Photography as therapy: Derealization and the paradox of Silent Distances

According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th Edition (DSM-5), derealization and depersonalization are types of dissociation, or psychological detachment from reality.  Collectively, and as an official diagnosis, derealization and depersonalization are known as Depersonalization/Derealization Disorder, abbreviated as DPDR (Campbell, 2021).   Individuals who experience this kind of dissociation report having unusual feelings and perceptions about their environment and/or themselves.  Numbness; feeling as though one were a robot, or one’s head was stuffed with wool or cotton; as if one’s limbs were too large or too small; or feeling as though the world and objects are blurry or foggy—these are examples of symptoms that can happen during a dissociative episode (Traumadissociation.com).

Andrei Barbos’ Silent Distances is a palpable, punch-to-the-gut account of his struggles with derealization.  He uses photography to portray an unfamiliar, psychological state of mind, making it physical and familiar to those unfamiliar with the disorder.  In this interview, Andrei discusses the impact of derealization on his life, as well as the important role photography has played in Silent Distances and in helping him manage his mental health.

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Kevin: How did you get into photography?, I ask him. You describe, in your statement for Silent Distances, that photography became “a lifeline.”  What do you mean?

Andrei: My initial relation with photography was quite superficial, until a few years ago. For example, taking a photo of a cool car, a nice sunset or just capturing family moments was the extent of my connection to photography. I imagine just like most people do now with their phones. This changed for me in November 2019, I can actually remember the exact photo which was the spark. There was something about the composition, shadows and light that spoke to me on a level I did not understand yet. Like a word in foreign language that you cannot translate, but you understand its meaning. One year later I was diagnosed with a lifelong, incurable and progressive neurological condition.

Derealization (or depersonalization) leaves me feeling detached [and] disconnected from my own body and the world around me. Sometimes it feels like I am watching reality as if I am watching a television, or from behind a thick pane of glass.  This constant sense of estrangement can make it difficult to feel present or engage with the people around me, even my closest family.  In a world where my own sense of self often feels out of reach, I began to feel that I had control over something again through photography.  It also gave me the space to reflect on my experiences without needing to verbalize them or fully understand them right away. 

© Andrei Barbos

Your condition succinctly and viscerally manifests in the way you shoot your images, especially in your double exposures, in your use of positive and negative space, and in how you focus the lens, particularly with foregrounds or backgrounds being blurred out, as if to mimic the sensory field of an actual episode of derealization.  Were your technical choices in order to visualize your symptoms a conscious thing?  Or did you just instinctively shoot in this way, only to realize the parallels afterward?  

A very interesting question. I will admit that initially it was more instinct when taking a photograph.  In the beginning, photography was a way for me to [orient] myself when things got bad. After a while, it became a way of expressing and giving voice to feelings, inner states that I could not find the words for. So I started learning different techniques, studying the greats of photography, learning about the technical aspects of cameras.  As a fun fact, none of the pictures in Silent Distances are double exposures. They are all either reflections, shadows or long exposures. Sometimes I was “lucky enough” to have a camera with me. By [that] I mean that I either intentionally went out with a camera when I had an episode, or, I happened to have a camera with me when it happened.

© Andrei Barbos

The presence of birds also seems to be a significant motif, appearing to represent both sides of the psychological divide—the untethering that happens during derealization as symbolized by a bird’s weightlessness/defiance of gravity during flight, but also the bird representing a grounding through landing, suggesting even the possibility of community, as depicted by the bridge of birds at the end of the book.   In what ways do you personally relate to birds in general, and how has the idea or sense of community (friends, loved ones, therapy) helped you, or even been made a hardship by your condition?

I have always been interested in symbolism. Birds are quite symbolic for many reasons, in many cultures around the world. In the place I live now, I am always close to birds, mostly ravens and magpies (magpies are one of the only animals able to recognize themselves in the mirror, which I find interesting in connection to DPDR and the feeling of losing one’s self).  The photograph of birds that you mention has an interesting story. Those are a smaller breed of seagulls.  Although I was somewhere far from the sea, there was a very small lake at the outskirts of the city I lived in at the time. It was a very foggy day and they were flying around for a while, agitated, like they were looking for something. As I was approaching the bridge, I saw them land, sitting quietly as if waiting for something or someone. I got quite close to them and they did not fly away. A very eerie moment. 

Community (or should I say more accurately, my family), plays a dual role for me. On one hand, the support of loved ones and very few select close friends (including Anne), offer a much-needed anchor. Their understanding and empathy help me feel connected and remind me that I’m not isolated in these experiences. On the other hand, there are times when social interactions can be overwhelming, intensifying that sense of disconnection and leaving me feeling even more adrift. In essence, the imagery of birds in my life, whether soaring alone, flying in a group, or resting in a tree perfectly encapsulates the ongoing interplay between isolation and connection that defines my journey with DPDR.

All images © Andrei Barbos

Why does a psychological disorder like depersonalization seem relatively unknown and not talked about, say in comparison to disorders like depression and schizophrenia?

I think depersonalization and derealization remain relatively unknown and under-discussed because they are difficult to describe, even for the people experiencing them.  Unlike conditions like depression or schizophrenia, which have more widely recognized symptoms, DPDR is deeply subjective and it is not always visible.  Also, it doesn’t fit neatly in a familiar narrative of mental illness.

