Deferral

Refuse to defer power to those institutions that are incapable of making use or sense of that responsibility.

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Under a month ago, after several weeks contemplation, I decided to come off my meds within days. For two years now, I took venlafaxine. I am told as a second line treatment for moderate to severe depression. Last November saw the addition of quetiapine, an antipsychotic — thrown into the mix not for psychosis, which I do not have, but to manage my issues with anger.

Their combined effects appeared to work for a time. I lost those impulses of anger, and indeed the behaviours that brought on such emotions were less offensive, less enraging. Until of course they stopped. Like climbing a hill, the initial side effects endured during the up-climb, were overtaken by the blissful plateau, which lasted not long enough before I hurtled down into utter malaise and sheer indolence. 

I would look at my iMac and just be content with its backlit beauty, not actually achieving anything. No guilt either, smiling an inane smile at the passage of my time. It was this very fact that I believe pushed me over the edge to such a drastic decision. Moving slowly towards death — it's ok, don't worry about it, life's too short to worry, fuck it, just eat cake. 

Six years ago, after the birth of my first child, the driving factor for changing my career into journalism and photography was the fear of death. I was (technically) middle age, my daughter was hardly aware I existed because of the hours I worked. The work itself meaningless to me. I had an impulse to create art that meant something, worthy of a legacy I actually cared for; so I called in sick and didn't return to work for eight months. 

Unable to cope despite taking the time off work, I accepted the deferral of my care to those who were trained in psychiatry and psychology. During those months, I started counselling and was put on an SSRI.

The fear of a meaningless life, my mortality kicking me while I was down, proved unshakable. I taught myself street photography and decided to study a masters. The privilege to do so never escapes me. 

I established a bond with my daughter and grew the love between me and my wife. Shooting endlessly since, I have a portfolio I am now proud of, and I fully accept that I achieved this with the stability citalopram brought to my life. I discovered hard truths that brought comfort much later, but that challenge was absolutely necessary for my growth. 

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Today, several days into dropping my SNRI and antipsychotic, I find myself at times overrun with emotion. A song, a thought, scene from a film, a look from my children, the stroke of my wife's hand enough to make me want to cry. I feel a rising tide of excitement that threatens to overwhelm me. I physically stop. To move an inch further is to be reduce to rubble. I breathe and let it pass, reassured that I what felt was genuine and a real part of me. (Several times I have felt these sensations while I write this.)

I have taken back responsibility over my life, my choices. Yes the after-effects of dropping meds after six years of dependence, and done at such a pace, is not at all advisable — many a moment where it has not been an easy ride. But for me, I throw my head first into anything that I find attractive. Fire or thoughts, the danger is irrelevant to me. (I worry my son is a carbon copy.) It's born out of impatience and a desire to have it now. Only now. It's what drove the change six years ago and I will never make apologies for this attitude. 

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After each time I have hit crisis mode, the psychiatrist doctor, nurse, social worker or healthcare professional asked the same question. Do you think the treatment is working? I resolutely answered, 'yes of course'. Defensive. My faith in the system and for the clinical trials that proved the efficacy of treatment unshakable.

Yet my personal evidence argued differently, disproved my hypothesis. The crisis mental health team were involved three times since switching to second-line therapy. It was appearing more like an indefensible relationship, a toxic relationship that insisted on respect despite no such dues earned.

Dark Garden

I want to talk about mental health, my mental health and yours, because really, there is no distinction between the abstract, standalone term, and the personal pronoun. Mental health is something we cannot escape - as scary as that sounds - a supervillain ready to pounce at your slightest vulnerability. 


Since childhood I was aware that, periodically, something was not right with my mind. Ephemeral memories of my childhood where I would wander in my parent's garden, with an overwhelming sense of disquiet ruling my thoughts, unshakeable despite however long I stayed outside. Play seemed impossible; life's weight inescapable. 


Irrespective of the sun shining above, those memories are recalled with a foreboding feeling of the darkness that would at times overcome me through my adolescence and adulthood. 


I still feel it today. A sense that I am muted in my actions and my thoughts. Yes the physical and mental are deeply connected, but I still to this day cannot fathom why I can't jolt one to jumpstart the other. It seems no such cable exists in my repertoire, and although I can accept that that may be a personal limitation, that it's a skill I am yet to learn, I don't believe it unreasonable to think it's a tool I will ever master. Yes I can go running, talk to a friend, put a fucking face mask if I must, but their transience is all to real to me. Still the inertia persists. 


There are days I sit in my study, seemingly pottering yet achieving nothing of worth, or simply catatonic, with any real movement likely to reduce me to the ground.


Many years ago, where I experienced singularly the biggest crash of my life, I took eight months sick leave. During that time I felt comforted by my love of photography. Back then simply a hobby, I would pound the streets of London to teach myself street photography. sStarting from such low vantage points, I had no fear of losing. I would fearlessly point my lens at everyone and all, snapping my shutter with complete abandon. Shamelessly uncaring about the consequences of my actions. During those days - at times out for eight hours or more - I took some of the best images to this day move me and others. They remain resonant.


Since then, I have turned pro. Rather unsuccessful in monetary terms, I am utterly proud of my portfolio and the shoots I have achieved. I have branched out into fashion, shooting regularly at fashion weeks, shooting for countless agencies and instilled confidence in many a new face. I have developed my street photography into more nuanced projects that range from skateboarders to market places in Cyprus; published multiple times for street, fashion and art nude photography.


It was during the height of my productivity that I developed my Confessional series. A reaction to shooting mainly fashion, and an utter fear I was shooting boudoir or glamour photography, I embarked upon bringing the rawness of my street photography to shooting models. 


Inspired by photographers such as Nan Goldin, Saul Leiter and Richard Bellingham, the project was simple in conception. Devoid of styling, set design or hair and makeup considerations, it would be simply me and the model shooting nude and talking. A kind of therapy if you will. There were times we would laugh or cry, or be stilled by the gravity of the expectations of our lives. A shared intimacy unique in space and time. 


You see, photography is deeply connected to my mental health. Arguably it is the reason I am still alive today.


Yet I have structured it into my life in such a way that it's complexity now halts any soothing thoughts of picking up my camera, and heading into town to shooting street. My biggest desire for the coming year is to once again strip it all down. Just me, my camera and subject. Be that the public or an art nude model, I am focusing only on shooting what makes me happy and well. 


Life is too short chasing unachievable desires, unachievable because of the undue weight placed upon them; there comes a time where letting go takes precedence.