Meeting J. J. Abrams

J. J. Abrams just released a new book called S. It's an amazing mystery box. I got to meet J. J., along with co-author Doug Dorst, at a release and signing in New York City. Here's how the conversation went down.

J. J.: "Hello…Ali?"

Ali: "Hi Mr. Abrams."

J. J.: "Thanks for coming tonight."

Ali: "I just wanted to say as a lifelong Trekkie how much I appreciated the last two Star Trek films."

J. J.: "You're too kind."

Ali: "You made Star Trek cool again and that means a lot to me. Star Trek got me interested in science and it's awesome to see a whole new generation get into it."

J. J.: "Are you a scientist now?"

Ali: "Yeah, I'm a psychologist."

J. J.: "Awesome, thanks a lot. This means a lot to me." *shakes hand*

Doctor Who Taught Me How to Embrace a New Culture

Doctor Who celebrates its 50th anniversary this Saturday, November 23rd.

My geek flag is firmly planted in space science fiction. I became a psychologist because of Star Trek. Firefly helped me understand myself. And I use Battlestar Galactica to teach suicide prevention. When my mind wanders, it gravitates to the final frontier.

Science fiction isn't just about space though. I've grown to love stories about dystopias, robotics, and time-travel too. That's why I was intrigued when BBC relaunched Doctor Who in 2005. I never saw the original Doctor Who series, but I knew it integrated many aspects of science fiction and was beloved around the world. 

I made it through 2 episodes of the new Doctor Who series before I quit. I didn’t understand the rules of the universe and was turned off by the cheap visual effects. I love British humor (I grew up watching Mr. Bean and Are you Being Served?) and I'm a huge fan of campy scifi (Galaxy Quest and The Fifth Element are amazing movies), but Doctor Who was just too weird for me. 

This was the moment I decided to stop watching Doctor Who.

Even though I gave up on the Doctor, I couldn't quite escape him. My friends pestered me to give the show another chance, readers of this website kept asking me to write about the Doctor, and each time I spoke publicly about the psychology of science fiction someone in the audience ALWAYS brought him up. I read a few Wikipedia articles about Doctor Who, enough to drop references to sonic screwdrivers and the TARDIS. That got me by for a while. But when Geek Therapist Josué Cardona publicly called me out for not understanding Doctor Who on his podcast a couple of weeks ago, it become painfully clear to me that I wouldn't have any credibility as a science fiction psychologist until I understood what made Doctor Who so popular.

The more I learned about Doctor Who, the more it reminded me of other scifi shows that I love. Illustration by J. K. Woodward for IDW Comics. 

I reached out to the Whovians in my life and asked them why they cared so much about the show, people like The Memoirist and The Superherologist. They told me about the Doctor's constant spirit of adventure, how he always did the right thing no matter the cost, and his imaginative intellect. That gave me a familiar context for the character – basically a mashup of Indiana Jones, Captain Kirk, and Sherlock Holmes, which sounded awesome! After my buddy, Bill, told me about BBC's tiny budget, I felt like a jerk for judging the show based on its special effects alone. What really hit me was how another friend, Anne, described her interpretation of regeneration – "like the Doctor, we can all shed dysfunctional parts of ourselves, keep our strengths, and build towards a better future." That's the same idea behind Star Trek! The more I listened to people who loved the Doctor, the more familiar he became.

After publicly shaming me, Josué was kind enough to guide me through the best episodes of the show, like "Blink", "Father's Day", and "The 11th Hour". He gave me context and answered my questions. I initially committed to watching only 5 episodes, but now I've seen 17. Sure the order I saw episodes was a bit wibbly wobbly, and I’m still confused about the mythology, but I get the appeal now. As Craig Ferguson said, Doctor Who is about “the victory of intellect and romance over brute force and cynicism.” What’s not to love about that?!?

For a kid who grew up being judged for looking different and having geeky interests, it was stupid for me to reject Doctor Who just because it was unfamiliar. But that’s how our psychology works – we like things we’re used to. The Doctor taught me that the only way to boldly go is by immersing ourselves in the unfamiliar and listening to people who see things differently than we do.

Coming Out as a Geek Is Hard to Do

I spent most of my life hiding who I really was until a conversation with Nhu-An changed everything.

