Whenever life starts getting…too much for me, I think of The Doctor.
I grew up with Doctor Who. My dad is a huge fan of science fiction. But I had no idea that Doctor Who was rebooted until 2012. I had just moved back to East Tennessee after a brief stay in Virginia Beach and I was recovering from bone deep depression (although I didn’t admit it and didn’t let it show to anyone). One of my best friends decided to invite me over one Tuesday night to watch Doctor Who.
I fell in love.
I fell in love with the stories, with the characters. I fell in love with Nine. I cried when he died and then began his regeneration into Ten. How could I possibly love anyone as much as him? It didn’t take love to fall in love with Ten. I cried harder when Ten said his last words. I was hesitant about Eleven (I didn’t want to get my heart broken again), but I loved Eleven too. When Twelve entered, I was eager.
The writing may not be as grand as it was when Ten was The Doctor. I may not have as much emotional interest in certain companions like I had with Rose, Donna or the Ponds…but it is still my Doctor. The show still brings my soul light when I feel like darkness will surround me.
Tuesday night’s were my salvation. They still are. Even though we are caught up with The Doctor, we still meet on Tuesday’s to watch whatever TV show or movie catches our eye. But I still hold close to my heart those months watching Doctor Who for the first time. And I am forever grateful for that time in my life.
Doctor Who gives me hope. I am nothing special, yet I am special. I was taught me that everyone is special. I may not be Indian Jones. I may not be a super hero or Dr. Watson or even Kaylee. But I am who I am.
And I love who I am.
And my story is an awesome one.