If you're looking for a quick hit, you're in the right place: These narratives might not be long but they're full of punch.

Short Reads

Some odd years ago, I was born and, then, immigrated to the United States with my family. I went to public grade schools. I grew up with a mom, a dad and a sibling. I lived in a house that had a tree in the front yard. I rode bikes. I took piano lessons. I went trick-or-treating for Halloween. On October 31, 2010, I went trick-or-treating for the last time. It wasn’t because I grew up and became too old. It was because I grew up and told my parents I am gay.

“It Gets Better” was a campaign that was running all over the internet back then. Neil Patrick Harris was the main face of that movement. He told young LGBTQ+ people that the struggles they were dealing with were only temporary—that “It Gets Better.” He in his fancy suit, on TV, telling me that in three, six, ten years: It gets better. I looked at him first with envy, thinking how lucky he was to be able to live his life without fear, without prejudice. He and his fancy suit, perfect haircut, white smile, and eyes that looked like they had never expressed sadness. I sat in my worn-down pajamas, with an awkward body that I was still growing into, just trying to think about what life would be like without prejudice.

“We would rather have a straight and homeless son, than a gay and successful one.” These 15 words were uttered to me on October 31, 2010, and are forever etched into my mind, physically branded into my skin as a reminder, and repeated on every day I go on.

I think maybe Neil forgot to include “sometimes never” in his commentary. Sometimes it might never get better. Sometimes it might take a lifetime. Sometimes. Never. Just never. Of course, time is relative, 2010 was ten years ago. But it seems like yesterday. I’m reminded of it every time I take my shirt off. I walked on eggshells for what seemed like forever. Unsure of what tomorrow will bring. Maybe suicide?

In the fall of 2013, I was ready to rebrand myself. I received a couple of college scholarships, but there was a gap that I had to fill. My family is notorious for being competitive, especially among family members. I could not be the one person—the eldest child out of all my immediate cousins—to not go to school, or culturally worse, go to a community college. I had to take out student loans. I had no choice. It was shame.

Then, I fell in love for the very first time. I was very happy. What is love? I am of the opinion that people in the LGBTQ+ community are five to ten years behind our heterosexual counterparts when it comes to love: simply because we did not have the same opportunities. Then I fell out of love—mostly due to struggling with figuring out who I am, what my identity is.

“We would rather have a straight and homeless son, than a gay and successful one.” Success is a finicky thing. It’s different for different people, what a cliché thing to write. Neil Patrick Harris was wrong. It doesn’t get better. Why me?

I had two choices: Either continue to feel down, or to keep my head up and pull myself up. Whatever happened to rebranding myself? I focused on my goals, my dreams, my hopes, my livelihood.

Ten years after coming out of the closet as gay, Neil Patrick Harris was right. It got better. Much better. As I am writing this, amidst the COVID-19 pandemic, I am sitting on a Zoom call with a slew of friends I've made throughout the years. I am still learning more about who I am. Originally I thought it got better in 2013 when I went to college. Then I thought it got better in 2016 when I fell in love. Now it’s even better in 2020. It will always get better, this isn’t the end: If it is, then I’ve lived a very sad life. My relationship with my parents has gotten better. I need to apologize to Neil Patrick Harris for hating him so many years ago. I’m sorry. My life isn’t perfect, but it’s loads better than before. It definitely got better. Why? Because of me.

Neil Patrick Harris' Message to Gay Youth: Video From Liqtimi

Love

New Beginnings

Coming Out to My Parents Wasn’t Easy, but It Was Worth It

When the COVID outbreak appeared to be under control earlier this year, the Indian government eased the restrictions of movement for large crowds—a decision which is now turning out to be catastrophic as our country deals with the spread of a more contagious new variant of virus.

It’s a catastrophic situation: Daily death figures reach new highs as gravediggers work round the clock. There’s a shortage of oxygen supplies, the menace of a black market for essential medicines, the unavailability of ventilators and beds in hospitals, and a shortage of crucial raw materials required to manufacture the COVID-19 vaccine.

Official numbers report total COVID cases crossing 20 million, and more than 200,000 deaths.

But medical experts believe the actual number of deaths from COVID-19 could be 10 to 30 times the official numbers. With underreporting of cases and large test positivity ratios, the true scale of the pandemic may be far worse than the numbers would suggest.

Each day I am receiving calls from friends or distant relatives that someone from their family has died of COVID. So many people can’t get a COVID-19 test, hence their cases remain unreported.

Most hospitals are already working at almost twice their capacity; they are not able to keep pace with the surging demand for ICU beds.

My grandfather was straight away denied a hospital bed, because saving the life of a 78-year-old person wasn’t the doctor’s priority. Lots of people who are not getting access to hospital beds are being forced to struggle and succumb to suffocation at home. My grandfather lost his life after 36 days of struggle with lung blockage.

For the last four days, I’ve been hearing the screams of an older lady, who lives next door. She is dying of suffocation and lung blockage, but it seems there isn’t much that her family can do to alleviate her suffering.

Remdesivir, which usually costs around $50 is being sold for $1,000. Oxygen cylinders which usually cost $80 are being sold for as high as $1,400. This is the same with most crucial medicines. For my uncle’s COVID treatment in a private hospital, my family ended up paying around $30,000 in hospital bills for a one-week stay.