We've crossed the one-year anniversary of Brain Knows Better and it's pretty incredible to think how much my life has changed over this last year. It's been a ton of fun to explore the psychology of sci-fi, but more than anything, this blog has helped me be honest about who I am – a big geek.

I didn't like who I was in middle school and tried everything I could to blend in.

I wasn't always this open about being a geek. For most of my life, I tried to hide it. In middle school, I knew some kids who wore Starfleet uniforms to class. When they were bullied for it, I stood by silently. Back then, I probably watched as much Star Trek: The Next Generation after school as they did, but I wanted nothing to do with them. They weren't cool and more than anything else, I wanted to fit in.

It took me a long time to open up about being a geek. I like to think it started with a conversation I had with Nhu-An in high school. She’s now my fiancée, but back then we were just getting to know each other.

"What's your deepest fear Nhu-An?"

She didn't hesitate to respond.

"Not fulfilling my full potential in life. I think about that a lot. What about you?"

"Oh wow...yeah that's a good one. For me, I have to say spiders. I have to ask my mom to kill them anytime they're in my room."

It was easy to be myself around Nhu-An, but I hadn’t told her about my love of sci-fi, technology, or comic books. In fact, I never told anyone outside my family about these things. Six months into our relationship, I was ready.

"Nhu-An, can we talk after school? There's something I need to tell you."

"Is everything okay?!?" You could tell she was worried.

"Yeah, I just need to get something off my chest."

I waited until after school, when everyone else had cleared out. We walked around the campus a few times to make sure no one else would hear what I had to say.

"Are you okay Ali? What’s wrong?"

"Yeah, everyone's okay, it's not like that. Well you know how you know every line in Hello Dolly? No one else knows this, but I'm the same way with Star Trek—I’m a Trekkie."

Nhu-An was the first person to learn that I was a geek.

It felt weird saying that out loud.

"Stop messing around, what did you want to tell me?"

"That's it, I'm a Trekkie, a big fan of Star Trek. Actually, I love all science fiction, Star Wars, too."

"Is that it!?!"

Nhu-An hit me in the arm.

"I THOUGHT YOU WERE DYING ALI! You had me worried all day. All you wanted to tell me was that you like science fiction?!? Who cares?!?"

That wasn't the response I expected. I was afraid Nhu-An might break up with me because I love Star Trek. Turns out she just didn't think it was a big deal.

That was a huge relief. Even though she didn’t like sci-fi herself, we spent much of the following weeks talking about why Star Trek meant so much to me.

“It’s actually really cool that a TV show had this effect on you. A lot of people watch TV and play video games but it doesn’t make them a better person.”

Nhu-An helped me feel proud of being a geek, but I continued to avoid talking about my geeky interests with anyone else. I just didn’t think there were many people out there who shared my interests and were normal. That’s why I was so shocked three years later when I noticed Alix, a girl in the neighboring dorm room, had a Star Trek logo on her keychain. I didn’t know her well, but the keychain made me think she was a safe person to talk to.

“Hey Alix, this is sorta random, but do you like Star Trek?”

She looked terrified and started hyperventilating.

“Whaaat?!? How do you know?!?”

I explained the situation and reassured her that I too was a fan. She eventually calmed down.

We became friends and watched new episodes of Star Trek: Enterprise together. Word spread in our dorm and people asked to join us. Soon, we organized a Star Trek movie marathon that packed my room full of people. Some were die hard fans, some were just curious.

It was such a strange new world for me to have a friend like Alix to geek out with.

Once I discovered that there were other geeks out there in the world just like me, I wanted to find them. Like Alix’s keychain, I dropped small geek references in my conversations – stuff like “Make it so” and “Do, or do not” – to see if anyone would take the bait. This is how I've made almost all of my geeky friends, especially those who've also struggled to identify as geeks themselves.

Once I found the courage to do so, being honest about who I am brought me nothing but good things. That’s why I went public with my geek identity and started this website. I wanted to share what I’ve learned about the stuff I love. The experience has been incredibly rewarding because it’s made it possible for me to meet all of you.

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February 14, 2014 Update: To hear a podcast version of this story, check out the Valentine's Day episode of the Super Fantastic Nerd Hour.

Thank You

Wednesday's story about my brother's suicide lived in my head for 5 years. It was too private and painful to share with the world. When I was finally ready, writing seemed like the easiest way to start talking about it.  