Another reason is that DPDR often exists within other conditions rather than as a standalone disorder.  In my case, it’s a symptom of the underlying progressive neurological condition.  So it’s not always acknowledged as it gets overshadowed by the larger diagnosis.  Because of that, people [experiencing DPDR] might not even realize what they’re feeling has a name.  Before I understood [my condition], I just assumed I was losing touch with reality in some undefinable way, and that was terrifying.  I still remember the fear and uncertainty of the first time it happened.

I want to take a little detour and talk about music.  Tom Rankin—in writing about Adam Duritz, musician and lead singer of the Counting Crows who is diagnosed as having DPDR disorder—suggests that music for Duritz has been a source of purpose as well as a salve: “When one is doing what they ought to be doing, meaning the thing they are gifted at and, dare I say, the thing that they are meant to do, they feel less bound by troubling, everyday, earthly things — job stress, financial issues, relationship problems, and seemingly derealization” (Rankin, 2024).  Also consider another musician, Trapper Haskins, who surrendered his artistic talents and ambitions after entering the corporate world, only to begin suffering symptoms of anxiety and derealization (he eventually left the office space, pursued his music passions and now thrives) (Haskins, 2020). 

Both the examples of Adam Duritz and Trapper Haskins bring to my mind the Japanese concept of ikigai, wherein a person essentially discovers that fine-line balance between what they love, what they are good at doing, what they can make a living from, and how all this can help themselves and others (Saito, 2024). 

It seems to me that there is some sort of correlation between finding, knowing and being your life’s purpose, or ikigai, as in the case for Duritz and Haskins, and its connection with healing.   What do you think of such possible relationship?

I believe that finding your ikigai can be a powerful antidote to the disconnection of depersonalization and derealization.  When I'm behind the camera, I'm not just capturing images; I'm actively observing and thus engaging with the world around me, piecing together details that remind me I’m here, present, and connected, even though my mind and senses tell me otherwise.  It’s as if each shot becomes a small act of reclaiming my sense of self, something that’s often obscured by the fog of DPDR. In those moments of creative flow, I feel like I am discovering a tangible purpose that reinforces my connection to reality.  I think that this experience mirrors what you described with Duritz and Haskins. Their journeys remind us that embracing our true calling can not only soothe the distress of dissociation but also cultivate a richer, more meaningful existence, even with the underlying challenges of a more serious neurological condition.

What was the process like preparing and editing for this book?  How was exhibiting Silent Distances at Ephemere?

The process was certainly evolutionary.  Initially, I contacted Anne with my story and showcased my photography.  We had many meetings discussing how to better express this phenomenon of derealization, along with the feelings of isolation, loneliness and “un-reality” that come with it.  I had a rough idea of how the book would look like but with the help of Anne and Elena (our brilliant graphic designer), we could manifest this vision in the book.  After meeting Anne and knowing her on a personal level, I think there is no better person that could understand and bring this project to life. I have not regretted for one second choosing Ephemere.

© Andrei Barbos

The exhibition (along with it being my first visit in Japan), was a transformative experience.  I can tell you with certainty that I am not the same person who left Brussels on that foggy November morning. The exhibition was the culmination of all the months working hard for the book, all the anxiety and uncertainty of [expressing] about how I really feel, with a group of strangers. It was the final step of coming out of the shadows and speaking publicly about a part of me that initially only very, very few knew about (except medical professionals).  I thank Anne for being there [every step of] the way.  Doing this project certainly was a boost to my mental health and gave me courage and confidence for the future. I feel like I am not exaggerating when I say that the entire process [and my] visit to Japan [for] the exhibition changed the course of my life.

If you could tell other individuals suffering from derealization or depersonalization one thing, what would it be?

It would be this:  You are not alone. What you're experiencing, though incredibly isolating and terrifying, does not define you. These feelings of detachment, of being disconnected from your own body or the world around you, can feel so overwhelming and real, but they are just an illusion, not the essence of who you are. It’s easy to feel like you’ve lost yourself, but the truth is that you are still there, fighting a war against your own mind.  It’s okay to take things one step at a time, and it's okay to ask for help. You don’t have to go through this alone, and you don’t have to have all the answers right away. Just keep going, and know that there is a path forward, even when it feels invisible. Most importantly, never give up and keep going forward through the storm.

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In attempting to bridge the disorienting gap between reality and the world as his mind perceives it, Andrei creates a body of work that informs audiences and gives them a closer look at derealization/ depersonalization.  This catharsis through photography is at once both ephemeral and paradoxical: ephemeral in the sense that Andrei is able to process his mental state and his feelings, thus releasing them, but also paradoxical in the sense that his pain becomes a visible reminder of what once was.  While an episode of derealization and its attendant symptoms may pass, the very experience is being re-created, through the image.  This is what contributes to the haunting, atmospheric pull of his work, just as the birds float and glide throughout the pages of Silent Distances, only to land on a bridge which, in my mind, is a sign of hope.

References

Campbell, L. (2021, August 9). All About Depersonalization / Derealization Disorder. https://psychcentral.com/disorders/depersonalization-derealization-disorder

Traumadissociation.com. (n.d.). Dissociative Disorders. https://traumadissociation.com/depersonalization

Rankin, T. (2024, February 4). Adam Duritz, Derealization, & Doing What You Ought. Medium. https://medium.com/@tomrankin026/adam-duritz-derealization-doing-what-you-ought-d3ed4e6dee86

Haskins, T. (2020, June 15). Between the Saint and the Psychiatrist: Derealization in Song. To Write Love on Her Arms. https://twloha.com/blog/between-the-saint-and-the-psychiatrist-derealization-in-song/

Saito, M. (2024).  Ikigai, Kaizen & Hansei. Self-published.