Withdrawal Chronicles, Part One

The Early Days 

I think I miss the taste the most. Cold mornings and the jolt of menthol-infused tobacco to jolt me out of my sleep. Hunger satiated with a glass of orange juice and a visit to the Marlboro man. That instantaneous high, when everything feels lighter. Less scary/stressful/hurtful/difficult. The five minutes a day where I remove myself from all of you and tune out the world. With each exhale, less frustration. Each inhale, penetration. I am forever young so I don't think about cancer. The only C world I think of is CARTON. Punishment was once described as "licking tar" - I do that every day. At this moment, I'd give the world to blow my frustrations away in a cloud of dirty carcinogens.

I recently made the decision to give up smoking. From the observations above, I think it's realistic to say that I don't particularly want to. Non-smokers/non-addicts often make the mistake of attributing some greater philosophical will to addicts when they decide to quit:

"I'm so proud that you've made this decision for yourself!" - Friend 1

"All it takes is that first step, and you've done it!" - Friend 2

NO IT FUCKING DOESN'T. It takes constant vigilance.stamina.willpower.inmpulsecontrol.WORK to give up any single entity that one becomes addicted to. Period. Yes, I decided that smoking was no longer in my best interest. Yes, I'm trying my damndest to give it up. NO, I don't want to do it. NO, it does not get easier as days go by. Instead, I hold on to some semblance of vigilance hoping that it will carry me through the death stroll known as the front of Butler Library. I swear to GOD, if one more hipster blows smoke in my face, I will:

a) bite the cigarette out of their mouth
b) punch them in the face
c) stand awkwardly close to them until I get my fix
d) all of the above

This is probably the hardest thing I've done in a while. At this point, I'd take a perpetual barrage of embarassment, humiliation, hurt, anger and sadness (all things I've confronted this semester) for the REST OF MY LIFE if I could process with a cigarette at the end of the day. I guess it's this that scares me most. I like to think of myself as a fairly independent person (debatable, yes), but I depend on nicotine like nobody's business. I don't know if I can process stress on my own anymore. I don't know if I can deal without my escape. I never thought that I had the potential to be an addict, but I see now that I am one.

So this is my resolve: I am going to try my damndest to stick to this. I am going to write whenever or about whatever things frustrate me, as a potential way to deal with all the things I have thus far refused to deal with. I am going to get mad when I am mad, yet try to stave off the incessant inclination that I have been having to knock people out. I am going to remember that the most important thing to me is my voice and my music, and with every puff I take away a little bit more of my opportunity.

I will remember that this is just a fucking STICK. An inanimate object that I allow to determine how my day is going to go. Some fucked up chemicals that take me away and then - in about 20 minutes - bring me right back.

In this moment, my head hurts, my skin crawls and I have the illest hot flashes. In this moment, I feel like a dirty addict. In this moment, I can't really remember why I'm doing this. Hopefully, in the next, this'll all go away.