Your response has been overwhelming. Parallel Universe was quickly shared across social media, leading to thousands of visitors. Messages poured in from people who lost a loved one, were impacted by mental illness, or struggled with issues that aren't discussed in society. A few of you shared your memories of my brother.

Your words have been profoundly healing. The more I talk about Salman, the less shame I feel. It might take me awhile to get back to all of you, but I promise to keep the conversation going.

Thank you for helping me keep the memory of my brother alive.

The Parallel Universe Where My Brother Lives

It starts at home. I’m doing the dishes and listening to a podcast. I'm about to rinse off when my brother walks through the front door. “About time,” I think. Salman’s been gone for a while and I was beginning to wonder when he was coming back. We put on some tea, sit down and watch an old episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, making fun of Worf during the commercials.

That’s when I wake up.

I have this dream every other week. I hate it – not the dream, but being ripped away from it. Waking up is like finding out my brother died all over again.

On May 19, 2008, Salman shot himself, ending a long battle with bipolar depression. He was 36 years old. Salman suffered in silence – his illness wasn’t diagnosed until he was 34, after a very public manic episode that tore my family apart.

The dreams are always the same – I’m living my life right now in New York City and then my brother appears. Life has continued as if he never died – he was just away for a while. I’ve come to think of these dreams as a parallel universe where he never committed suicide, an alternate timeline in which he lives.

Waking up reminds me of how I found out. I got a call from my dad at 4:46am that Monday morning. I can hear his trembling voice – “Ali, your brother is no longer on this Earth – he committed suicide.”

I remember my guilt – Why didn’t I do more to help him?  What did I miss? Why wasn’t I there for him?

I get out of my bed, run through my morning routine, but the pain lingers. Listening to music and checking the news helps me bury my memories.

I could be having a normal day, then someone says, “My boss makes me want to shoot myself.” It feels like waking up again. How dare you joke about that? You have no fucking idea what you’re saying! But it’s just a figure of speech to them, what can you do but shove the anger down and get out of there as quickly as possible.

It’s worst when I physically can’t get away. Days after learning about Salman’s death I flew back to visit his grave in Pakistan and shared the seat with a man my father’s age. He looked easy to talk to.

“Are you on your way home?” he asked.

“Not really, I’m going to visit my parents.”

“Ah, good for you. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you. I was here for my daughter’s graduation – she just finished med school.” He was beaming with pride.

We talked about the medical profession and my training to become a psychologist.

“How’d you get interested in that? Were your parents psychologists?”

“It’s what I loved most in college, honestly.”

“What do your siblings do?”

“No…no siblings,” I lied, “it’s just me.”

“Oh, an only child,” he nodded. Now he wanted to talk about it! “Growing up, you must have had all the pressure from your parents.”

I had to get out of that seat. I said “excuse me,” tore off my seat belt and went into the lavatory. Not to pee, just to stand there. My heart was racing. I couldn’t tell him the truth – that I had a brother and he just died. I didn’t know why, I just knew I couldn’t do it.

When I returned to my seat, I put on my headphones to block out the older man. Despite his efforts, we didn’t speak for the remainder of the flight.  

I don’t remember much from that visit. I know a lot of people came to pay their respects, but the rest is a blur. What sticks out vividly is seeing his grave for the first time. I stayed with him for an hour. I promised Salman I would keep his memory alive with his son and pass on what he had taught me. In that moment, I was overcome by the smell of fresh jasmine, as if his spirit was trying to embrace me.

After returning home to Washington, D.C., I grouped people into two categories – those who knew me before my brother died and those I met after. Friends and family gave me a wide berth, avoiding the topic of Salman’s death. With new people, I pretended to be an only child. I hated myself for lying, but the last thing I wanted was to be the guy – the therapist – with the bipolar brother who shot himself. Denying Salman’s role in my life was the quickest way to avoid the pain. With the exception of my dreams, Salman never existed.

That year I spent Thanksgiving at my friend’s home and met her sister’s future fiancé, Karl. The two of us hit it off after we discussed a mutual appreciation of Batman and Iron Man. After dessert, a few of us played board games. Karl and I joined forces and declared ourselves “Team Awesome.”

“It was weird growing up,” said Karl, “My brother was 10 years older than me – he was a friend and a bit of a dad.”