For lower-middle-class and middle-class people, it has become almost impossible to get appropriate medical treatment in a good, private hospital. They are mostly being left on their own.

At New Delhi crematoriums, corpses wait in long queues to burn. The crematoriums are running out of wood required for pyres. For my grandfather’s cremation, my family had to carry his body on a bicycle as no vehicle was available to take his body to the crematorium. At the site, the 24-hour queue was a very shocking and disheartening experience for my family.

Amidst the pandemic, the government decided to go ahead with state elections in West Bengal, where thousands of people flocked to cast their vote. Common people are paying a huge price for the government’s irresponsible attitude of giving priority to elections over putting restrictions in place.

Religious ceremonies are also taking place. Mahakumbh saw a gathering of more than nine million devotees, after which the state saw a massive surge in COVID cases.

Many countries—including the U.S., Russia, France and the United Kingdom—are rushing critical emergency equipment to assist India in battling this deadly second wave. And the international support is giving us hope of battling COVID-19 successfully.

Still, these days on social media, I don’t get to see funny memes, beautiful videos or political jokes. Instead, everywhere on Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp and Twitter, the posts are frantic calls to save lives from my friends, and friends of friends. Everywhere people are posting, sharing, tagging, asking for information related to ventilators, plasma, oxygen cylinders and hospital availability.

I am hopeful that the situation in India will become better soon, the posts will brighten and, in some months, people will be able to live their lives again.

Collection

Coronavirus

Insiders

Report From India: What the COVID-19 Pandemic Is Like Right Now

Who would think that someone offering me a biscuit would be the most memorable act of kindness, one that would stay with me for the rest of my life? 

I was on the trip of a lifetime in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, writing a travel article for a national newspaper. It was carnival time and tourists flocked in their masses, eager to witness the world's biggest street party that has run for many years. It can be fun to indulge in hedonism—it’s a chance to let your hair down and throw away all inhibitions. You can party from dusk until dawn if you want. But what I experienced was what I least expected.

Part of the holiday’s purpose was to give something back to the community in a sustainable way. I admit I wasn’t necessarily sold at the time. I envisioned sparkly costumes, glamour, dancing, parties and beautiful people. When we arrived, trip leaders told us we’d be visiting the infamous favelas, shantytowns in the outskirts of the city. I was taken aback. Surely they weren’t encouraging western tourists to hang out in potentially dangerous areas? On top of that, we were to be handed a paint brush to work in the searing heat.

I was called to put any preconceptions aside. Would it be hostile? Would I leave with my life? Would I require instant medical attention? To be clear, we were in the hands of people who had strong links within the community. We were going to be painting people's homes, to give something back to the community, to learn about it and expand our horizons.

Brazil, despite its beauty, can be an unforgiving and tough environment. I knotted a scarf around my pale skin head and found myself enjoying my chores. Unbeknownst to me, I was performing a random act of kindness, in a way, and it was rewarded by a lady inviting me into her favela home. I am not taking praise for my own handiwork; the locals’ random acts resonated deeply within.

I felt immediately welcomed. She gabbed away as the phone rang—it must have been her friend. She led me towards the window and gesticulated to the extraordinary vista. I knew what she was saying without speaking her language. She, like many others there, owned nothing of material value, and this was apparent. But she had the most spectacular view of Christ the Redeemer, which is worth more than any designer watch or Gucci handbag. 

She offered me a biscuit, a traditional snack—usually served with a cup of tea—in the North of England, where I’m from. But I knew she didn’t have anything else. It sounds crazy, but I was overcome with emotion. This woman powerfully conveyed so much in the most simplistic of ways—kindness emitted from her. Her energy, her love, it was radiating and intoxicating.

At the carnival a few days later, despite all the enthused merriment going on, I felt a little sadness spread over me inside, as I’d not long ago lost my mother to cancer. I then felt a tap on my arm and a small child picked up a red flower made of net that had fallen off somebody’s costume. The child’s arm outstretched towards me, and I could have wept at such an open face of generosity.

This touched my hardened heart, and probably was conducive to me not giving up on life completely in the following years. It was also at odds with what I knew back in London, where angry, pinched faces shouted at one another and stabbed each other in the back with vindictive jealousy. I still have this artificial flower, and if I’m feeling like life is throwing me a lot of lemons, I look at it and smile to myself.

Let’s be kind to ourselves. Let's be kind to our planet. Pause and reflect. Let’s think before we take that holiday, buy that dress, eat that meal. Give something back. Be kind to a stranger. They might never forget it.

Acts of Kindness

Seeing Life in the Favelas of Rio De Janeiro Changed My Heart

During the election of 2016, I thought I was a Republican. I was a #NeverTrumper but I would never have voted for Hillary. 

Now, I find myself so far left that even Democrats wouldn’t claim me. 

The majority of my childhood was spent in group homes and abusive situations, until I was whisked away into high society at the age of 16. From then on I was immersed in privilege, from dinners at the Four Seasons to tuition at my private school. I was spoonfed a specific narrative that this type of life was only attainable through hoarded wealth, and I took on an appropriate political position to uphold it. 

