Colony of Losers- Fuck Stigma and Mental Illness, I'm like 25

Surviving your Quarter Life Crisis and becoming an adult

The Polish Movers

Posted on | February 21, 2018 | No Comments

The other night I went home. Pretty tired.

Ordered ubereats. Like a lot of uber eats.

The expensive kind.

And I was just sitting there and my door opened.

Well really the lock broke and then the door opened.

And you know in moments like that you sort of think of what you’d do.

You’d probably have done better with it.

Like I bet you’d probably pick up something and hit them with it.

But I just sort of stared at the men as they came inside my apartment.

They looked at me and smiled politely.

And I noticed they were carrying moving boxes.

They weren’t really speaking any language I understood. But when I shouted at them they spoke what I think is Polish. So the movers were Polish I think.

I told them I think they have the wrong apartment. I mean I knew it was the wrong apartment but I was trying to be polite.

They didn’t say anything.

I checked my phone. Looked up Google Translate and tried it in Polish.

Maybe they weren’t polish.

Anyways the leader shook his head and his crew started picking up my stuff. And they put the stuff in boxes. And like stepped on the stuff.

I told them I wasn’t going anywhere. I paid my rent.  Like dude, I bought a couch. It has a Swedish name and  my bookshelves are like nailed to the wall. The bookshelves are also Swedish. Like I’m working a job I fucking hate and I’m overweight and I have money in my bank account and I have Ubereats on the way. Like put down my fucking stuff. Because everything I own belongs here.  I’m going to stay in this place a long time. As long as I can if you’ll just fucking leave me alone.

And I notice that they are drunk. Like all of them. Stinking fucking loaded.

They are all different sizes and smells but they have something wrong with their eyes. This frozen terror. Of people stuck in a routine that will only hurt people. Like Dentists. But more working class. There’s this little bit of sympathy in them too. Like their eyes are wet. Like they understand how hard this is for me but this is their 9 to 5 gig. And at least this time they don’t have to step on any kid’s neck this time.

And it occurs to me that this company isn’t really that professional. Like wrong door, okay, but they’re loaded. And I can see into their assholes. Their pants are that low and their posture is that stooped.

And they’re breaking things now.

And I don’t really feel anything. Besides a little sick to my stomach. And you know like an oddly unemotional clarity in my mind. Of like this is crazy. I should really do something about this.

So I’m like acting in my own body. Like pretending to be Michael Kimber. Just sitting on my fucking couch. Like I have been doing for a long time.

I know that this could be a lot worse. That maybe when they’re done with the stuff they’ll pick me up and break my back like Bane.

And I notice that the apartment is getting smaller and smaller. And they have moved like everything out of it. And managed to rip all of my furniture apart.

And they’re gone. With one last tear filled look back. And a shrug of the shoulders.

And I am just in this tiny, tiny room full of garbage that was once full of my prized possessions. Only the room is getting smaller and smaller.

I said that before but I don’t think you got it.

I know.

I haven’t seen that happen before either.

And suddenly it’s so small I can’t fit in it.

It’s like pushing me out. Into the hallway.

So I’m trying to call my landlord. Like this is probably something he did.

And I’m like yelling into the phone in the hallway. But the hallway doesn’t have any width anymore. Like the two walls are trying to kiss. And my landlord…he’s like you signed a document when you moved in. This could happen at anytime.

I told him I didn’t sign anything.

He said he got my parents to sign it. He found them in a hotel room and he made them sign it.

Anyways I’m just fighting through this tiny space to get my pictures and poetry and I’m scrapping my nails through all that fucking garbage and I can’t get ahold of it. But my like fingernails hit something. I can feel blood running down my hand.

And then I’m out the door. Then out of the hallway. Outside.

As I watch the door I just came from close up, I look at my hands. My bloody fucking hands.

And it’s pretty cold and I now only have one pair of pants, and a shirt that says, “Kiss the Cook” and these like love notes I sent someone once embedded in my fingernails, just like madlib sentences of, “There’s no one like you in the world, signed Charlie” and, “I thought before I met you, that love wasn’t for me.”A train ticket to Ottawa. And like a drawing of a unicorn. And a picture me and my buddy took on a cellphone, which I know is the first picture we actually took together. A record contract from Grade 11 from when I began my rap career. The Words IMF. 20 bucks Jennica lent me and I never spent. The word brat. A fake moustache from when I used to dress up as Inigo Montoya.

And on the ground there this picture of my family when I grew up. We are such kids. Such cocky little bastards. With huge picture ruining smiles. I look absolutely insane. Children of the Corn times ten.

And I feel this swell in my heart. For all the people I’ve gotten to love. With just a piece of the love my parents gave me.

And in my thumb there’s this little bit of a photo. There’s a little glass in there too. So I must have framed it. I think.

And yeah I’m bleeding pretty bad.

But it’s this little fragment of a picture that really gets my attention.

I know you’d be like chasing the Polish movers. But it’s really something else.

The photo is me smiling.

It’s this wide eyed incredibly stupid smile. And I have like a cave man brow going. I’m looking down at someone. And my eyes are like dancing with joy. Like whatever I’m thinking it’s exciting to be alive.

I just know that I was happier than I can even remember being when this was taken.

And I’m totally shaken by it.

I don’t remember when it was taken or who was in the picture.

I think it might have actually been ripped up when it was in the frame.

And I remember that I have met those men before.

And I was standing outside like this.

Just wearing the clothes I was in.

Without anything else to my name.

And I felt the same odd clarity.

That I have to go and had to go find everything again.

Besides these little fragments that had embedded themselves in my bleeding hand. And I had to get a picture frame. To keep these in. For next time.

And I feel so strangely alive as I walk away.

This unbelievable intense and beautiful feeling of fragility hits me.

Like I know in my gut.

That everything can be taken away.

But I’m alive. Even if my hands bleeding.

And I remember how long I spent on that couch. How many days I would have gotten up, struggled from that bed and went to work at a job I hated.

But that life packed up and left with the Polish Movers.

And I hated the Polish Movers so much. And they caused me such heartbreak. But they were just doing their job. Picking up and breaking all the pieces of my life.

Because I needed to start a new one.

 

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  • About

    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. If you’d like to hire him for a public speaking engagement for mental health events in Toronto, like to arrange an interview, offer millions to publish his book or for another reason contact Michael please email him. And join his facebook Colony of Losers.

    Really obvious disclaimer:
    I’m not a trained psychologist. Just a fellow traveler. If you need help seek it from the professionals. The Canadian Mental Health Association provides a help locator. You can find crisis resources provided by the Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention. If you are in the states check here. It will give you services by zip code. I’d also recommend checking out Mindyourmind.ca. I think they do great work and have been a help to me personally.

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