I am not sure where this story begins. Is it in Iran last autumn when I walked the streets of Shiraz sobbing loudly? Is it that time when after another horrible fight with my ex I woke up at night wanting something terrible to happen to me so he would finally see my pain, at least on the outside? Or is it that moment when my best friend told me she didn’t see us being friends because she couldn’t recognise who I was anymore?
The 29th year of my life felt like an ultimate collapse. I felt abandoned, isolated and crushed to pieces. I saw myself as an ultimate failure—depressed, consumed by panic attacks and hysterical fits, unloved and unwanted. Seeing what I thought to be the love of my life slipping away from me, but staying with me out of pity was unbearable. Seeking intimacy and connection, but being left alone to face the darkness seemed to be beyond my endurance. Slowly dying inside, but pretending everything was perfect was my way of life. I was raised in a culture that demonised vulnerability and taught me to be ashamed of “bad feelings.” Even though both of my grandmothers lost sons—one to a drug overdose and another one to suicide—they would never mention it or talk about why it happened. The shame of mental illness was stronger than losing loved ones to death caused by it. Generation after generation passed on suffering and pain like some kind of inheritance, and here I was, the only child and inheritor, drowning and suffocating in hundreds of years of emotional madness. It felt like I was physically drowning, falling deeper into the blackness of non-existence. Yet this pain didn’t annihilate me; instead it forced me to find immense inner strength at the bottom of my existence.
I am not sure where this story begins. Is it in Iran last autumn when I walked the streets of Shiraz sobbing loudly? Is it that time when after another horrible fight with my ex I woke up at night wanting something terrible to happen to me so he would finally see my pain, at least on the outside? Or is it that moment when my best friend told me she didn’t see us being friends because she couldn’t recognise who I was anymore?
The 29th year of my life felt like an ultimate collapse. I felt abandoned, isolated and crushed to pieces. I saw myself as an ultimate failure—depressed, consumed by panic attacks and hysterical fits, unloved and unwanted. Seeing what I thought to be love of my life slipping away from me, but staying with me out of pity was unbearable. Seeking intimacy and connection, but being left alone to face the darkness seemed to be beyond my endurance. Slowly dying inside, but pretending everything was perfect was my way of life. I was raised in a culture that demonised vulnerability and taught me to be ashamed of “bad feelings.” Even though both of my grandmothers lost one son to drug overdose and another one to suicide, they would never mention it or talk about why it happened. The shame of mental illness was stronger than losing loved ones to death caused by it. Generation after generation was passing on suffering and pain as some kind of inheritance, and here I was, the only child and inheritor, drowning and suffocating in hundreds of years of emotional madness. It felt like I was physically drowning, falling deeper into the blackness of non-existence. Yet this pain didn’t annihilate and instead made me find immense inner strength at the bottom of my existence.
I started writing poetry in a state of complete chaos and emotional drowning. I kept writing because it was my only safety grip. These poems you are about to read are soaked in my tears, written during sleepless nights when those dark thoughts attacked me at my most vulnerable state. These words came from the deepest well of my inner world; they emerged raw and unpolished like a shimmering treasure dug out from the bottom of the sea. I believe we all carry the magic of healing and sorcery of self-protection within ourselves. I wrote these poems because of a need to heal myself. One word after another, one poem after another, all the secrets I hid inside the darkest chambers of my subconsciousness emerged and were revealed on paper.
These poems are therapeutic. First of all, it was self-love therapy. Eventually, by sharing these poems with friends and later wider audiences, I saw they were helping others too. People told me their fears, showed me their scars and talked with me about their bleeding wounds. This is when I realized the power that poetry has. This is when it transcended my own boundaries and began to become something bigger, and I knew "How to Swim Through Pain" had to manifest as a poetry and photography book.
Photography is my way of life, and I’ve been taking photographs of nude people for a long time. I’ve seen so many naked bodies—beautiful, authentic, yet undervalued, despised and neglected. All those people I photographed showed me how much we are at war with ourselves, how instead of being free, wild and joyous, we feel imprisoned by our bodies and all those standards society puts on them. Can a person be more vulnerable and intimate than at a moment of complete nudity, when there are no layers to hide behind? Again and again, I saw people I photograph coming out of their shells in front of my lens. They would begin to embrace their bodies, to enjoy their nudity and sense of Self. Witnessing those transformations, I understood how healing the photographic process could be—both for the one in front of and the one behind the lens.
