On Quitting

Caught last night's episode of Sex & City on Bravo. It was the one where Carrie meets Aidan and he says he can't date a smoker . . . so she quits, tries to quit. Reminded me of quitting. Especially since I've been craving a lot lately. Not enough to take action, but . . .

The first time I tried to quit was in 2000. I had about six weeks in when D moved to Edmonton. That was a train wreck. I stayed with him the last three or four days, during his terrified to move/ terrified to stay stage. We drank. A lot. He waited for me to ask him to stay. I waited for him to ask me to go. We bit our tongues. We played cards. We cuddled on the couch. We did laundry and took down curtains and hid on friends when they came by. We holed up, riding it out, waiting for the last of it, not knowing for sure what was supposed to happen next. Is this the end? . . . And we smoked.

There were a few failed attempts before I quit just after midnight on May 10, 2002. In February of that same year I tried to quit and wrote a little something that I thought I'd share. Without further ado, a piece from my past:

I'm fucking quitting smoking. Why do I have to be so coarse about it? Because when you've smoked, as much, for as long as I have, there is no nicety involved with kicking the habit. There's no simple oh, isn't it a beautiful day, and by the way, I'm quitting smoking. It's a grit through the fucking teeth experience. Loudly. I AM FUCKING QUITTING SMOKING.

It becomes the catch-all phrase of the day. Who ate the last of the potato chips? I'm fucking quitting smoking. When was the last time you showered? I'm fucking quitting smoking. You wanna come on this new diet with me? I AM FUCKING QUITTING SMOKING.

It's day two since I decided. Half-decided. Hell, if I don't do it now, when will I? Now or never, you know. Not getting any younger, but boy am I getting older. All these health issues creeping up on me. So I joined a 30-day program. On the Internet. So there's nobody to disappoint, no one counting on me. No fucking non-smokers tisking me to just throw them away once and for all. Who's the boss? Who's in charge? You or that fucking itsy bitsy piece of paper wrapped around poison? Because they can't relate. They don't understand the craving, the need to feel that cigarette in your hand.

So I'm doing what the emails are telling me to. No cold turkey. The Quit Date is down the road, 12 more days. I have until then to get my shit together. Pay final respects. Break your patterns they say. I'm doing it. No three smokes first thing -- bam, bam, bam -- with my morning coffee. Day 1, 11 smokes total, down from 25. Big fucking deal. Must celebrate! Light up another. Day 2, 8 smokes. Now that's a fucking accomplishment!

And every time I turn on the fucking tv, what do I see? Ads. Either one of those fucking PSAs telling me how many people are dying from tobacco or else an ad for the nicotine gum or patch. And does this help? No, of course not. I see bodies tagged and bagged in the morgue, 45,000 to be precise, and I think CIGARETTE. I think SMOKE. And it's not unpleasant. I WANT one. They're right over there. Day 3 and I'm fucking having verbal fucking oral fucking out loud conversations with myself. Trying to remember two years ago. I was doing pretty good at the Big Q, had in days, weeks, started again. Ditzy today. Jittery.

Ten days or is it nine from my Quit Date? Soon. Got the gum. Like the gum's gonna solve everything. And now I'm fucking huge. Got aches and pains like you would not believe from hauling this lard ass around. I don't feel better yet. When am I supposed to feel better?

Three days later . . .

Six days ago I decided to fucking quit smoking. Why now? I don't know. Why not? Really I wish I had some sort of deep meaningful reason or revelation. A momentous decision, especially for someone like me. Someone who lives for fucking cigarettes, who never feels quite comfortable if there isn't another pack waiting in cellophane. It started as a whim. A secretive whim. If I didn't tell anyone I wouldn't really have to do it, but now six days and I appear to be serious. There are two cigarettes in my pack and that's all. Then the gum. Then nothing. And I can see the effects on my body as I wean myself off nicotine and it ain't pretty. I don't know why I'm doing this, but I think I'm doing it. I'm really doing it.

Three weeks later . . .

WRONG! Gum still in package. Extra cigs in cellophane waiting for current pack to disappear. Killing myself. Calmly.

***

It was about two months later that I succeeded. In the end there was no planning, it truly seemed like a whim that stuck. I was working on the computer, reached for a cigarette, and just stopped. Opened the nic gum instead, end of smoking. I guess it was just the right time. Quitting was the most difficult thing I've ever done. The physical withdrawal was terrible. I've heard it's comparable to kicking heroin and I wouldn't doubt it. It is slightly less uncomfortable for lighter smokers. But it's pretty much impossible to find a heavier smoker than me. If I was awake, I was smoking. I would wake in the middle of the night to smoke. At least one in bed before my feet hit the floor every morning. At least one in bed before I closed my eyes every night. Chain smoking was my thing. It took years to get it out of my system, to get my metabolism working again so that if I actually did the exercise I would shed pounds. It was mentally, emotionally and physically the most frustrating experience I've ever survived. It's only now, this year, that I'm starting to feel "normal" again, like my old self. It has taken that long. But it is the best thing I've ever done for myself. No regrets. If I can quit, anyone can, and you should.

Mood: in control
Drinking: tea, black, king cole
Listening To: Metallica, Enter Sandman
Hair: sure to find its way into an elastic today, one would hope