I traveled eighteen of the thirty-one days of May 2018.
New orleans, then Colorado, New Mexico, and Wyoming. They were exciting trips—full of delayed flights, kind strangers, writing deadlines, lost baggage, exemplary margaritas, familial tensions, romantic interludes, dramatic scenery and lots of unexpected lessons. travel is never without a certain education in perspective. I also returned home with three rolls of film to develop—two of black and white, and one of color.
The first roll of black and white turned out splendidly. During my time in New Orleans, I captured lush foliage in the Faubourg-Marigny district, centuries-old tombs of Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, and tree branches heavy with mardi gras beads.
The rolls i shot out west were not so splendid. The color film was partially double-exposed—what i thought was a 36-exposure roll turned out to have just 24. And the last roll of black and white was mystifyingly blank—completely devoid of images, save for faint whispers of light in each frame.
It was user-error, of course—all things mechanical misfire with my touch.
Somewhere between Silverton and Santa Fe, the wrong knob was turned. In adjusting the shutter speed, I had also lowered the film (ISO) of the film. While the aperture and shutter speed regulate light, the ISO determines the light sensitivity of the film. In short, the roll of color received too much light; the roll of black and white received too little. And And so film is not unlike the human mind: It requires a certain and specific balance to function properly.
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The week i developed my film, there occurred two shocking, high-profile suicides. A woman, striking and brilliant—known for her creativity and whimsy—decided she could not go on. And a man, who boldly ventured into parts unknown—on a quest to expand his mind, and explore voracious appetites—also chose to leave this world.
Their deaths were devastating reminders that mental health is still often taboo, that money cannot buy happiness, and that America has a suicide epidemic and mental health crisis on its hands.*
According to the numbers, feeling suicidal is not a rare incident. Suicide rates in the United States rose 35% in the last 2 decades: Is it the 10th leading cause among americans and it claimed over 48,000 lives in 2018. Something so heinous and dramatic cannot be ignored, but should rather be seen as a symptom of something deeper going on within our society, and each of us.
A link between us seems broken. All of us need hope that there is light, somewhere on the path. All of us experience periods of anxiety and depression, when our systems cannot properly regulate light or shadow, sleep or wakefulness, joy or despair. all of us. But you can’t always tell from the outside—not with the masks we wear.
Anxiety often drives people into activity—adding side jobs, happy hours, workout routines and scheduling out every free moment. Anxiety calls us to live in the future—planning and attaching to numb the universal terror of not having any control. How do you stop the feeling of free-fall?
Depression, however, is the anchor of paralysis in the sea of life. It dulls cognitive functions, weighing us down, filling our brains with fog that keeps us in the grips of painful past memories, taking up too much space to create new ones. Anxiety and depression are two sides of the same coin, sending sos signals throughout our bodies and minds.
In his atlas on mental health, The Noonday Demon, Andrew Solomon eloquently describes depression as “the flaw in love.” It is the flaw in love onto our own selves, and in our openness to love others. It is this flaw that bids us to isolate, separate and judge from the outside.
We are faced with a life of endless unknowns and completely incalculable odds that unlimited wealth and fame cannot account for. Even privilege cannot evade the heavy grasp of mental illness, loneliness, purposelessness. For these feelings of despair are human—they encompass what we have in common—they span the space between us. Even those who seem so triumphantly strong and stoic face the same terrors, and long for the same gentle caresses.
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During one afternoon in Santa Fe, I finished work early and went wandering with my camera slung around my neck. I set out for the tourist-laden plaza, and captured the steeple of the Saint Francis Cathedral set against some of the bluest sky i’d ever seen.
The church’s stained glass windows were superimposed against bold red geraniums outside a Persian restaurant on Canyon Road. Because I double-exposed the film. The effect wasn’t altogether unpleasant, though it does overwhelm the eye—too busy and restless and noisy to allow any focus.
In contrast, my time between Albuquerque, Laramie and Denver was severely underexposed. I had tried to commemorate the gorgeous and foreboding clouds that rolled along the high plains outside Centennial, Wyoming. I truly wanted that portrait of my friend, leaning on his red 1986 Dodge Ram, set against the marbled mesas of rural New Mexico. But the memories were blank. Devoid of enough light, they appeared to have been completely extinguished.
From the outside, there had been no indication that anything was awry. The 35mm seemed to function well enough, focusing and winding with ease, then delivering a deliciously satisfying “click” with each shot. By design, film cameras cannot yield instant results. The click was misleading. I would not how imbalanced the machine was until much too late. For looks are ever-deceiving.
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If you or someone you know is experiencing suicidal thoughts or impulses, know you are not alone. Tell someone you trust. They cannot always see your anguish from the outside, and chances are, they long to connect, and have moments of despair themselves.
Not sure who to trust? You can call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline and talk to another person about how you feel. 1.800.273.8255, 24 hours a day.
