We All Learn To Deal
A friend-of-a-friend has a blog called "Colony of Losers", dealing with his problems with severe anxiety, which lead to a breakdown, and how he has come to deal with it. A big part of this is through his writing. His name is Michael Kimber.
Here, from his blog, is his blurb:
Michael Kimber is a 26-year-old journalist who suffered a nervous breakdown on November 3rd, 2009. On March 28th, 2010 when he recovered from mental illness, he began writing a blog called Colony-of-losers. About falling on your face to figure out who you are and the hilarious antics of a blond jew. What began with a few friends and his mother reading has become a cult phenomenon, averaging 10,000 views a week, receiving praise from Commonwealth Award Winner Shandi Mitchell and many others. On, November 3rd, 2010, the one year anniversary of his mental breakdown he signed with Anne McDermid and Associates, the largest literary agency in Canada. In a year he went from wearing pajamas, making his couch depression HQ to leaving his hometown for the Toronto, where he exclusively wears business suits and the armor of ancient Greeks. Don't worry, he's still choking on the feet he contently sticks in his mouth and making moments awkward just by being part of them. During these struggles he met other talented bastards and drew them into his circle. Peter Diamond became his illustrator. Patrick Campbell his video editor and part time photographer. He recently added the incredibly talented John Packman as Colony of Losers Toronto photographer. Without the support of the Colony of Losers, Michael Kimber would be nothing. Welcome to the losers and the success that comes from utter and complete failure. You aren’t alone. Follow him on twitter.com/colonyoflosersand twitter.com/quimbo.
Here's the link:
http://colony-of-losers.com/wordpress/
Another friend of mine, who I met through photographing an indie wrestling photo project, is named Adam Jack Pelley.
Pelley is, as they say, Good People. He wrestled under the name Sidewalk Sam, a homeless gimmick, who would "wrestle for food".
The night I met him he offered to sit for a photo, any time, and to answer any of my questions about the industry, even though he had been "retired" for some time. He had struggled with schizophrenia, and was at one point hospitalized for it. In the spirit of the great photographers of LIFE magazine, and inspired by photojournalists, I used a basketball net in the distance behind him to represent a metaphoric halo around his head. This is the kind of impact he made on me. We'd never met before that night, and I was an Outsider to the industry, but he believed in me and wanted me to succeed in what I was doing and wanted to help in any way he could. A real generosity of spirit you find in Real People.
Pelley gets meaning from God, from writing, and from basketball. I see him on my block a couple times a month, ball in hand, on his way to the YMCA. He always says hi and shakes my hand, asks how I am.
Pelley has written a book on his experiences, called Promises. It's a very honest statement of one man's experience with mental illness. Here is a link to an e-book version of Promises:
http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/Promises/book-yIQL_CK9RE-ogslUjjYQiQ/page1.html
This is where I "come out of the closet", so to speak.
I had a pretty serious injury on August 12, 1991. While cycling in Toronto I was struck by a tractor trailer at an intersection. My life was like a handful of sand, and I could feel the last grains running away. When the last grain fell from my hand, I would die. I knew this as I laid there, legs and bike pretzeled, truck looming over me. The whole adventure I'm saving for another day, but in the midst of my readjustment period, of finding my "New Normal", I struggled with depression and anxiety.
Mid/late 90s my thoughts turned, like spoilt milk in my head. I could taste the Crazy. I had been talking to my female family doctor once
a week, and as needed for a couple of years. Previously, I had spent time talking to therapists, but it was never a conversation. It was just me talking, and after awhile I had to come up with things to talk about because I was repeating myself, again and again. I knew why I was depressed-
I had had an earth-fucking-shattering accident, with 35 surgeries and 2 years in hospital. I was dealing with Who Am I/Why Am I and so on.
I would talk to my family doctor at least once a week. Sometimes we would just sit and talk about what gigs I had coming up or my interest in photography and painters. I was pretty isolated, from my family, from my friends, from the Women I yearned to be accepted by.
She was a neutral way to keep me connected to something. She went above and beyond the call of duty. She did a beautiful thing by just having conversations with me.
Doctor O. let me blow off the sick fumes in my head.
Then one day, I could taste it. I could taste that something was "off" in my mind. The world tasted different, it looked different. Colours looked different than before, more jaundiced. I had insomnia so bad I was hearing bells and sirens.
It made sense all of a sudden. No rehearsals or musing, or romancing the depression. It made sense I should die, and that it wouldn't make a difference to the Universe. I would disappear, like smoke carried away in a gentle wind. No trace.
It felt like Death had a form, and It was mad It had been cheated a few times, and now It wanted Payment. It made sense.
I told her this. She got really scared, gave me lithium, which made me feel sick. I couldn't handle the way it made me feel. After a week she gave
me a huge dose of paxil, which did the trick. It broke the Crazy, like a fever and I was back to normal, good 'ol Depression.
That I could deal with.
One of the most liberating things I've experienced is finding out that other people have felt like I have, that we've all felt isolated by the chemical reactions in our brains. We're not alone. We all learn to deal with it, in our own ways, and this unites us.
You're not alone.
-Paul
