This morning when I was getting out of the car, he kissed me and kissed me, breathing deeply, and said, "You smell like the beach." What is it with lovers and the way that they smell? He smells like everything wonderful to me. There was another time when we were in bed, right after our most recent reunion and before I left my first husband, when he buried his head in my armpit and told me that I smell like the love of his life.
These moments move me, melt me, slay me. I love him.
He told me today that it's his third day without taking his Prozac. I don't know why he insists on not getting it refilled and not going to his doctor's apointments. It's half out of laziness, and half out of some idea that he should be able to handle these issues on his own. From years of taking anti-depressants and being in psycho-therapy, I've come to believe that there are some things you just can't handle on your own. And even if you can, if you can go see a therapist and get help, there is no reason to do it on your own.
He was praying and praying in the bathroom last night. He was so crazy, praying all loud and desperate. Then he started maniacally picking his face and eating and drawing and talking and being generally weird. I fed him one of my Seroquels this morning to try to make him calm down. He has to sleep sometime. I can't sleep when he's up, clearly being miserable and insane.
It explains why he was so weird yesterday morning, and so hurtful. I am hoarding a lot of hurt from yesterday's outburst. I can still feel it, especially the part about how the reason we don't have sex is because I emasculate him, stabbing me, like a knife in the chest, but on the inside. It hurts.