I wanted to say “me too”, but I didn’t, I deflected and asked, “What was that like, being so far apart in age?”

“We did a lot of things together – sports and all that stuff, but he let me hang out with him and his friends, sometimes even sneaking me into rated-R movies.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said, but nothing more. In fact, Salman did the same. He took me to a bunch of movies I wasn’t old enough to see – Terminator 2, The Rock, The Matrix. My favorite thing was to tag along with him to Galactican, our local arcade. He knew everyone there. It made me feel so cool just being around him.

I didn’t tell Karl any of this. I might have made a good friend that day, but I kept pretty quiet.

“You know,” Karl said, “My brother helped me decide to major in computer science.”

“That’s cool,” was all I said, but inside I was screaming, I desperately wanted to tell Karl how my brother introduced me to Star Trek, how that led me to psychology, but I was too scared. I didn’t want him, or anyone else at the table, to ask questions, to judge me, to think poorly of my family.

By numbing myself to Salman’s suicide I restricted all of my memories about him – the bad and good. Remembering the experiences we shared together made me miss him dearly.

I think about that now – if Salman were alive today, he’d clear his schedule and take me to see the new Star Trek movie. I like to believe we’re both doing just that, in the parallel universe. Maybe in that universe he’s the best man at my wedding, the uncle to my kids, and my friend in old age.

Salman ended his life in order to stop his suffering. By refusing to face my pain, I’ve prolonged my suffering.

Last year I was serving on the board of directors of the American Psychological Association. At our end of year dinner, I sat next to Melba Vasquez, a past-president of the association. After some small talk, Melba started a conversation about family.

“Ten siblings!” she asked one of our colleagues. “What was that like, growing up in such a big home?”

“Jennifer, what about you – how big is your family?” Melba continued around the table, one by one.

I felt sick. I was stuck – nowhere to hide.

“Ali, what about you?” 

“There were four of us, my parents and my older brother…but he died a few years ago. He had bipolar depression and took his own life.”

“I’m so very sorry, Ali,” she said. “I had no idea.”

“It’s not something I talk about.” Even as the words came out of my mouth, the whole situation felt unreal – I had never publically talked about Salman’s death before.

“That makes sense,” she said. “There’s so much stigma about suicide – it’s not something anyone talks about.” Melba always communicated with compassion and honesty – it was one of the reasons I looked up to her and why I couldn’t lie to her.

“I’ve always been afraid that people would think differently of me and my family. I had this fear that people would think I’m an incompetent psychologist because I couldn’t save my own brother.”

“I’ve felt that way at different times in my life. Clinicians are just as vulnerable to these things as anyone else.”

When I accepted that fact, I felt comfortable seeking out my own therapy.

Later that night, I told Melba the things I wanted to tell Karl – how my brother taught me to build computers, our late nights watching Twilight Zone, debating Captain Kirk versus Captain Picard.

Yes, as I talked about it I felt that pain, the pain of waking up, but I endured it.

This way of dealing with things has also kept me away from the people I love. I rarely speak to my parents and I’ve been terrified of calling my brother’s son. I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t kept my promise at Salman’s gravesite. The last time I spoke to my nephew he asked me, “Why don’t you call me Uncle Ali?” I didn’t have an answer for him.

I want to be able to remember Salman more. It’s taken me 5 years, but I’ve finally put up photos of my brother in my home. They sit next to the other reminders of him that have always been there – the starships, action figures, video games. The photos don’t just bring me pain, they remind me of the joy we shared together.

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This was written in honor of Mental Health Month and the American Psychological Association's Mental Health Blog Day. I want to thank Razia Kosi, Executive Director of Counselors Helping (South) Asians/Indians (CHAI) for encouraging me to share my story. If you are a survivor of suicide, help is available at the American Association of Suicidology. If you are in crisis, please call 1-800-273-TALK (8255). 

May 17, 2013 Update: Please read my thank you letter to all who reached out to me after reading this story.

September 10, 2013 Update: As a followup to this story, I wrote an article about how to help someone who is suicidal. Note - it includes spoilers about the end of Battlestar Galactica.

October 15, 2013 Update: This story won the 2013 Brass Crescent Award for Best Blog Post. 

January 8, 2014 Update: For the final update to this story, please read "The Most Honest Year of My Life".