Half way through the worst part

72 hours… Time it takes to get all the nicotine out. I’m almost half way there.  I probably shouldn’t be drinking coffee.

It’s a trigger. Coffee and a cigarette.  Peanut butter and jelly.  Eggs and bacon.  How can you have one without the other???  Jesus, a smoke and a cup of joe as been my breakfast of choice for as long as I can remember.

I am excited about smelling like a nonsmoker. I’m always paranoid about if I smell gross or have smoker’s breath. (I’m sure the answer to both had always been yes, but I deluded myself into thinking some gum or perfume would cover it).

So… Between smelling nicer and not having necrotizing incisions, those are the only two parts I’m into.   The rest of it… I want to say fuck it and grab a pack on my way to the gym.

But I’ve come half way through the worst if it, and I’ll be goddammed if I’m going to go through the last 31 hours again. Eff that. This is crazy hard.  Mind bogglingly hard.

DH (dear husband, or, douchey husband) said to just count down my two weeks prior to surgery and the two after, because he’s certain I’ll just start again as soon as I’m just enough healed from surgery.  I don’t know what his angle is there… But it makes me want to punch him in his babymaker…

Ugh. To the gym. Miss both my workout buddies. 😦 
Gotta burn off the extra calories I’ve been consuming.  I need a nicotine free cigarette.

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Summer Hours

I like summer hours on campus for ME.  For me, it means not stepping foot in my office from May until August, when I’ll swoop in with just enough time to print my office hours door sign and a few syllabi.   But when the Rec center has summer hours, it leaves me sitting in the parking lot with a half hour to kill, wanting a cigarette so bad that I’ve thought of a half dozen ways to cheat. They are as follows:

1. Go to tobacco store, buy a pack. Smoke.  (save the other 19 for when I feel like this again)
2. Find a smoker, bum one.
3. Check my office for emergency cigarette stash.
4. Go to tobacco store, ask lady to sell me exactly one. That way I’m not tempted by those other 19.
5. Use hubby’s e-cigarette, have the verboten nicotine just to take the edge off, be deeply disappointed that I just didn’t have a cigarette.
6. Go back home, rummage through ashtrays and smoke what’s left in the butts.

I like to bookend a perfectly healthy workout with a cigarette right before and just after.  (no judgement, right?)

This has been the longest morning… And it’s only 6 am.
Fuck.

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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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