was, and who I was laugh at me. He is me, but I am not him. I search for companions to live life with, only for them to leave or be left behind as they changed as I continue to do the same thing as I grow and change.

So when you think about it, being a writer with bipolar disorder and a specifically crappy childhood is like being The Doctor.

A hundreds of years old man with many different life and faces, with the power to travel the entirety of time and space at the palm of his hand. A mad man (bipolar) in a box (imagination).

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