I was an 18-year-old Black Republican woman. 

I was loud about stupid topics on social media, like why Roe v. Wade should be repealed, and soon enough, as a pretty woman and young Republican, I found myself with a platform. From the blog I began with, I grew connections in right-wing journalism circles and started writing for more respectable publications. One piece about seeing Kellyanne Conway was republished by Fox News. I was given a position to share my views, despite having no real authority or expertise. I was given a press pass to the Conservative Political Action Committee. The road to paid conservative punditry was very easily traveled.

Soon after, I went to a rather liberal college and had my views challenged by a fantastic sociology professor and, then, a health scare. 

I have a lifelong condition that is incredibly expensive to treat, and the first time I ran out of my medication and was forced to decrease the amount I was taking, I realized what a considerable amount of my income would have to be delegated to my healthcare. Living as a woman of color with a disability in New York City very quickly made me realize that not only was my childhood unconventional, but that being whisked from trauma to abundance made me feel like protecting my economic interests mattered more than my own access to affordable medication. As a traumatized teen, I had failed to address the emotional conditions that led me to the right-wing community. No one ever asked me why I was a Republican, so I never questioned why I felt so loyal to a political group that actively works against my best interests.

In college, I was exposed to leftist thought for the first time. From Marx to Engels to Foucault, I learned how to unlearn my unconscious bias and address hiding behind the economic and social position of conservatism that would protect me from the reality of being Black, a woman and disabled. I was made into a token, given a public platform when I was a literal child and exploited for identity politics from the very party that supposedly opposes them. I moved from a Republican to a moderate, then eventually to a Democrat, where I realized that party lines don’t matter. The two-party system keeps us fighting each other and distracted from reality.

Every time I have a small health scare, a hospital trip, a doctor that I have to pay to see, a prescription I have to pay to pick up, I sink deeper into my socialist ideology—knowing that the both the Republican and Democratic parties are doing next to nothing to ensure the safety of disabled people. I’m not alone. My generation is being radicalized by the harm the two-party system is causing to the environment, national health and people of color. Instead of “voting blue no matter who,” we refuse to believe or engage in a system that routinely prioritizes money over lives. Socialism provides a way out: revolution. 

There are fundamental inequalities built into the very fabric of America, and partisan politics distract from the fact that the major parties are two sides of the same coin. Party divisions matter more to some people than the issues at hand, and under the influence of lobbyists, accruing and hoarding wealth has come to matter more to some of our legislators than their constituents. Politically, I swung from a Republican to a socialist because I realized that neither the Republican nor Democratic parties would ever represent my interests above their own. 

American politicians don’t represent the American people—they represent the interest of the rich and powerful. We live in an oligarchy disguised as a democratic republic, and our votes mean nothing in the face of big money and big industry. There is no right party—there is only rebuilding from the ground up.

Politics

Health

Right to Left: How a Health Scare Made Me Go From Being a Republican to a Socialist

Drugs & Alcohol

Up, up and away! Time to get out of the house with The Doe.

Travel

Stories that can only be told from the land of the free, home of the brave.

American Stories

LGBTQ Voices

Motherhood

Earth Day or any day, let's celebrate our planet. 

Mother Earth

Tearjerkers

The Doe celebrates its authors this Black History Month.

Black Voices

Extra, extra, read all about it! The news-media industry has shifted dramatically over the last decade—heck, within the last two years. Between print journalism, podcasting, social media and infotainment, The Doe turns over every rock in this evolving ecosystem.

Media

Stories of starting over and finding the fresh.

The ol' nine to five has changed quite a bit in the past couple of years, from working remotely to, well, not working at all. This month we take a look at how cash still does rule in our capitalist society and what the future of business and money might just look like.

Money

The Doe's editorial team takes a look back at the year and shares its favorite narratives.

Best of 2021

During the Nakba in 1948, when there was a mass exodus of Palestinians expelled from their own houses and lands in the place that right now is called Israel, around 3,000 people built tents in my neighborhood on the borders of Al-Bireh. My family are natives of the city and have been living in the same place for decades. Over time, as the camp grew and became more rooted, we found ourselves surrounded by crowded concrete buildings populated by more than 10,000 people, with my house in the middle. We found ourselves as a family living in the extreme conditions of our neighbors, plagued by overcrowding and inadequate sewerage and water networks. 

Despite the change, my family has always been welcoming to our refugee neighbors. The crowded conditions haven’t dampened the inhabitants’ genuine caring and natural bonding, which have made them resilient and steadfast. I have been told many stories about my grandmother. She was the godmother for the camp, who opened her house to those who needed help and defended her young neighbors from Israeli military attacks with her special weapon: her slippers. 

I lived through the Second Intifada in the early 2000s. I was five years old when it started. I remember the sounds of bombings, shooting, arrests, and Israeli tanks and troops in the middle of the night. I remember the shouting and wailing of mothers for the lost lives of loved ones. I witnessed my dad being arrested by Israeli soldiers. I wondered at the time where they were taking him, and if they would take me as well. Later, my mom calmed me down and told me he’d come back. After a week he did, with tears in his eyes. I didn't know what happened and no one told me. 

