I remember my darling friend Melissa giving me a red and white, pill-shaped soap that said Lovesick.
I might feel lovesick over an experience, an object, a memory, a person. A song may grab me by the neck, and I'm lost in those words and sounds for hours or days. The words line my throat. I want to watch the same movie on repeat, search the faces and memorize the dialog.
Sometimes, I have to stop myself from squeezing and kissing Oliver as much as I may suddenly want to. He's little, but his boundaries still matter. I ask for hugs, ask if he wants me to pick him up if he's scared or hurt.
I check out my husband and seek his touch. I wrote all about it.
None of this is bad, but I can feel the cross over when I suddenly can barely breathe, and what ever I love expands in my mind.
It's different from obsession because obsession is for something I seek out. Love sickness happens to me. Electricity down my arms. Pliers at my heart. A gaping, exhausting need for connection.
Love sickness usually comes or at least begins when I'm manic. It's a symptom. But I've experienced it in the dark too. Maybe it's worse then.
Love sickness burns. I try to reshape it, make it something that warms me.
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