Last cigarette

I have faced many challenges in my way to the flattening (tummy tuck surgery).  None have terrified me quite like giving up my demon lover, as I’ve heard the addiction of cigarettes be called.  There’s one cigarette left in my third “last” pack.  I sit on the sun porch at half past ten at night, the humid air wrapped around me, a slight breeze shushing the trees. I think only of that one. The real last one…

I’m quite certain I’ll be insane by my 9 am preoperative physical. I know the withdrawal is coming. I’m scared. I’m scared for me, my kids, my friends, my body which will revolt and surely try to betray my best intentions.

I watched Trainspotting tonight.  Maybe to make me feel better (“hey… At least it’s not heroin”)  or maybe I watched it to remind myself that even though overcoming it is hard, like Ewan McGregor’s character discovered, there’s life on the other side of all addiction.

I want cellular life.  I need my wounds to properly heal.  I’ve obsessively Googled necrotic flesh images to scare myself straight.  I hope it’s enough. (it has to be)

I reach for that last cigarette mindlessly, momentarily forgetting that there’s no more. I draw back my hand.  I go back to typing.  I want to cry.

I want to sob at the thought of saying goodbye to my demon lover.  My mind becomes a frantic tangle of thoughts.  How will I relax?   What will I do?   How do I even begin to BE a non-smoker?  Ugh.  I won’t be a douchey ex-smoker.  Can I do this? I have to. I don’t want to.  God, just let me have one more hit smoke…

It’s been 22 years, with short breaks. I quit the first time I was pregnant… Almost two decades ago. I gained 110 lbs. That’s a whole adult person. I’m terrified of gaining weight. Of losing my mind. Of failure.

I go for that cigarette again.
The last one.
Seems so final.
It is final.
Fuck.
Thank God I never tried heroin.

I’m going to close this entry and smoke the last one. I’m already disappointed. There will be nothing special about the last one. It will taste the same, the enjoyment fleeting. Then. Done. Over.

My demon love can’t offer breakup sex.  He won’t friend me on Facebook.  My demon lover won’t miss me a bit. He will only haunt me in his absence.  It’s hard to break up even though I know he’s no good for me.  He could kill me, but I still want to put my lips on him and  breathe him in…

One last time.

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