Now I am 26 years old, and I still don't feel safe. The regular midnight raids on the camp scare me. Since childhood, my worst nightmare is a tank demolishing my family house over our heads, the way I see happening to our neighbors. Living an everyday life is a dream to me. I ran to Ramallah to find a decent job where I can fulfill my dreams, but the brutal reality keeps chasing me because big cities are not far from political events. Settling down seems impossible when one day you have a job and the next you don't.

When I want to travel from one city to another through military checkpoints, young soldiers no older than 19 point their guns at us, ready for any ambiguous move to give them a reason to open fire. I have to carry all my identification documents with me every time I leave the house, even for a short trip. Usually, the drive from Al-Bireh to Nablus takes an hour. Sometimes, we have to roam for six hours to reach my relatives' house in Nablus, crossing one checkpoint after another. 

Having my belongings searched by soldiers, or even being given a full-body security scan, has stripped my feeling of safety and personal privacy. In my short lifetime, I have seen the wall built around Palestinian cities and villages, disconnecting them from relatives and friends, and zoning them into fragmented IDs. To me it is an apartheid wall, segregating people from each other based on identity and race. I live one hour away from the sea but can't reach it because I need a permit from Israel. 

How do I see the world? Through the eyes of my foreign friends who tell me stories about their countries, cultures and lives without borders. It confuses me. I don't know if it makes me happy or sad to hear how easy life is supposed to be. I am overwhelmed by the fact that the world is moving and I am standing still, gathering my shattered, sabotaged dreams.  

It is depressing to live in a reality where human needs are only measured by what you do today, not what you aspire to achieve tomorrow. In the end, my only consolation is hope.

I Grew Up in a Palestinian Refugee Camp

This is one of the most common questions I get asked while fasting during the month of Ramadan. Once a year, over 1.6 billion Muslims worldwide adhere to the holy month of Ramadan, which never occurs at the same time of the year since the Islamic calendar is lunar-based. As a child, I remember fasting in the wintertime, when we would open our fast around 4 p.m. right after school. During my residency training, I recall 17 or 18 hours of grueling fasting during the dead of summer. Either way, the feeling of clarity, spirituality and closeness to God we get from our fasting is always met when the month comes to an end.

During the month of Ramadan, Muslims are expected to abstain from food, water and sexual relations with spouses from dawn until sunset. Every night, people congregate at a local mosque to recite a special prayer. Many people say this tradition is to appreciate the blessings of your life and to know how those less fortunate than us may have it on a daily basis. But this is not the core reason as to why we fast. We fast so that we may increase our awareness of God and become more “God-conscious.” 

The analogy I give my friends and co-workers is that if I’m alone at home, or in the office, and I’m hungry or thirsty, then what’s stopping me from eating or drinking? My parents won’t know I had a sip of water. My friends or co-workers won’t know either. But we believe that God is always watching us, and so we refrain from these things. It’s this exact same sentiment that should carry on to our other actions in life. If we decide to lie, we’re reminded that even if no one else may see us, God is watching. If we are going to cheat, or speak maliciously about someone, He’s watching. This fasting mindset should carry over to our daily lives so that we may improve our character and be more upright.

As a physician, I regularly prescribe patients intermittent fasting to help numerous medical conditions. Many studies have shown that intermittent fasting (also known as “wet” fasting since you can drink water and black coffee or tea) has shown to decrease blood sugar levels, lower cholesterol, aid in weight loss and even help lower blood pressure. I remind my patients that there is not one single medication or pill that I could prescribe that would give them all of those benefits. But fasting does. 

People often wonder if fasting affects my ability to care for my patients, and I let them know that it does the opposite. There is a clarity that comes from fasting that requires the human mind to set aside the feelings of hunger or thirst and to better focus on the task at hand. In fact, there are professional athletes in the NBA, NFL and soccer leagues around the world who tend to perform at an even higher level during the month of Ramadan than outside of it.

This month is also a time where families tend to come together more often. As a kid, I remember my mother preparing the pre-dawn meals and all of us congregating around the table, eyes half-closed, eating and mumbling pleasantries. When it was time to open the fast, we all would gather once again at the table, eager to drink that first glass of water and enjoy the goodness my mother would painstakingly prepare for the entire family. 

Things are different now, unfortunately. Living 1,200 miles away from home, I’ve spent the last few Ramadans alone. I’ve stuck to a routine, knowing what to eat to stay well-nourished and hydrated to make things easier for me. But the last two years have been especially difficult living within a global pandemic and the normal practices and rituals of this month being put on hold.

Though COVID-19 has presented medical and mental health difficulties for those of us in the medical field, for those of us fasting during this time, it’s been a true test of grit and patience. Outside of this month, I have felt the stress and pressure that the pandemic has placed on me. Whether it was patients falling ill and being hospitalized, others spewing false facts about the “fake” virus and refusing to wear masks in my office, or those losing insurance and no longer affording their much-needed health care, fasting has helped to increase my patience and keep me grounded to deal with an otherwise tumultuous and difficult time.

