The Beginning of the End

It is strange to think that the winter quarter is coming to an end, and with it, the end of my project on my depression and anxiety; though the project is not complete in the long term, it will soon be complete for the purposes of this class. I recall in early January when I first proposed my idea for this project, recall mid-September when the idea first came to my mind. When I first thought of doing this work I made a list of everything I wanted to capture, all the things that help and hurt me, all the people who have been there for me along the way. It seemed massive and overwhelming. How could I possibly capture everything I wanted in a single quarter, just ten weeks? I touched on this when I wrote my project proposal at the beginning of the quarter, how I was unsure if I would be able to tackle the enormity this series seemed to be in the time allotted. 

And yet, here I am, preparing my final presentation of my work in a few short days. It feels slightly surreal. Working on this series has been quite the journey for me, a therapeutic journey full of pain and pride, ups and downs. When I started this project I sort of viewed it like my depression itself—overwhelming, massive, exhaustive, endless; yet now, being nearly done, both the project and its subject feel much smaller, more manageable. Looking at all the images lined up together it is almost as if I have made a guidebook for myself to remind me of what resources I have, the people and things I can turn to in times of distress. Instead of feeling completely consumed by my depression, I can now take a step outside of myself and view it as something separate; my depression is a part of me, but it is not all of me.

Coming Home

This weekend I went to my hometown of Washington, D.C. to spend some time with family and friends and make more pictures for my project on my depression. Unfortunately I was not able to meet up with my therapist from high school, as I had originally planned, because she made a last minute trip out of town. Nevertheless, the weekend was full of reflection and reminiscing on who I used to be and who I have become. My mom and I sat on her bed and thought back to the night that I sat there almost 9 ½ years ago and told her that something was wrong and that I needed to see a therapist, thought back to how she took me downstairs to have ice cream after. We recalled the time a week before my 14^th birthday when my psychiatrist decided it was time to put me on antidepressants. We remembered the night I came dangerously close to attempting suicide; how she had accidentally left her phone at home and all my calls went to voicemail; how my best friend’s mom drove her the 30 minutes to my house to intervene. It was bittersweet, wading through these memories, appreciating the actions of my friends and family while feeling sad for my former self, yet recognizing how far I have come since then.

What was surprisingly frustrating about trying to shoot this weekend was making images of my mom, as she always immediately noticed my phone and demanded to see the images I had made so that she could give them her seal of approval (my dad, however, remained oblivious). She hated the way she looked in almost every single one and kept wanting me to retake them, kept posing. I tried to explain to her that these images are not about making her look like a supermodel, but rather about telling my story, but it did not do much to help. I’m so used to my subjects not seeing the final finished product of my work that I am not used to difficulties such as this. I want to be respectful of my mom’s wishes, but also want to share my story as I see it, with all of its flaws. It is somewhat frustrating to build up the courage to let myself be vulnerable in my images only to have my mom’s own insecurities hold me back, but at the same time I completely understand it. After all, I’ve shared images that have potentially unflattering connotations about myself, but I have not shared many images that are unflattering of my physical appearance (at least, not on social media). But though she was reluctant to have her picture taken, she has never hesitated to help me in any other way she possibly can, and I cannot thank her enough for this. 

"Am I Being Crazy?"

This past week I had an interesting experience in which I felt like I was watching myself through the actions of someone else. As I mentioned in a previous post, I often question whether my thoughts and interpretations of reality are truly objective, constantly asking myself, “Am I being crazy?” As a result, I tend to seek the approval and reassurance of others, and, in doing so, tend to repeat myself over and over again to ensure that I am, in fact, sane.

I was therefore intrigued when I heard a friend ask this question repeatedly, “Am I crazy?” I listened as he explained the situation he was in, how absurd and irrational his boyfriend was acting. I watched as it devolved from this one situation to a general pattern of frustrating behavior. I listened to him repeat the same aspects of the story over and over again, telling anyone who would listen, exasperatedly asking again and again, “Am I crazy?”

No matter how many times my friends and I assured him he was in the right, that his boyfriend was acting ridiculous, that he was not crazy, more parts of the story kept pouring out of him, as did the question of whether or not he was crazy. It was so strange to watch because I realized I have done the same thing many times before; repeating myself, retelling the same story to anyone around me, constantly seeking reassurance that I am in the right and not going insane. As badly as I felt for my friend, a strange sense of relief washed over me as I watched and listened to him. I sympathized with him, but I could not help but feel happy at the realization that I am not the only one who has moments like this. Not only that, but being on the other side of the situation I was finally able to see that, as the listener, I was not frustrated or tired by him. For after the fear of being crazy subsides, I then get the fear that I am annoying my friends by asking the question. I hope I can remember this the next time I am having an am-I-crazy moment.

Theresa and the Tattooed Man

Untitled from the "At Twelve" series (Theresa and the Tattooed Man), Sally Mann, 1983-1985 

Looking through the work of Sally Mann at Jackson Fine Art this past Wednesday, hearing the story of Untitled from the “At Twelve” series (Theresa and the Tattooed Man), I wondered: how do you photograph the unseen? How do you capture the tension in the air? How do you depict abuse you have never witnessed? I look at this image now and my stomach turns. I feel Theresa’s discomfort, see her anger at the world for not noticing what has been happening to her. And perhaps I also see a smidgen of pride in her eyes, a certain toughness in her face that says to me, “I’m still here.” The inches Theresa puts between herself and the Tattoeed Man seem to make up miles. The dirt stains on the Tattooed Man’s shirt appear all too appropriate. Do I only feel that Mann has so perfectly encapsulated this moment because I now know the rest of the story behind the image? I no longer remember how I felt when I first saw this picture, before its history was revealed. How does knowing the back-story affect how I view this image? (Or any image, for that matter).

