18.
a photobook project
on growing up.
Photography gave me a chance to reclaim my sense of self.
Early-onset bipolar disorder and undiagnosed OCD had rendered my adolescence a mess and my relationships fragmented. I did not yet possess the language nor self-confidence to repair my bond with myself & others. There was too much shame.
In the beginning, my camera served as a crutch. It gave me the sense of security to exist freely without worrying that I was taking up space. People smile when you take their picture. And if the social interaction becomes too much, it’s something to fall back on. Something to focus on, instead.
But I began to love photography. And it was with me every step along the way as I made sense of who I was and what I valued.
I spent a year on this project, documenting my feelings about “adulthood” as I approached age 18.
I also wrote out my thoughts and experiences, and combined them into a hand-bound, hardcover book. It ended up getting stolen out of my car, the most valuable thing in the bag that went missing.
But I’ve never lost hope that I’ll stumble upon it in a thrift store one day.
Written Excerpt from 18:
I’ve always hated “icebreakers”.
We’re taking turns, one person releasing a stream of consciousness while the others sit in silence. I’m more comfortable being silent, but now it’s my turn to stand up.
Talk about yourself, your problems, opinions — say anything at all; just don’t stop talking until your time is up.
Nothing comes out when I open my mouth. I honestly can’t think of one thing about myself, one opinion, one problem, one fact — not even my favorite color or my shoe size. Is it possible that I can’t think of anything of substance because I have no substance?
As I stand in front of the classroom, my mind starts to wander, suddenly playing out how this sxcenario might play out in a dream. The pit of my stomach would start expanding until it swallowed me whole from the inside. A taunting voice would appear and tell me that I can’t think of anything to say about myself because I don’t exist — I’ve never existed. Nothing exists. And now everything’s spinning; the room’s going black, leaving behind only that familiar headache I’d get as a kid trying to understand the concept of Alpha and Omega.
But I’m awake, so none of these things happen. Instead, I just stand there with my mouth open until my time is up, wondering how such a simple getting-to-know-you exercise could cause an existential crisis.
I’m 5’5 3/4 (and determined that I will grow that extra quarter of an inch). My ears are emphatically unpierced and my legs are scarred, maybe irredeemably but I’ve accepted it. My nail polish is always chipped because I pick at it when I’m nervous— I’m always nervous. I have a hard time asserting myself, but I’m getting better at it. I’m also stubborn.
I’m often frustrated with my hair, but someone once described it as “musical”. I like the idea of having musical hair, whatever that really means. I’m usually not good at receiving compliments, but I am creative and I am good at reaching my goals. I like helping people, I like trying new things, and I like exploring new places. I like making people happy and I’m a happier person than I used to be. I don’t worry as much.
I am here, and I do exist.