What It’s Like Being a Doctor During Ramadan

Tom and I met on a dating app while traveling. I asked him to tell me a secret, and he dropped a real stunner: that he’d spent years in his early twenties living as a woman. Despite taking steps towards medically transitioning, Tom had been unsure whether he could fully commit to the process. Living as a man now, he sometimes wanted to be a woman, but living as a woman he’d wanted to be a man. He finally concluded that no amount of medical intervention would “really’’ make him a woman.

At first, as we kept dating, I was understanding—after all, that was then and this was now. Tom was adamant he wouldn’t transition again and that he was settled as a man. When he expressed his feminine side, it was often by taking over domestic chores, an indulgence I was more than happy to oblige.

I wanted to be around Tom every moment of the day. As we wandered the cities of the Caucasus, hands drifting towards each other, I knew that I wanted to break my three years of celibacy and have sex with him. I texted my friends that this might be The One.

Despite having quit medically transitioning years ago, Tom’s past estrogen treatments lingered in the form of budding breasts and soft, curvy hips. Every time he unselfconsciously whipped off his shirt I’d avert my gaze. I was only comfortable having sex if the rest of our bodies didn’t touch; when I eventually admitted how I felt, he told me I was shallow.

I had always had the utmost respect for trans people so my aversion to being involved with one forced me to question my sense of self. I couldn’t help worrying about a future with Tom, a future in which he might realize he’d been in denial. I spotted the little pink packet of pills poking out of his wallet, supposedly left there for comfort.

The doubts grew louder. Did he really no longer consider himself a woman? He confessed how he felt sick with envy passing women on the street. I was jealous and insecure. Diving into the familiar cool of McDonald’s to escape the Tbilisi heat, I fretted about the sexy server with her red lipstick, whether he wanted her or wanted to be her.

The relationship collapsed before it started.

On his way back to New Zealand, he spent a few days in Bangkok. Sent me photos of freshly waxed legs.

Back home, he announced he’d decided to resume transitioning; if she couldn’t get a girl to be with her, she may as well become one.

That day I walked out of work in the middle of my shift, bought a bottle of vodka, and got riotously drunk in bed. She wanted enormous boobs, she said. Sent defiant photos of her in a dress, toenails painted electric blue. Told me to lighten up. Just a bit of fun.

They say gender is fluid. I was woke! I could accept that. But I couldn’t reconcile in my head having a lesbian relationship. I didn’t feel right touching anyone’s breasts sexually, let alone breasts bigger than mine.

I am cripplingly insecure about my own body, so why was I judging someone else’s so harshly? While I knew in my heart I would never be attracted to women, a friend’s suggestion that my distress was down to homophobia crushed me.

I was angry with Tom for what I perceived as putting me in this position. I was angry about being invalidated; I ranted and raged.

This combination of compassion and venom confused me. I had been horrified when, on reconnecting with a friend from high school who was now a doctor, she announced that body dysmorphic patients need therapy instead of surgery. I was appalled when J.K. Rowling made the case against trans women belonging in women-only spaces. As a classroom assistant, I took extra time to look out for the transgender kids.

But now I was disoriented. Trans people experience so much fear of rejection and I had justified that fear. Why was I so shallow? If it wasn’t for me Tom would still be living life as a man! Lighten up, it’s all just a bit of fun!

As angry as I felt, and sometimes still do, I know she didn’t deliberately mislead me. She was just confused and in denial. I’m trying to work through my resentment.

A year has passed and we don’t speak anymore, though she sent me a photo a few months ago of her vivid tangerine hair—inspired by mine, apparently. I hope women now pass her on the street and feel sick with envy.

I Unknowingly Fell in Love With a Trans Person

It’s normal to feel like your world is crashing when someone unexpectedly breaks up with you. So when my ex-boyfriend broke up with me over the phone while I was abroad, I went loopy. I sobbed in the bathroom and nearly messaged his mum to ask him to reconsider. Whenever something sends me spinning, I envision moving countries, growing a new identity, and becoming a whole other person who then can’t be bothered by something as futile as a shitty ex, so I started planning an escape to Singapore, and began looking for jobs there. I was, at turns, suicidal.

All of this over a relationship of just five months—which, in BPD time, might as well have been years.

I am a 24-year-old woman who suffers from Borderline Personality Disorder, also known as EUPD: Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder. Having a personality disorder does not, as you might assume, make me violent or manipulative or too crazy to function. But it does mean I experience life in more dramatic ways than most people.

The “borderline” there in the name makes it sound like I teeter on the edge, and to explain it, that might be a useful image for you. BPD is usually caused by childhood trauma involving emotional, physical or sexual abuse. Its symptoms can include a fear of abandonment, unstable relationships, unstable self-image or mood swings. Sufferers usually experience heightened emotions or a lack of emotion.

Me, I’m like two bottles of wine, an energy drink and a hug from a puppy wrapped into one.

People with BPD might tell you “I’m so unstable” and yes, they might be. Don’t mistake that instability for a short-term, quirky personality trait that they trot out for parties or road trips. My friends know me as a fun-loving, hyper person who feels affection for everyone I’ve met. They also know that the smallest trigger can turn me into a sobbing, unstable mess. Fun, right?