I now reflect on JB Rasor’s most recent (as of writing this) blog post discussing the necessity (or lack thereof) of writing accompanying a photographic project, for I feel this particular photo provides a good case-study. Mann’s images are incredibly powerful and more than capable of standing strong on their own, however, the power this picture possesses when paired with more information about its origins is astounding. How could Mann do anything but include this information along with her work? I realize that not every photographic project has a back-story quite like that of Untitled (Theresa and the Tattooed Man), but I just personally appreciate having as much information as I can about any work of art.

Emotions and Creativity

In addition to weekly individual therapy sessions, I also attend a weekly therapy group that specializes in a treatment called Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (D.B.T.). This treatment is "designed specifically for individuals with self-harm behaviors, such as self-cutting, suicide thoughts, urges to suicide, and suicide attempts."[1] D.B.T. is set up like a class with lessons and homework assignments, and is split into four modules: mindfulness, distress tolerance, emotion regulation, and interpersonal effectiveness. The goal of D.B.T. is to help people learn how to identify the triggers that lead to reactive states and which coping mechanisms best apply in the given situation.

D.B.T., Lindsey Max, 2016

We are currently working on emotion regulation. This week’s homework assignment is to go through a list of myths about emotions and write down a challenge to each myth. One of the myths is that “creativity requires intense, often out-of-control emotions.” I pause for a while to reflect on this statement. My emotions and my creativity seem to have a mutually beneficial relationship, particularly for my currently project. Often when I am experiencing intense emotions, I look to photography as a way to distract myself and calm myself down. I find working with film to be particularly calming, from shooting to processing to printing in the darkroom.  It is at these times I also feel that I do my most creative work. If and when I start to feel unstable, I use photography to center myself. Photography is my form of meditation. I translate the energy I am spending on negative thoughts and emotions into creative energy. One of the side effects of my depression is that I often have very little energy and it can be difficult to motivate myself to do even the littlest tasks. Additionally, the antidepressants I take also cause drowsiness. Therefore, it is at times when my emotions are running high that I tend to have the most energy, and thus translating this negative energy into creative energy seems to produce my best results. This is not to say that I am only creative when I am feeling depressed, but rather that the more intense I am feeling, often the more creative I am. For example, in high school I was given Rorschach tests at a time when I was pretty down, and the psychiatrist had to cut me off because I was giving too many answers for what I saw in each figure. I was also told I was the first patient to say a figure looked like a Georgia O'Keeffe. 

D.B.T. From the Other Side, Lindsey Max, 2016*

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[1] http://behavioraltech.org/downloads/dbtFaq_Cons.pdf

*I have been asked to note that the figures in this image are not real Rorshachs

Fighting the Stigma?

As I write this post I am printing the images from my depression project (title still to be determined) in preparation for Wednesday’s Mid-Quarter Critique. Some of them are hard for me to look at on this big computer screen; my pain is blown up before my eyes, and I have to minimize some of the images while they print because I can’t stand to look at them. I am suddenly acutely aware of who is around me. Who else is looking at these images? What do they think of them? What do they think of me for making them? I feel the strong urge to post a disclaimer next to my computer explaining the project in its entirety for anyone who may pass by and glance at it. I strategically stack the finished prints so that the least provocative ones are on top. I now realize how much importance I have placed on the explanation behind my work. My peers have commended me for my bravery in sharing such a vulnerable body of work, but am I really being that brave if I can’t stand to have this work seen without being accompanied by in-depth descriptions? I have already shared my work publicly via Instagram, but each post has been captioned with a statement about the project the images come from. Why is it that I feel the need to explain myself? I believe this desire is rooted in the stigma that I am trying to fight. I don’t want to be seen as someone who is “crying for attention,” as the type of person who tells the world their problems and makes everyone uncomfortable in the process instead of simply confiding in a few close friends like we are told we should do. In a way this is contributing to the stigma I am trying to fight—I don’t want to be seen as “one of those people,” and, in that, I am stigmatizing “those people.” Despite my intentions in doing this project I still cannot break away from these social norms that have become so deeply engrained in me.

The Depressed Mind and Objective Reality

I am currently working on a project that will document my ongoing battle with depression and anxiety. One of the many struggles of living with depression and anxiety is knowing that your mind naturally, automatically puts a negative skew on reality. This leads you to constantly question what is reality and what is your warped perspective of it. Did she really say that to me like that? Am I being too sensitive? Is everyone really against me, or does it just feel like everyone is against me? Not only does depression affect how I remember, but also what I remember. After particularly emotional encounters I can often feel so drained that it is like I have completely blacked out; I cannot remember what just happened or what was said, all I know is that I feel like I have nothing left in me.

Aripiprazole, December 2015, Lindsey Max

While not trusting your perception of the world is difficult and frustrating for anyone, it can be especially problematic for an aspiring documentary photographer. How can I ensure that my photographs present an objective view of reality when I don’t even know what an objective view of reality is? In class this week we were discussing the issue of conveying an unbiased depiction of reality, and I was starting to feel fairly disheartened about my own ability to do so, when one of my classmates, Sara, made the comment that “any photograph can be a skewed version of what reality is.” These words struck me quite deeply, and the more I thought about them the more I realized that there is no such thing as a completely objective photograph. Every choice a photographer makes—cropping, angle, dodging, burning, lighting, and the thousands of manipulations that can be done in Photoshop—affects how the viewer reads the image. There is always a little piece of the photographer in every photograph they create.

For my own project, I want my images to be personal yet universal, photographs that both tell my story while being familiar to those fighting similar battles. Though my images may not be completely objective, they are real depictions of how I see my world.