Today is day three of quitting smoking for the umpteenth time. I’m cranky and restless, I can’t seem to sit still for more than five seconds at a time. Though this post will be published all at once I can assure you I’ve taken ten thousand or so breaks.
My partner, who hates smoking with a passion, is thrilled I’m giving quitting another go. He is more than willing to put up with the complaining and the occasional outburst over something silly. He’s even helping me pay for the patches and losenges.
I started smoking off and on when I was eleven or twelve. Not long after that I was a bonafide full time smoker. I felt older, cooler, I felt like a bad-ass kind of rebel. I knew my parents hated it which only appealed to me more. I fostered a relationship with cigarettes. They were my best friend in many ways, they’ve been with me during hard times and good times, they’ve outlasted most of my relationships, including friendships. They were there for me when nobody else was. They calmed me, they relaxed me, they were such an integral part of my life there was nothing I did that did not involve smoking.
As much as they have done for me, they have done a lot to me. They have drained my bank accounts, they have put me in debt, they have robbed me of my lung capacity and function, they’ve made my fingers and teeth yellow, they did everything an abuser does. They controlled my mood, behaviour, and my apetite.
Being on a modest fixed income I cannot afford to smoke so what happens is I will have enough money to buy cigarettes for about three weeks in a month. Cigarettes are not my only expense. And when I do run out of cash I borrow money or sell something I want to get rid of anyway (I’ll soon run out of things I want to sell too). The whole thing became a cycle, every three weeks or so I went through nicotine withdrawals a couple of times before I could get my hands on smokes again. That’s hard on the body, constantly shocking it like that, not to mention my partner’s having to deal with me became hard on our relationship.
Now, in order for me to be successful, I feel I must view cigarettes as a thief of time and money, and my realtionship with them an abusive one. I am breaking up with an abusive life long “partner” or “friend”. And just like any abuser, they will try to lure me back, they will smell good, they will make me think I can manage just one, they will look sexy and bold. Cigarettes have seduced me more then once, I did say this was my umpteenth time quitting, didn’t I? They will try to make me feel as though I am nothing without them, I can do nothing without them. And all I can do is keep on going, sometimes just five minutes at a time.
I have a few of strategies I’ve employed. I have stocked up on things to do with my hands…painting, drawing, writing, crochet and books. I have clay and a dremel for engraving, I have a wood burner with different decorative tips and some thoughts on how I want to use the money I don’t spend on cigarettes to inspire my granddaughter by sending her some science, engineering, and art projects. I picked up a workbook by Tim Desmond on practicing self compassion, seems like a good time for it. The unhealthiest strategy I have is spending my modest income as soon as I get it so I don’t buy cigarettes. I will say it is effective though.
The sculpture with this post was done between days one and two off the smokes. It has been drying but with cracks at some of the joints. I’m not sure if I will repair it or not as I think the cracks are kind of like me coming unravelled if things don’t work out the way I want. Then again, I am repairing myself by quitting smoking…decisions, decisions. Either way, it’s called Namaste Muthafuckas!
My Phoenix Rising 