And it's a dull Monday 2

And it’s a dull monday as we finish our cups. 

And his eyes, his voice still drives me crazy, as if we had never broken up, as if nothing had ever started and the passion with desire was fresh as blood and an open wound, a desire for all to intertwine and he knew it. Jack held his gaze upon me, drinking his coffee and soon enough our time would be up and maybe our silence would be our conversation. I tried to look away, but it was getting out of hand. You can never bury love alive. 

His dark eyes told me all my secrets and reflected all my emotions. It was as if it was some critical verdict, that I would never get over the man I loved no matter who had I tried touching, that it would all just drive me wild with lust, no drug to replace the withdrawal and make me stand still, as if tied to a chair again and let him walk in circles around me, maybe allowing his fingers to leave traces on my cheeks as we would both be bathing in lust as he would straddle me, kissing me-

I look up-

It’s worse-

He checks his phone again and my lips feel chapped all of a sudden and there is nothing I can do, to get rid of his current girlfriend besides letting the turmoil fling through my bed once more, Jack out of all people has never been mono as I had discovered of the rumors of him and other men, other women with Alison supposedly not knowing, that all had been some lost game which he had lost eventually-

And I had wanted to gain, not even for myself

but just

he was the sole words. 

I wonder how come life seems to be the same old tape we rewind and keep watching, for some reason never properly learning how the scenes go or who even the actors are, just some odd hazed deja vu of life which had flashed during an argument which had gone deadly and how come we had never shattered is only for the stars to answer. Anxiety seems to be sewing our mouths and our coffees have gone cold and Jack speaks up, by offering to buy me the next coffee, but I shake my head, perhaps stating that I would get my own later and I dread not taking my medication with me. 

The soundtrack can lead you to an endless loop of depression and bleeding.

“Are those all the photos you’ve needed?” You’ve drained all my recent desire to take photos and I’ve just been taking photos of the people I’d force myself to meet, a bit curious until I wouldn’t be anymore, but other than that I felt as if I were laying on my side, counting the left finances and a bit too uncomfortable knowing in my future, many things were left uncraddled, but knowing that the gallery was pleased with the photos and they caused a stir seemed pleasing, but once you start getting your name around it start being a wonder you don’t want to be a household name.

Being anonymous in the beginning didn’t help either, it felt as if every single shade of my mood was used. If I would have a manic attack at the night I would just take many snapshots, nearly tossing the cigarettes aside and keep the lights off, using the camera’s flash and praying, finding the way my boots lay and scribbling over old poetry seemed appealing it seemed to be telling the story I lacked. I tapped the cup.

You can never tell a love how fucking broken you feel. I thought when I had sat with Valentine last night, when she walked over, when I asked her about her child, that perhaps admitting something I didn’t want to would make it easier

But admitting someone is the love of your life makes things worse and makes you call helplines as the queues for the psychiatrists are too long and the medication is not working, withdrawal is awful and going up a dose will make withdrawal worse and all the stress and buzz in the current wars makes it worse, for I don’t want to be happy when people kill others even if it’s been like that since the dawn of time. I don’t raise Poland to Jack and its own stupidity, even if he’s dragged me to Warsaw twice, pulling me around and I found the place pretty, its own history made it even more revolting to allow and support genocide in another place. But we must all keep silent and maybe mutter through art.

I went to an old vintage store that morning, browsing through discarded medals and wondering through old postcards, wondering how come the nearly murdered never condemned killings. His dark eyes focus too harshly on my own. 

“How’s your depression?” I quickly shoot Jack’s question down, I apologize before taking a  shot of his surprised face, but he’s used to it, the exact moment before he realized how fucked up I’ve become. I’m tired, I’ll document the look of people’s faces when I announce that I have bipolar. 

“I got diagnosed with bipolar. Escalated, I guess. I don’t know.” I shrug, I really need a cigarette and the fact that this coffee is the first thing I’ve eaten today at five p.m. is slowly starting to alarm me, as my mania and fears get to me, because I know that even I am limited and contradiction comes as I can’t calm down, because there’s too much blood. I read a novel where a girl’s thoughts were racing as she described her lover, tracing her tongue on his veins as she would watch the revolution in Moscow in 1991. I can’t do that. All races, thoughts race and love flees. I don’t want him back, but he wants me, he lures me, would be the right word and the right lips to press. I don’t say anything, as he sighs, listening to the last clicks and that’s before I switch the film in the camera, now humming. I have to manage mixed episodes somehow, I still don’t understand when I have what, the most common complaint about mania is depression. 

It’s as if imagination and production is the only way I can make myself believe that something might happen, photos taken and neither utters the word to leave.

You’ll never admit to a lover how much you break and how fear crumbles you, it becomes a twist of waves of fear and paranoia and they swallow and the only thing seen above is the sharp teeth as you enter the esophagus. 

