He's detoxing, and he doesn't want to tell me he's detoxing. He says that he walked way too much today and his legs hurt because of all the walking. His legs are cramping unbearably because he walked so, so much. He is acting like a dick because he walked so much. His methadone dose for tomorrow is gone (four empty bottles in the refrigerator instead of three empties and one full) because he walked so much. He walked so much that the methadone empathically evaporated. Or maybe it's those dastardly dogs again, opening the refrigerator this time, taking the methadone out, opening the lid, and drinking it.
I've had kind of a complicated couple of days, and I'd deluded myself into believing that I was going to have a supportive, rational partner. I'm not sure where I got that idea. I'd heard supportive, rational words coming out of his mouth earlier today when I spoke with him on the phone, and it seemed, somehow, like those words and that mouth might have been attached to something, someone, real.
It's ok, though. I called a friend, and now I'm writing about it, and I feel ok. I'm ok. I won't deal with him detoxing tomorrow. I'll take him to his parents' house or something...but either way, that's tomorrow. It's not today, and I'll deal with it then. Half of my mind is working, worrying about the future (I can't live through another relapse. What am I going to do? He can't live here. This is horrible. Etc.), but the other half is just warm under the covers, snuggly with my cat, and going to bed.