I’m talking about cigarettes.
When I told a colleague that I was taking two weeks off to quit smoking, she said, “I don’t think I can have an original thought without a cigarette.” It summed up my fear and loathing precisely.
Quitting smoking is like cutting off my hands—not just one hand, but both of them. How will I drink coffee? What will I do after I eat? How will I get out of bed in the morning? Why would I get out of bed?
I tried quitting, sort of, a couple of months ago. I started taking that new drug Chantix (the name makes me think of “shanty”) that blocks the nicotine-loving receptors in the brain. While it did wonders for the craving in between cigarettes, I still had to deal with the psychological addiction. And I was irrationally angry about everything. The minute work became stressful, I caved.
So I’m trying again. This time, I’m taking two weeks at Spa Pigspittle (aka home), hoping that I can use my spurts of anger more efficiently—maybe taking it out on the lilac bush that I need to trim. And sleeping. If I could just sleep my way through the next two weeks and wake up without wanting a cigarette…
Today, I smoked only 19 cigarettes in 24 hours. If you’re appalled, take note that I’ve been smoking at least 30-35 cigarettes a day for an embarrassing number of years. I miss the 11 cigarettes I didn’t smoke today already.