Fear rides us for we are at war with ourselves, the sinner which allowed themselves to kill and we’re under the gun. The sinner is no longer us and roaming. The sinner was never us and for that those who sin are greeted, those who don’t are banned on the tainted land, but if heaven doesn’t exist yet, where do you go? Up to faith.

I drink up nothing, pretending.

And now we’re all left to deal with all of this mess, God’s help with us, but anxiety thinks otherwise.

“I wonder if I should get a cupcake.” I turn to Jack, as if we haven’t aged a day, but I always felt old. “Do you want a cupcake?”

He still looks at me with a confused, yet worried face and I know I’m already stamped as more ill with him, as I stand up, Jack walks besides me, as if we were dating again. I try not to look at him, as I choose the cupcake and my legs start shaking and I try to ignore all the deja vu he gave me, because I’ve lived in it. I can relive all the vivid times we’ve kissed and lived and all of his insecurities and his promises which were kept and I wonder if him trailing behind me is one of them now. But how do you convince yourself you’re okay, when you’re not?

I feel as if I’ve got a fuse.

“Look, I’ll be fine. I get through the night, that’s all that matters.” I don’t need you just scraps my mind. I took the photo, that’s all I need. 

That’s all I need. I buy the cupcake, as he just keeps watching me, maybe counting the years in his head. 

I slightly pull the wrapper back, feeling fear strangle my chest, punching on it and sitting, making sure that I don’t breathe without knowing. 

“I just still think you should be kinder to yourself.”

“That’s what my last therapist said.”

“What happened? Why did you stop seeing them?”

“They were against me being religious. I don’t feel comfortable discussing faith with someone who would rather spend my money debating and convincing me thing.” I get a bite, as we head off the queue and he still watches me and he knows his time is up, but because it’s just us two and neither of us have the courage, that’s how I think it ends. I put the last bite, as we both keep walking, Jack going out of habit and myself just because I want to. I wait until I see a trashcan to throw the wrapper out, the camera dully hangs around me. 

“I will be kind to myself, just because it was from wrong people, doesn’t mean that I don’t advice seriously.” I mutter and I know I’m not the one he’s kind to. He struggles to find the words, but then takes a deep breath, looking down, I think I caused enough stir for both of us.

“Can we talk?” He asks, looking at me and I look at his black coffee eyes, as if I were to pass out. 

“We talked.” I am the one who causes myself harm. But I nod, despite my own words.

-

Frankly by the end I was like is this the end? But I really go on to touch very often the whole on/off relationships because I've had that for many years with my first ex even if it was never on and I guess writing this was weird, recalling that when well he didn't inspire it but I had to recall how it had felt and the hesitation from both sides which is a bit weird, when you both want it and other well, y'know if think and ok, how is this close to personal, y'know would be my ex which I was on and off with as well.

I think on/off even applies when you have arguments, some escalate, some y'know go that way, but it's a theme I frankly explore very often and I like exploring because I guess I find it more natural to describe built couples since I've been with Callie for a so long time and I vary from y'know falling in love and staying in love.

I do get scared what if this is a similar You're Not Coming Back Again, frankly, but y'know, you'll see and I'll have to realize that it's not.

When I'm very depressed I guess I just stop doing proper distinctions and I've made Jamie religious here. I've always turned to religion when y'know the time calls for it. And well quoting what made me accept myself and so on is that the church is open to everyone. It's really interesting and well, I'm very sensitive to spirits. I never encountered anything like what I did before, so yeah.

So I gave my faith to Jamie and the psychology discussion and the recently diagnosed bipolar and my uncomfortableness with people gasping at my diagnosis even if it makes me calmer but at the same time, it's good knowing that you can be kinder to yourself.

The first phrase was written with the first chapter and given as the first title because I still like Mondays and we've all had bad ones, but I still like Mondays. I want to stay positive, I'm tired of people telling me that anxiety and PTSD passes by looking the thing in the eye

I did, what now?

So that ticks me off. I'm happy to any small YOU'LL DO IT AND ALL WILL BE WELL messages so yeah:)

I also wanted Jamie more of a kind of closer to freelance where you're always thinking and stuff job, less grounded if you must and yeah he was decided as a photographer earlier on. 

I still enjoy pursuing even if I've got no ideas at the moment, I didn't and then the story was vividly playing in my head and here it is. I hope you enjoy it, I kind of focus on things like I frankly both me and Callie had to make everything ourselves fast and etc and no one really talks about those, you've either got people from high and end high or from working class and remain working class, you don't really have the ones where we came from where you're just left on your own in ways you've never been before. No one talks of the well due to the crisis now defunct middle-class and that's something I guess, because well, you just see people jumping from that. You don't see crashes and I guess I want to address that and Gandalf's Inhaler is one of those examples for instance.

I hope you enjoyed it and please please please tell me if you did, anon or not, I need support now

thank you

<3

Jamie