In my teens I fell in love with photography. Its ability to convey an emotional state offered an alternate language of expression for reconstructing what was then a shattered inner world.
Carrying around my father's old Pentax ME Super 35mm film camera (digital did not yet exist), I would learn the ways and means of translating one's vibrant sensory world of tangible, visible, and audible queues into a reflexive snapshot of a single ellipses of time.
The science of film, its correctness of inter-related momentary ordinals, exists as a knowable object in its own right; defined by functions which can be modeled, simulated, and counter-adjusted according to objectively determined interlocked sliding scales of equilibrium equations... the science of light was logical, beautiful.
The spatial-dimensional complex of neurons and axons within my young mind was growing rapidly, desperate for knowledge, experience, adventure. So much of that mindset was searching for answers, finding beauty along the way, often in spite of the many stumbles and tragedies intertwined.
On Genetic Inheritance and Endocrine Disrupters
Looking back on those years, I see patterns arise, ones which describe the ensuing years in predictable ways, in their benefits and concerns equally mixed. I was not a canonically 'troubled youth', rather my troubles were genetic in origin — now identified as 'Generational DES Syndrome'.
[*] DES = Diethylstilbestrol is a carcinogenic, xenoestrogen, ATPase inhibitor, endocrine disruptor. Linked to a variety of long-term adverse effects in women who were treated with it during pregnancy, and in their offspring, and further affecting the F2 generation of grandchildren.
In simple terms, this causes DNA mutations which are carried forth into systemic neuro-endocrine development, cellular expressions both causative and compounding, as the body develops into adulthood. Whether these cellular mutations result in cancer, neoplasms, meningiomas, metabolic dysregulation, sex and growth hormone disruption, reproductive sterility, chromosomal defects, or combinations of those and other grievous maladies, the possible impacts are vast in quantity and scale — and still being studied.
Some patients lead generally normal lives, ignorant of the cause for their condition, while others experience an unnecessarily early death. In-between these extremes my life has coalesced, wavering between periods of intensely healthy highly-competitive endurance athleticism to months of debilitation from chronic nervous system collapse. Some of my most memorable resting moments were the cumulative hours knocked-out from exhaustion and asleep inside the cold, dark, rhythmic magnetic thumping of a MRI tube, or the pulsing energy waves inside occasionally very warm CT scanners.
DES has disruptive effects which exert negative feedback on the hypothalamic–pituitary–gonadal axis (HPG axis), suppresses the secretion of the gonadotropins, luteinizing hormone (LH) and follicle-stimulating hormone (FSH), and suppresses sex hormone production as well as gamete production and maturation.
Looking back on DES and its impacts within my genetic programming, I can see where it derailed an otherwise normal childhood, where it imparted physical and existential questions for which no adult or physicians ever had answers, and how those early years drove me further into an adulthood focused on amassing knowledge of systems theory, neurology, endocrinology, genetics, biochemistry, and decades of exploration into modulating the steroidogenesis process occurring within these veins.
Coincidentally, I would later learn that endocrine specific cancers were rampant in my mother's side of the family - likely also from intergenerational DES effects. Over the many years, my endocrine's HPG-axis would crash in more than one dimension via multi-glandular failures, a pituitary hypophysis neoplasia diagnosis would arise, diagnostic concerns into suprasellar meningioma, and eventually the cumulative effects would lead to the conditions which resulted in my near-death and coma.
Youthful Adventures, Expansive Landscapes
Scaping together enough for a second-hand Manfrotto tripod and lenses for a near-mint Nikon FE2 - the camera I received from my father for one birthday so long ago, that period was when my heart fell in love with the beauty of capturing moments in time. Youthful innocence was at a peak, everywhere held introspective beauty in some manner - if it was framed subjectively well and maintained The Rules.
Then there was the glorious selection of film: the richness of Velvia 50 - perfect for landscapes but too rich for portraits, the ever-so-accurate Provia 100, the old classic Kodachrome 64, occasionally the normality of Ektar 100, and on occasion spending time without color at all - but oh let me show you Agfa's superpanchromatic Scala 200, the most uncommon of them all.
I loved this era of film for its uniqueness, it's vivid ability to capture reality in a way that was lacking in prior decades - eras of advancements in technology which defined the ability for people to capture the present tense and carry it into the future, with accuracy, realness, and tangibility that we will never have with today's digital options.
I loved this era of film for its uniqueness, it's vivid ability to capture reality in a way that was lacking in prior decades - eras of advancements in technology which defined the ability for people to capture the present tense and carry it into the future, with accuracy, realness, and tangibility that we will never have with today's digital options.
