Photography And Psychiatry (2024)

Trigger warning: this story discusses intense suicidal ideation, psychiatric inpatient hospitals, and psychological health issues. Please read with care. 

This is a medium-format shot of Mt. Rainier as seen from the Washington Backcountry Discovery Route. I took it while on a work road trip, as I supported a coworker of mine with trail spotting, video, and the like. I used my Fuji GW690 to take this shot. I mis-loaded the camera, so that’s why only half of the exposure actually came out. I actually had a very uncharacteristically bad roll on this very remote trip with perfect weather and fresh film: I only had five “perfect” shots total out of eight on the roll. An entire blank frame, back-on-nicotine shaking in another frame, and this half-exposed shot were all ruined. 

When I got these scans back last Monday, I was devastated. This error—what should be just a normal part of film photography—truly broke me. There was no hope left in the tank and I had run out of motivation to live. With the urging of my girlfriend, I checked into an ER for emergency psychiatric care, instead of the much more drastic and permanent option that I had solidly laid out the groundwork for, and was prepared to do.

Of course, I’ve taken many bad photos, and I’ve never planned a suicide over those; this little mistake was simply my final breaking point. In the months leading up to receiving this film scan, a lot of good and a lot of bad stuff was happening, but mostly, I was busy. The specifics of the busyness are unimportant. Life is strenuous for everyone, traumatic for many (especially trans people!), and I am no exception. 

The real problem was that I have never developed a system to deal with stress or trauma. My “solution” has consisted of piecemeal quick-fixes, assembled continuously through a difficult childhood and tumultuous twenties. Many of these are maladaptive. One of these “fixes” was compulsory stress as a motivation to act. I would build stress until I could move as though human limits did not exist, piling things onto my plate endlessly. Constant activity would keep my racing mind busy, but eventually, I would run out of adrenaline or events, and then my mind would collapse. In the aftermath, I would spend weeks with daily panic attacks, followed by crushing despair. I felt powerless to my own emotions, and my intensely state-dependent memory—a common symptom of C-PTSD—meant that every previous collapse came to mind easily. It felt inescapable. This was how I spent the month of June. I sought death as relief from this cycle, because it was truly unbearable.

I went to the psych ward for five days, a relatively short stay. If you’ve never been to a mental hospital, I don’t recommend it, unless the alternative is death. For me, it was, and so I am glad I checked in. I was fortunate to respond rapidly to a host of (long-term safe!) anxiety medications, I improved rapidly, and I was so fucking joyous to be released. It was incredibly traumatizing, and also saved my life. 

In a psych ward, there’s not much to do. There are sealed windows seven inches behind tamper-proof Plexiglass with Venetians that don’t go up, a consistent 70-degree-F hospital-air breeze, a bed two inches off the ground, a lidless toilet, and your mind. There are books and games and art and groups but if you are truly terrified to your core—and the intake experience is upsetting enough that you very well might be—then you will likely be focused on your mind. I certainly was. 

Once the medication started to work and I was able to think about anything beyond the instinctual gut fear that I was trapped, I began to imagine what I would do after. Clearly, I needed to change how I was living; I did not want to ever end up here again. What traits did I have that were actually healthy that I could make into habits? Walking, journaling, spending time with loved ones, self-care strategies were all easy to add to the list. 

So was photography.

Photography, unbeknownst to me, is one of my best strategies for dealing with trauma. People with C-PTSD often experience racing thoughts, as a lifetime of feeling unsafe leads to intense rumination on the past and hypervigilance about the future. As a result, it is difficult to be present. There is always a threat or a flashback lurking. Taking a picture is one of the few things that shatters my anxiety’s hold on my mind and allows me to live in a single moment: the one where I find the shot. 

When I have a film camera with me, and I am deeply intentional about the shots I take, I force myself into looking at the world through a viewfinder. I am always trying to line up the next photo, take advantage of the light, catch the right alignment of motion and stillness. I see the beauty in everything so much more clearly. I enjoy the present because I am living in it. The shot itself is, at this point, a fortuitous side effect.

I have tried to restructure my life since I was released from the hospital, cementing new healthier habits and ideally killing off the maladaptive ones I’d developed. My favorite new routine is waking up at 5 AM and walking the city streets with my Nikon F4 and a thermos full of coffee. Every day since I have been home, I have begun my morning with four miles of brisk walking and looking for shots, and it has grounded me. I haven’t developed this first roll I’ve shot yet.

If the shots are bad, so be it. Maybe they’ll be bad in an interesting way, like this shot of Rainier. Possibly they’ll work as part of a collection. Or perhaps they will be truly hideous. The photos, no matter how bad, will be proof of a moment I lived in, and for that, I am truly thankful.

If you are struggling, please know that there is help. Nationally, if you need emergency help, you can call 988 for the Suicide and Crisis Helpline. In Washington, the WARM Line (877-500-9276) is extremely helpful and reassuring for instances where you need support, in my experience. In general, if you are at your limit: please call 911 or go to an emergency room and seek emergency psychiatric care. I am so happy I did and I am still here to write this. I have faith you will be as well.

The photos from this trip are available here, on Flickr.