How Photography Helped My Mental Health

I had depression. After over two years of therapy, I can happily say — ‘had’. Let me start by saying that help is available everywhere; no matter how dark it may seem around you, you are never alone!

Taking photos has always inspired me. I started with an analogue P&S in my youth and bought a new digital Nikon after. By taking photos, I could see the part of the world I wanted and could simply block out everything around me. In the beginning, there was no need for Photoshop or editing — that came with time; I used these tools to create more and more of THE ‘perfect’ image.

Unfortunately, this led to more time at the computer instead of taking photos. I enjoyed my time with the cameras less because every time I was chasing my perfect moment. It felt like a lot of pressure. My peers knew me as someone who always carried a camera, so I felt compelled to satisfy that narrative, as its absence would lead to conversations about it missing from my person.

After the long-awaited road trip through Sweden, I took home over 2,500 photos on my memory cards. But the thought that came to my mind when I saw those files was ‘uff, I have to edit them all’.

In an effort to change the pace, I bought my analogue Nikon FG with a 50mm pancake lens, a few AGFA and Kodak film rolls. I loaded the camera and took my first photo of my dog on film.

After the click of a button and the feeling of the mirror slap inside the camera, my wife said, ‘Show me.’ Those two words were a huge milestone in the progress of my healing.

As I descended into the deepening rabbit hole of analogue photography, I came across an article suggesting that properly staged and lit self-portraits can be beneficial for mental health. These scenarios place their subjects in a flattering light, surrounded by visuals within the photographer’s control.

A well-lit self-portrait is the polar opposite of a typical light above a bathroom mirror, a light in which you don’t recognize yourself and wonder what has actually gone so wrong in your life. ‘What has led me to standing here right now and no longer able to trust my head and my thoughts.’

So I started to think about how I could portray ‘my depression’. If you break your leg, you have an X-ray and then a plaster cast. Absolutely everyone understands that. Depression is different, and everyone feels it differently.

I wanted to visualize how I felt, how torn, how disorganized I was. Why the smallest things seemed like Mount Everest. Why I couldn’t bring myself to get up and just do something. This eternal crushing weight and the daily struggle against it.

I took the time to look at myself; that's how these photos were taken (not all of them are analogue — some are digital).

When I saw the pictures, it was like flicking a switch. Because for the first time, I was able to see and understand my innermost self and describe my feelings to others — visually.

I was feeling insecure about my decisions in my private and professional life. I scrutinized them down to the smallest detail, but ultimately fulfilled my tasks sloppily or skipped them altogether. I wanted to prepare myself for all individualities and exhausted myself mentally before anything had even begun. I took absolutely no time for myself.

After two years of exhausting therapy, those feelings diminished or partially resolved. I learned to live with my decisions.

Decisions like loading film. Once in the camera, film can’t be changed until all 36 exposures are spent. Do I use black-and-white or colour? Do I use an ISO 50 or 400?

Those limitations helped me concentrate on the essentials. To enjoy the moment. To take the time to take a photo and see the pictures weeks later.

Like the first photo of my dog.

Not only did I regain my patience, but I was also happier with the success rate on film. Ten good shots out of 36 is better than 200 out of 2,500.

Once I had learnt to develop and enlarge the films myself, I could complete tasks conscientiously again.

A mistake can mean that the film is ruined or the paper is used up. Because of that understanding, I looked at every single photo several times — and as I did so, I relived the moment it was taken. This was different from my earlier attempts to capture the supposed “holy grail” of photography.

Of course, I still made mistakes. I picked the wrong films for the light, and I made mistakes loading film. Still, I felt that these mistakes were helping me learn. And when in doubt, I used my mobile phone and enjoyed the moment without a camera.

Film photography is magical. We insert a strip of plastic into a box, press the shutter, place the plastic in a dark bottle, pour chemicals, swirl them around, and get a piece of plastic with sharply defined light and dark spots. With the safety light on, we place the plastic strip in an apparatus with a light bulb and a piece of light-sensitive paper. A few seconds of exposure and a liquid bath later, the finished image appears.

Thanks to therapy, analogue photography and, of course, my family, I can enjoy photography again — and other things that time may bring.

I’ve been at war with Time, but we’re slowly becoming friends again. Humbling.