Quitting smoking is both the greatest thing and the biggest drag ever.
I quit after finishing the last butt in an old pack yesterday morning. This makes the second time this year I've quit (and about the sixty-second time in my life).
Whoever did the research saying it takes people an average of 3 attempts to quit should be put to death for severely understating the strength of the addiction and the difficulty of breaking through it. That information goes out to a public which already despises smokers (though why the public allows itself to feel self-righteous—even self-congratulatory—about its displays of disgust and hatred toward smokers is beyond me), giving further ammunition to those who would harass us poor nic-addicts and make us feel like weak-willed, retarded losers for not being able to quit.
I see the looks in my friends' eyes, the way their glances meet behind my back, they way they roll their eyes about my efforts. I know they're thinking, "Yeah, right. Like you're trying. Like you couldn't just put down that pack and walk away if you really, really wanted to. Weak-ass complaining bitch. Some of us have real problems to grapple with."
I've been told since I smoke relatively little, it's not even an addiction, it's "more of a habit." (Only non-medical personnel have offered this opinion.) I would like to invite these snide bastards into my apartment during the throes of the worst cravings so I may beat some sense into them and, by so doing, work out the anxiety, anger and aggression that accompany those cravings. They deserve it for being so dismissive. "Habit?" I'd like to scream, holding a fistful of hair and bashing into an already bloody nose, "Breathing is only a fucking habit. How about you give it up right now, douchebag?"
Then you have the people who quit cold turkey after forty years of smoking eighteen packs a day. "I did it, so can you," they bellow helpfully, "I never even craved the damn things once I quit." Most of these oh-so-helpful ass-eaters are male (read: less prone to addiction in general) and have survived a heart attack or stroke. I'm sure if I'd had a near-death experience that totally changed my body chemistry and perhaps my religion, too (Gods forbid), I might be able to join the ranks of those who have quit cold-turkey and never looked back. (It must be remembered, they are the same people who walked to school twenty miles in waist-deep snow uphill both ways...)
The good part of quitting is that your friends are supportive. For about five minutes. Don't try their patience longer than that, though; don't talk about your cravings or what you're experiencing by way of withdrawal—that is none of their concern and they will be quick to let you know it. The support ends where their inconvenience and/or boredom begins. I need to find a support group so I can go talk endlessly about the ridiculousness of this stupid addiction and the worse ridiculousness of not being able to quit it.
Another good part is that you do feel better physically; healthier. Except when adrenaline is shooting through your legs for no reason and similarly random surges of stress hormones are making your stomach bleed and your eyelids twitch. When you're so awake you can see every molecule making up every piece of matter in the room surrounding you even though it's two in the morning, you've worked all day, and you're wearing a sleeping mask. When it's high noon and you fall asleep behind the wheel since your blood pressure is at the lowest it's been in twelve years and your brain is getting no blood to support its functioning. When you're being smacked around in lockup, awaiting arraignment for the parking-lot murder you committed on the woman who beat you to the only open spot at Trader Joe's.
Maybe, after twenty years of a smoke-free existence, I will become one of those people who think smokers are stupid, low-class morons with no more willpower than a crack whore in need of a fix.
Until then, may such people always have to sit in the cigar section.
I quit after finishing the last butt in an old pack yesterday morning. This makes the second time this year I've quit (and about the sixty-second time in my life).
Whoever did the research saying it takes people an average of 3 attempts to quit should be put to death for severely understating the strength of the addiction and the difficulty of breaking through it. That information goes out to a public which already despises smokers (though why the public allows itself to feel self-righteous—even self-congratulatory—about its displays of disgust and hatred toward smokers is beyond me), giving further ammunition to those who would harass us poor nic-addicts and make us feel like weak-willed, retarded losers for not being able to quit.
I see the looks in my friends' eyes, the way their glances meet behind my back, they way they roll their eyes about my efforts. I know they're thinking, "Yeah, right. Like you're trying. Like you couldn't just put down that pack and walk away if you really, really wanted to. Weak-ass complaining bitch. Some of us have real problems to grapple with."
I've been told since I smoke relatively little, it's not even an addiction, it's "more of a habit." (Only non-medical personnel have offered this opinion.) I would like to invite these snide bastards into my apartment during the throes of the worst cravings so I may beat some sense into them and, by so doing, work out the anxiety, anger and aggression that accompany those cravings. They deserve it for being so dismissive. "Habit?" I'd like to scream, holding a fistful of hair and bashing into an already bloody nose, "Breathing is only a fucking habit. How about you give it up right now, douchebag?"
Then you have the people who quit cold turkey after forty years of smoking eighteen packs a day. "I did it, so can you," they bellow helpfully, "I never even craved the damn things once I quit." Most of these oh-so-helpful ass-eaters are male (read: less prone to addiction in general) and have survived a heart attack or stroke. I'm sure if I'd had a near-death experience that totally changed my body chemistry and perhaps my religion, too (Gods forbid), I might be able to join the ranks of those who have quit cold-turkey and never looked back. (It must be remembered, they are the same people who walked to school twenty miles in waist-deep snow uphill both ways...)
The good part of quitting is that your friends are supportive. For about five minutes. Don't try their patience longer than that, though; don't talk about your cravings or what you're experiencing by way of withdrawal—that is none of their concern and they will be quick to let you know it. The support ends where their inconvenience and/or boredom begins. I need to find a support group so I can go talk endlessly about the ridiculousness of this stupid addiction and the worse ridiculousness of not being able to quit it.
Another good part is that you do feel better physically; healthier. Except when adrenaline is shooting through your legs for no reason and similarly random surges of stress hormones are making your stomach bleed and your eyelids twitch. When you're so awake you can see every molecule making up every piece of matter in the room surrounding you even though it's two in the morning, you've worked all day, and you're wearing a sleeping mask. When it's high noon and you fall asleep behind the wheel since your blood pressure is at the lowest it's been in twelve years and your brain is getting no blood to support its functioning. When you're being smacked around in lockup, awaiting arraignment for the parking-lot murder you committed on the woman who beat you to the only open spot at Trader Joe's.
Maybe, after twenty years of a smoke-free existence, I will become one of those people who think smokers are stupid, low-class morons with no more willpower than a crack whore in need of a fix.
Until then, may such people always have to sit in the cigar section.
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