Outside of the debilitating anxiety and depression I experience as part of my BPD, you would think I’m a fairly normal person. I loathe mornings, like checking out new bars in London, love traveling abroad. I get up and I go to work, and later hang out with my friends and family. The big difference is that I don’t have thick skin. Every emotion I encounter feels like a third-degree burn. An inner voice constantly tells me that no one loves me and I’ll always be alone.

Sometimes the overthinking is right: People do leave. When a friend’s messages start to dry up—when they leave one-word replies and I start to feel like an afterthought—the alarm bells begin to ring. Are they ditching me? What did I do? Am I annoying? Should I change my personality? I have never had any thoughts of hurting them, but I use self-harm as a way of turning my emotional pain into physical pain.

BPD often spills into physical symptoms, such as panic attacks and crying. I cancel plans, burrow underneath my duvet, weep at the smallest thing and constantly check messages. But in the morning I get up and go about daily life, apparently functional as my mind yo-yos from one emotional depth to another. 

The depression in particular is frightening. It’s like being trapped in a black hole, unable to see or do anything about it. Add BPD to the mix and it’s a black hole constantly swirling and dipping.

When your self-image and personality shift constantly you never quite know which one is “real.” I’m constantly weighing my dialogue, interpersonal skills, my reactions—even my interests and hobbies. The constant check-ins with myself mean I can blend in, chameleon-like, with almost any group of people. I listen to a variety of music so that’s always a way to find common interests. I’m high-spirited when I need to be, quick to laugh, always painted as the happy one. At the same time, I am shy, quiet for long periods, and feel an anxious mess around people.

It gets lonely when people only know a certain part of you and you’re left wondering what part people will like best.

I feel a persistent sense of abandonment and need constant reassurance that people want me in their life. It’s hard not to be clingy. I try to come across cool and aloof, but warm and loving. It’s difficult to keep up appearances when you feel like you’re on fire half the time. Get to know the real me, though, and I’m an amazing friend. My personality disorder is traumatic. But it means that when I love, I love hard.

Doe Print Value - Goodwill

Doe Print Value - Openness

Mental Health

What It’s Like to Navigate the World With Borderline Personality Disorder

The year 2020 will go down in history as the one in which Zoom dominated the world. As COVID-19 forced millions into lockdown across the globe, online communication became an essential part of daily life. But after months of e-learning, virtual hugs and video conferences, it seems we’ve all had just about enough of living our lives through the internet. 

Zoom fatigue is real, and our reliance on technology amidst this pandemic has exacerbated what was already a love-hate relationship. The need for physical connection has never been greater.  As 2020 hurtles towards the Christmas and holiday season, many are confronted with the prospect of their first “Virtual Christmas.” The usual family get-togethers will be postponed, grandparents will be shielded from their grandchildren and loved ones will rely on an internet connection to feel close to each other this year.  

As my own family prepares to be separated for its first Christmas, I can’t help but remember a time in my life when technology kept me close to my beloved grandmother who lived some 6,000 miles away. 

In 2016, I was living and studying in the United States during my year abroad. Half a world away, my 80-year-old grandmother was living on her farm in Ireland. She bought a laptop and learned how to Skype for the sole purpose of keeping in touch with me. Every Wednesday for six months, we met at 5 p.m. her time (and 9 a.m. mine). Invariably, she had returned from an afternoon walk with her dog, while I was waking up to another glorious day in sunny California. We were worlds apart, but for that precious hour a week, I was transported back into the home that I knew and loved so much.

She was my cheerleader and had supported me throughout my life. After I told her my plans to move to America, she would send me a letter through the mail each month with money saved from her part-time job. She was servant-hearted to the core.

My grandmother was born in England during the 1930s and later evacuated to Ireland as World War II broke out. She was a dutiful mother and wife but capable of so much more than the role society asked her to play. She is the reason I believe women of my generation owe so much to those whose shoulders we stand on.

She unexpectedly passed away at the end of my time in America, and we never knew that those weekly virtual conversations would be our last. Losing her left a huge void in my life, but I will forever be grateful for the gift of Skype for helping us share some precious moments together. Thanks to the miracles of the internet, we had six more months of conversation before unknowingly saying goodbye. 

It goes without saying that virtual communication is no replacement for real-life contact. But what a blessing to be able to listen to a loved one’s laugh and see them smile one whole continent and ocean away.

This Christmas will be like no other, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still feel close to those we love. The year 2020 continues to teach us valuable lessons about gratitude and appreciating the small things in life, and this virtual, festive season presents the perfect opportunity to practice just that. 

This Year, Let’s Be Grateful for the Chance to Have a Virtual Christmas

When First Round Capital tweeted that “Community is the new moat,” I felt the first pang of anxiety that my work in community was finished. That coffin was sealed with the announcement of the Community Fund, a venture capital firm with the investment plan of making community-driven companies into unicorns. 

For the past decade, my peers and I have consulted and built businesses around community building, the business function that cares for and engages customers with each other. Even a few years ago, we still found ourselves having to explain the difference between a community manager and a social media manager, but since then our little industry has become more noticeable. We’ve built superuser programs, online engagement strategies for presidential candidates and revenue-generating programs that fundamentally changed companies’ relationships with their customers. Work was plentiful and budgets (with larger companies, brands and national nonprofits, at least) were sufficient, if not generous.