I started writing poetry a the state of complete chaos and emotional drowning. I kept writing because it was my only safety grip. These poems you are about to read are soaked in my tears, written during sleepless nights when those dark thoughts attacked me in my most vulnerable state. These words came from the deepest well of my inner world; they emerged raw and unpolished like a shimmering treasure dug out from the bottom of the sea. I believe we all carry the magic of healing and sorcery of self-protection within ourselves. I wrote these poems because of a need to heal myself. One word after another, one poem after another, all the secrets I hid inside the darkest chambers of my subconsciousness emerged and were revealed on paper.
These poems are therapeutic. First of all, it was self-love therapy. Eventually, by sharing these poems with friends and later wider audiences, I saw they were helping others too. People told me their fears, showed me their scars and talked with me about their bleeding wounds. This is when I realized the power that poetry has. This is when it transcended my own boundaries and began to become something bigger. This is when I knew How to Swim Through Pain had to manifest as a poetry and photography book.
Photography is my way of life, and I’ve been taking photographs of nude people for a long time. I’ve seen so many naked bodies—beautiful, authentic, yet undervalued, despised and neglected. All those people I photographed showed me how much we are at war with ourselves, how instead of being free, wild and joyous, we feel imprisoned by our bodies and all those standards society puts on them. Can a person be more vulnerable and intimate than at a moment of complete nudity, when there are no layers to hide behind? Again and again, I saw people I photograph coming out of their shells in front of my lens. They would begin to embrace their bodies, to enjoy their nudity and sense of Self. Witnessing those transformations, I understood how healing the photographic process could be—both for the one in front of and the one behind the lens.
I started writing poetry a the state of complete chaos and emotional drowning. I kept writing because it was my only safety grip. These poems you are about to read are soaked in my tears, written during sleepless nights when those dark thoughts attacked me in my most vulnerable state. These words came from the deepest well of my inner world; they emerged raw and unpolished like a shimmering treasure dug out from the bottom of the sea. I believe we all carry the magic of healing and sorcery of self-protection within ourselves. I wrote these poems because of a need to heal myself. One word after another, one poem after another, all the secrets I hid inside the darkest chambers of my subconsciousness emerged and were revealed on paper.
These poems are therapeutic. First of all, it was self-love therapy. Eventually, by sharing these poems with friends and later wider audiences, I saw they were helping others too. People told me their fears, showed me their scars and talked with me about their bleeding wounds. This is when I realized the power that poetry has. This is when it transcended my own boundaries and began to become something bigger. This is when I knew How to Swim Through Pain had to manifest as a poetry and photography book.
Photography is my way of life, and I’ve been taking photographs of nude people for a long time. I’ve seen so many naked bodies—beautiful, authentic, yet undervalued, despised and neglected. All those people I photographed showed me how much we are at war with ourselves, how instead of being free, wild and joyous, we feel imprisoned by our bodies and all those standards society puts on them. Can a person be more vulnerable and intimate than at a moment of complete nudity, when there are no layers to hide behind? Again and again, I saw people I photograph coming out of their shells in front of my lens. They would begin to embrace their bodies, to enjoy their nudity and sense of Self. Witnessing those transformations, I understood how healing the photographic process could be—both for the one in front of and the one behind the lens.
And yet, for this book, I dived deeper into nudity than ever before. I took a 35mm film camera and embraced all the possible uncertainties and imperfections that come with it. I didn’t hide behind photoshopped layers of enhanced colors, but instead went back to the roots of photography. Turning my lens towards myself and my most intimate connections, I am standing as nude in front of myself and others as I’ve ever been in my life. I feel that I made it, I swam through that pain without drowning and became a more humble and empathetic human being in the process.
I wanted this book to reach you, dear reader, because I really believe you also can swim to your own beautiful shore, no matter how distant it seems to be at the moment. Just don’t give up. Keep swimming.
Let’s meet on the other side.