As with everything immersion worthy, I studied photography via encyclopaedias, library books, documentaries, and by asking a thousand questions. Who best to answer but Elke, the co-owner and an early role model at my local professional photography shop; one which housed an amazing collection of vintage cameras and lenses - many that I would imagine forever out of reach: Leica, Hasselblad, Rolleiflex, Zeiss.
My perspective in those times demanded that the best memories surely must be captured, regardless that slide film was expensive. Each shot was a cherished and planned capture, yet still one were lucky to have 2-3 usable results per roll of 24-36. Fantastisch. I loved every minute of the process.
Of Landscapes and Studio Lights
These slides became a timeline, closely selected and optimized photos of my adventures, my travels: the tragedy of storms and the silent motions of rain, landscapes and sunrises and sunsets, mountains especially loved and well traveled. Of peaks climbed, valleys explored, off-trail backcountry wanderings alone in the autumn, and cold snowshoeing adventures with Vati too.
Then the studio. Learning about black and white film, darkroom techniques, rear-projection lights, soft-bounce filters, shade-booms, and multi-flash timers connected to a remote shutter that I could hold in one hand - the original selfie method, before the term was ever coined. These self portraitures were mostly a private occurrence, an experiment to record an ever-changing existence which often felt unknowable and painfully everlasting, other times its opposite.
Conceptualization of Self
In some ways it was photography which helped me work through the DES-affected hormonal years of explosive emotions: the Conceptualization of Self as an evolving modality. How could one build a schema involving periodic memory without tracking the memories? And what better way to have reference to those than with film?
So, along with landscapes I captured my visage; an evolving physical form of perpetual wonderment and wandering cognition, deeply felt emotions, all wrapped up into a warm body with occasionally ice-cold blue eyes - constantly changing and growing through the years.
From the Outside Life Was Wonderful
Unfortunately along the way there were events of intense and prolonged trauma which led to a deeply felt hatred for nearly the entire era of youthful memories - not for what the photos were, not for who I was, but for the memory's visual associations with the events of the era in which the traumas occurred.
I had no ability to heal from the events at that time, and so to my young mind those events simply could not exist, lest it were to be that I did not exist. It was one or the other: acknowledge the trauma for what it was, how it had shaped me, and chose to suffer the wrath of my own willing hands. Or instead, I would rather to erase all of it. Erase the moments from my mind and never think of them or refer to them or believe that they were real; to erase part of my experience with life. Years later that wish would be granted, an outcome in ways impossibly unexpected.
Existentially, it was a challenging duality. So the slide portfolio was put aside, boxed up, never taken out to review or inspect or share, and only occasionally forcefully ignored whenever asked about the subjects. The memories did not exist. The cognitive methods I learned became a hardened, steadfast technique, an emotional control unrelenting, and it lasted decades. No one knew anything, and no one needed to. Those memories were only pain (but they were not, my youth held so many beautiful moments, ones which I would only connect with decades later).
Outward Success Surely Heals Old Wounds
Years passed and milestones occurred, much as the loved ones around me had long expected. A standard life evolved. Marriage, a home, thoughts on pregnancy, depression, elation, stress, travel, and promotions, and everything being pretty good on the surface.
A blink of the eyes and there I am again: Bare. Lost. Alone. In the pure Darkness.
Yet family was there, friends were there, all of the markers of success and happiness were there. Regardless, trauma events from years ago were invalidating the potential for happiness in ways unknowable to the loved ones around me. No one could ever know. The memories could not exist, or I would carry them to my grave.
Concurrently, an undercurrent of escapism, a subtext to the patterns of wants and needs, this was all despite the abundance, and it was that undercurrent which became a rushing and inescapably deep tide. The memories become an unwanted passenger, a little non-angel perched on the shoulder - whispering reminders in the most inopportune times. A foil to the good times, intertwining themselves deeper, demanding either solace and release or self-destruction.
Trauma at the clinical level, the kind which arises from unspeakable events in youth, or wartime combat, or being assaulted at gunpoint and left stripped and alone in the pure darkness of 18th & Florida St at 3am; those somatosensory memories become etched in the mind. Maybe more than one event is etched, maybe there's too many to describe.
Bleeding out in a sodium-halide bright white tile-floored bathroom, a stainless steel drain on the floor in the middle where the redness of life circles and downward flows. You slip in the blood, bare-footed, abdomen held in one hand, reaching-grasping with the other, screaming voicelessly in full-system shock.
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