In 2020, community is hotter than ever. On Twitter, at least. Along with words like “belonging” and “engagement,” “community” is the new must-have checkbox that every growing company needs to fill. The hype only escalated further in wake of COVID-19, as online communities replaced in-real-life connections, and executives became reliant on their more tech-savvy, more junior community counterparts to transform conference experiences into Zoom rooms. 

In reality, community managing has tanked this year. Every community consultant I know is struggling. Our in-house counterparts are desperately trying to hold onto their jobs, if they haven’t already been laid off. I used to get client inquiries for complex, monthslong $150,000 projects. Now they’re for $15,000. Sometimes they’re $1,500.  

Another shift has occurred recently: We’ve lost faith in our technology. Facebook is under fire at the White House. Media darling companies are being called out left and right for racist behavior within their company policies and tokenization in their marketing. Tech employees are unionizing and staging walkouts. We’re finally seeing technology for the weapon that it can be. 

Today, I see community as the showmanship of a technology culture that’s desperate to appear benevolent in a tide that is turning against it. Tech startups mask their fear of customer revolt—the power that consumers online have always had since the conception of social media but only fully realized in this boiling, polarized political environment—by using community. All it takes is one too-true tweet or Instagram story for the wrath of the internet to destroy carefully crafted brand reputations, customer trust and loyalty. Instead, in a game of attempted offense, companies build ambassador programs and host Slack groups in hopes of winning favor and using the positive momentum (for now) to further their growth. With the wrapper of “community,” companies can claim that they were trying to do right by their customers. 

Truthfully, many of the companies I speak with about working together do want to do right by their customers. They genuinely want to build a community. But startup folklore robs them of knowing what community takes: a deep understanding of their customer needs, a willingness to address those needs, the patience to develop deep relationships, elbow grease, muscle and a lot of time. Community won’t just appear on a platform that they buy or a Facebook group that they launch. 

Further, the desire to build a community is in conflict with the very system in which their company exists: shareholder capitalism. Venture capitalists and shareholders are prioritized over customers and community members. Growth and scale are prioritized at all costs to maximize financial returns. There is little left over to build a community. 

When VCs say that community is the new competitive advantage, or that it will lead to a $1 billion valuation (both of which benefit the company, shareholders and investors much more so than customers and community members), founders and executives are forced into community commodification. What investors like the Community Fund have overlooked is that building a community and building a unicorn are fundamentally at odds. A community-striving company that turns into a unicorn is a lucky outcome, though a unicorn-striving startup will likely never have a community. Growth at all costs is in direct conflict with what a community needs.

Science & Technology

Community Management Is a Shareholder Capitalism Cover-Up

People join social media platforms for many reasons. The main one, however, is to connect with family, friends and like-minded people. Exasperation with Facebook and Twitter suppressing comments and posts, however, has led to many making their voices heard in a new way. Which is to say, I am one of the more than eight million people who have switched to the social media app Parler since the November 3rd election. 

I have a Facebook and Twitter account for my personal use. I also have a Facebook page for a political club that hosts events and used to receive a couple of thousand impressions per post. The most popular posts would receive closer to 10,000 impressions. But since Facebook and Twitter changed their algorithms, my posts barely get 100 impressions—my most popular post only received 1,100. Nowadays, my followers don’t see events or posts for up to four days after I originally publish them. Many have shared these club posts to their page, only to see them disappear from their timelines. Even I have experienced posts disappearing after sharing my political club musings onto my personal Facebook page.

Many of us conservatives have been victimized by the increase in censorship this past year. Friends have had their Twitter and Facebook pages suspended over posts that the app deemed “untrue” or “offensive.” But only when you read the explanation of the censored post can you see the true censorship happening on these two platforms.

My last censored post had an explanation that said, “The statement was true, but there was more to the story.” The “more” was that it was still being investigated. Even when a post was accurate, Facebook police deemed it didn’t fit their narrative, so they threw doubt onto the accurate statement. It’s like calling the sky blue. Facebook will put a disclaimer that the post is “false” or “partly true,” explaining that, “The sky is not actually blue. Water molecules in the air only give the sky the appearance of blue.”  

This gives the impression to other readers that the post is misleading or a lie. And the more Facebook does this, the less credible the author becomes. As a consequence, they lose followers and their messages get muzzled. The biggest form of suppression occurs in the form of replies and comments being filtered from the “Most Relevant” categorization. I have commented on many posts, but many of them aren’t even displayed. Only when I switch to “All Comments” will I find it. This suppression helps guide conversations in certain directions and gives the impression that right-leaning ideas are not as popular as they truly are.

Because Facebook and Twitter—and their long-standing censorship towards those that disagree with their views—have had a monopoly on social media for quite some time, a whole new set of platforms have emerged. Parler, for example, is the Twitter competitor, while MeWe seems to be the one to challenge Facebook. Since signing up for Parler, I’ve seen a huge difference in my impressions. With just a tenth of my followers, my posts are seeing greater impressions than what I have been witnessing on Twitter. Parler even allows posts that have previously been censored on Facebook. The site is a great place for non-liberals to have conversations without trolls entering posts, disrupting conversations and calling names. It’s also a more peaceful platform, allowing people the opportunity to think for themselves.

