Life through a lens

All it took was the sound of the key entering the lock of the door and I was up on my feet and running.  I would see his face fill with glee and when I ran into his big strong arms he’d scoop me up.  I looked up to him not just because I was small but because I thought he was amazing and fun.  He always had time for me. He was my big brother and I loved him. 

I was his shadow.  I’d follow him around the house up and down, washing my hands when he did, spending time in his room, sitting wherever I could find a space.  It was great.  With the 15 years between us, you would have thought that he wouldn’t want a pint size nuisance bothering him all the time, but he would rather sit in his packed dingy room with me than spend time with anyone else.

He was always so supportive of everything I was doing especially because I loved photography and he had wanted to be a photographer but gave it up when he didn’t make much money from it.  So he invested all his energy in helping me achieve the goal that he had never reached.  As my dreams slowly became a reality I started to feel him slip away bit by bit.  There was a lack of interest in everything I was doing.  He hid away in his room, which became more packed by the second, of papers and folders and items that really belonged on the scrap heap but instead remained in his room.  

I wasn’t sure if it was getting worse or if it was just the veil of childhood innocence slowly lifting from my eyes, showing me the reality, that the way he lived was not normal.  Dad ignored the situation.  I used to question him about it, ask whether or not he was worried.  He would just look into the distance and say “He’s just lazy.  He needs to get up off his backside and do something.”

I once tried to bring it up with my brother.  I was soon physically thrown out of his room, the sound of his door locking ringing in my ears, as I removed my hand from my bruised arm only to see my palm stained with blood.  That’s when I knew I could no longer stick around to watch him drown in clutter whilst Dad watched on in denial.

When I got my dream job as a travel photographer it was a lifeline.  I packed my bag so quickly and didn’t even give it a second thought.  There was a tearful goodbye with Dad but my brother didn’t even look me in the eye.  He mumbled bye before going up the stairs.  I stood there remembering how I used to rest in his big strong arms and how different things were now.

My job was and is amazing.  Imagine being paid to travel around the world, trying to capture its beauty in a lens.  I’ve been everywhere.  Africa, Australia, South America and the Far East to name a few.  Seeing beautiful landscapes and beautiful people.  Being welcomed into small communities and trying to capture the essence of it on camera.

Often on the rare occasions that I make it home, friends ask me if I get homesick or don’t I get tired of living out of a bag.  I always answer no.  Being on the road for me IS home.  It’s the greatest escapism there is from the reality of life.  To constantly live life through a lens, looking in on how other people and communities live their lives, on weather patterns, the natural beauty of your surroundings, it’s amazing.  It stops me from thinking of home, of how he is, of the lack of change.

A year ago Dad died.  I went back for the funeral.  I ended up having to organise everything.  My brother pretty much stayed in his room the whole time.  He’d answer any questions posed but wouldn’t offer anything else up in terms of conversation.  As for the funeral he didn’t offer to help.  He just sat there staring at the walls as he always did.  I couldn’t even say if he was grieving.

The funeral itself was a challenge.  I was inconsolable at the graveside having to be held up by distant relatives.  They thought I was crying for the fact that Dad had gone but I was also mourning the loss of my brother who should have been the one to hold me up.  I was crying because Dad had now left my brother alone and I wasn’t sure what would become of him.  I could see them all looking at him with pity.  A 40 year old grown man still living with his pa, never a partner in sight.  Over the years I had heard all the speculation about him.  I guess I hoped that I’d come back and things might have changed, that he miraculously would have gotten better.  But it hadn’t and he wasn’t.

I stuck around for a while.  I figured that I should be there for him.  The company I work for was understanding and kept me on their books for when I would want to return to work.  I’d clean and cook.  My brother would go to work, come in, take his dinner and head straight up to his room. 

One day I realised that we had run out of plates.  I couldn’t for the life of me imagine where they would be and then I realised.  Slowly I walked up to his room.  I opened the door, which was stiff, there was something against it.  I pushed with a bit more force and the sound of scrunching paper filled the room.  I tip toed in, not sure where to put my feet.  Piles and piles of rubbish filled the room, some of it reaching the ceiling.  There was a little pathway that led to the bed and wardrobe but apart from that it was completely cluttered.  Amidst the heaps there were the plates all stacked with hardened, stale, congealed remnants stuck to them, adding to the overall indescribable odour.

The horror of what I had seen had made my ears deaf to the fact the he had come home and was behind me.  His rage was overwhelming.  I found myself cowering amongst some bin bags, the fear of our last altercation filling me from head to toe.  Seeing my fear he caught himself and mumbled sorry, retreating downstairs.  It was at that point that I knew it was time to hit the road again.

I asked one of my cousins to check on him from time to time.  Financially he would be alright with the house left to us in the will, but I was afraid that he wouldn’t be eating properly.  I remember telling her that I would come back every so often but in my heart I knew that it would take a lot to bring me back here.  The road was my home.  The road was where I felt safe with my camera in hand.

For the first few months I threw myself into my work.  My best job was in Malawi.  I was sent to a small village called Lifidzi where I was asked to take photos of a coming of age ceremony for a book about village life and rituals.  It was an honour to be invited to be a part of such an important ritual.  The day after I was so full of energy.  I went to the Internet café in the city to check my emails and I saw an email from my cousin.  My brother hadn’t been seen for months and she was worried.  He wouldn’t let anyone in the house.  My energy plummeted.  I had to go back home.

When I arrived back at Heathrow airport and collected my luggage I had this feeling of dread in my stomach.  The cab journey back to the house felt like forever.   I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I opened the door to the house but I knew that whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good.

I opened the door and I was shocked.  The clutter had spread from his room to the whole house now that Dad was gone.  The mustiness of the house indicated that the windows hadn’t been opened in a while.  I ventured in, the sound of paper, discarded food wrappers and bin liners crumpling beneath my feet.  I called out his name but there was no response.  I navigated myself around the house moving things out of the way, stepping over obstacles.  Finding the stairs I made my way up to his room.

He was there sat on his bed staring at the wall, almost as though he hadn’t moved from when I left nearly a year ago.  He looked disheveled, a stubbly unkempt beard forming on his face, his clothes creased and dirty.  He looked right through me and didn’t say a word. I took a step towards him and felt something crumple underneath my foot. 

Something made me stop to look at what was beneath my shoe.  It was a picture of us when I was small, him holding me in his arms, both of us with smiles on our faces.  I found myself lost in it wondering why life couldn’t remain captured in a lens. 

It was at that point that I knew that I couldn’t carry on trying to escape without trying to mend the problem so that there was nothing to escape from.  That’s why I went.  I know they always say that the first step is for the person to admit that they have a problem but he won’t.  He gets so angry every time I even suggest there’s a problem.  It was the only way.

As they entered the house I expected to see shocked looks on their faces, the state it was in, but they just waded through the mess.  I suppose it’s nothing they haven’t seen before in their line of work.  When they reached the bedroom, the horror on his face I will never forget.  He started screaming and shouting before they had even said a word, and then he saw me.

I had never before see him look so betrayed.  He went silent.  I will never be able to shake that image from my mind.  I kept repeating to myself that it was for his own good as they dragged him out the house kicking and screaming, eventually sedating him.  The tears rolled down my face like a stream as I glimpsed the picture of us smiling on the bed next to where he had been sat moments ago, the smiles seeming to be those of strangers I had never before seen.