In Men in Black, Tommy Lee Jones says, “A person is smart, people are dumb.” Nothing corroborates that more than social media. Unfortunately, hate has taken over Facebook and Twitter, and many smart, reasonable voices remain silent to stay clear of the noise and animosity that opinions may bring. The fringes of each party continue to hijack posts to drown out the opposition. Civil conversation and disagreements are no longer the norm. 

That being said, I still support Facebook and Twitter’s rights to censor and suspend whomever they want. The first amendment to the Constitution only protects free speech from government suppression, and private companies have the right to set their own rules and regulations. The free market system in the U.S. makes us greater than any other nation—it allows us the opportunity to buy a similar product or service from multiple vendors, which keeps prices down and competition fierce. The consumer wins. No one wants to move to MeWe or Parler; they would rather stay on Facebook and Twitter and have rational conversations that aren’t censored or suppressed.  

Although Parler has been deemed a “safe space” for conservatives by many left-leaning people, it is far from that. The app’s movement is about like-minded people getting together to voice their resentment over the wrongdoings and suppression by sites like Facebook and Twitter. No one wants to be censored or suppressed. The growth of Parler and MeWe are simply examples of our free market system working as designed.

Doe Print Value - Stability

I Joined Parler So I Wouldn’t Be Censored

With non-essential stores reopening and much of the population flouting social distancing rules, many in England are worried that there is second wave of COVID-19 on its way.

One group that is particularly fearful of one is disabled and chronically ill people. I’m one of them.

I have a whole host of illnesses—arthritis, osteoporosis, asthma and the autoimmune system disorder lupus, to name just a few.

While disabled and chronically ill people have been panicking that we might die, the most the government’s done is send letters to vulnerable people telling us all to stay inside. Most of us have now been sheltering in place for 13 weeks, and even though the government has hastily announced that we’re now allowed out, many of us are reluctant and wary to leave the house, fearing it’s too soon to go back to “normal.”

My biggest fear is that if the second wave should come, will we be prepared enough for how many new cases will come with it? And if not, who will be the ones to suffer?

When the National Health Service is on its knees and has to make a decision between providing care to someone who is usually healthy and more likely to pull through, or someone with a weakened immune system and breathing problems, I know who a doctor would pick.

If it comes to this, will I be left to die?

This is the thought that keeps me awake at night, and makes me terrified for my equally sick grandparents and my sick friends in America, where the both the coronavirus situation and access to affordable health care is even worse.

When our Prime Minister Boris Johnson said in his first press briefing, “We will lose many loved ones,” I heard, “Sick people are collateral damage. Deal with it.” It wasn’t a promise to save as many lives as possible, but more a pre-emptive admission of defeat. People are going to die, he seemed to say, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

At the same time doctors in the U.K. were sending patients with pre-existing conditions and the elderly forms recommending they sign a do-not-resuscitate order should they be hospitalized with COVID-19. This made the disabled and chronic illness community terrified.

There was news coming out of Italy—which was two weeks ahead of the U.K.’s rapidly increasing death toll—that doctors were having to choose which patients to save based on their healthiness before the virus struck. Coupled together, both of these things gave a strong signal that we weren’t worth saving, and that we should do doctors a favor by not making them choose.

Around this time, I began experiencing what may have been mild symptoms of the illness. I’m still not sure. I had a persistent cough. I was exhausted, and it felt like I had a massive weight on my chest, which I affectionately named “Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson.” Despite my pre-existing health conditions, I wasn’t considered at-risk enough to qualify for coronavirus testing, mostly because I live in quite a deprived healthcare district and there weren’t enough tests to go around. My local healthcare authority had been advised only to give them to those with severe symptoms. Instead I was told to stay at home and isolate myself for 14 days.

I recovered after ten days but my energy still hasn’t come back. I’m still not sure if it was COVID-19 or just a really bad chest infection. All I know is that I’ve never felt this ill in all my life, and that’s saying something considering I’ve nearly died at least four times.

Since March 18, my world has shrunk dramatically to my house, my block where I walk the dog daily and the supermarket I visit twice weekly. I haven’t seen any family in person since mid-March.

We joked then that it might be the last time we’d be together for a while. We didn’t realize how right we were.

I can feel the atmosphere around me becoming less stressed. People have stopped panic-buying, and there isn’t the same feeling of terror in the air. But I think it’s far too soon to get complacent.

My biggest fear right now is that I may get coronavirus in a much more vicious form than my symptoms three months ago. I’m terrified that if we do have a second wave, the sheer number of patients will overwhelm a National Health Service already at its breaking point due to years of defunding and being sold off for parts. What will happen if I need to be hospitalized? If there aren’t enough bed and ventilators, will I be cast aside for someone more likely to survive?

During the first wave, disabled and chronically ill people were lucky to have the heroes in the NHS and Department of Health who ensured that we wouldn’t be left at the bottom of the heap. But with their budgets and energy depleted, will we be as lucky the second time around?

Disabled and chronically ill people already have enough to struggles to manage. The burden of not being deemed healthy enough to live shouldn't be one of them.

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