Sooner or later, something you don’t want to happen, will happen.  The basement gets flooded, you’ll need a new kettle,  collection agencies will call, and you will get sick and disabled.

I’ve abused my body for a long time, in ways familiar now.  In fact, abuse seems to be the usual treatment I give myself, believing like a child that I’m immortal.  Every now and then something happens to inconvenience me or scare me and I temporarily respond by going to the doctor, or taking a pill, or zoning out somehow.   But my usual response is always to eat, and not just a meal, but a whole package of cookies or a block of cheese.   The facts are pretty clear these days though.  Everything hurts — feet, legs, back, shoulders, sinuses…. and life hurts since I’m not able to give energy to my dreams.

I’m a binge eater.  I spend most of my time being a binge eater.  As a smoker, I could substitute a cigarette for my binge of choice, but no more.  As a result, 18 more pounds have found me all too easily.  I’m like a drunk who finds the cooking wine.  Last night, after a day of clean eating, I found the crackers, the cheddar cheese and the jam.  By the time I was finished, everything was gone.  I got really excited putting together this binge.  There was a strong fetishistic element to it all. I could have it all with a nice cup of tea.  Today, I feel hung over.  And I’ve let myself down by not protecting my success, and made a mockery of all my hard work.

I realize I have a list of “trigger” foods as long as my arm.  Foods that lie in ambush until a weak moment when I’m hungry, angry, lonely or tired.   I tell myself that I can keep these foods around for “company” or to reward my successes with a small serving.  In fact, I might as well lay it all before me and sit down…

And the list is discouragingly huge — anything made of white flour, sugar, butter.  Anything prepackaged, sweetened, greasy or creamy.  Some of these things are normally healthy foods in the hands of the disciplined, like nuts or dried fruit.  This rules out most of what you encounter in the real world.  I go to work, and there’s fish and chips for supper.  My pathetic containers of yogurt, salad or brown rice don’t have a chance.  Trouble is, I love to think about food, to cook food, to feed others.  I like the creativity of making a meal from beautiful elements.

So the jam is now gone.  The cupboards are full of food that I can more easily say “no” to.  I’m not going to get excited about cooking up oatmeal to have without brown sugar or raisins.  I can take a coffee with skim on the road with me and sail past Timmie’s.

This is the start of a journey to understand why I play with this gun in the first place.

There’s a whole new set of coping skills to learn when you quit smoking.  I didn’t.  Instead of a smoke, I have a sandwich.  A recipe for disaster. So it’s back to discipline again.  I hate discipline.  I just want everything on easy terms and no consequences.  It’s back to forced marches and deprivation.

I need to realize that my quit hasn’t evolved to an actual change.  Overeating is not success.  Back to gum and breathing and avoiding the bakery section at the store.

Sheesh.

These are the questions I carry with me into my future.  There will never be a time when I won’t need them.

I’m feeling free.  I hardly ever think about smoking — maybe 3 times a day.  I breathe and the crave leaves.

I’m not finished though.  I never will be.  Every day will carry the potential to ask myself the questions.

The answer is always “no” and “yes” to freedom.

Ir’s hot and sticky. I don’t have the energy to be busy enough to stave off craves. So much to do — that I want to do — but my body feels like it’s bathing in steam and I’m feeling pretty grumpy. Several huge, gut-wrenching craves today. Not enough to send me to the store, but discouraging since yesterday went by with nary a glitch. Two forward, one back.

I guess I’m grateful no one has to live with this but myself. Right now, there’s a penance to perform. That’s how it feels, anyway. Everything I own stinks. I have to wash it all or get rid of it since stale smoke triggers a crave like nothing else — and it’s especially noticeable in hot weather. I wish it generated revulsion, but no such luck. So I sit here in the heat and feel helpless about all that needs to be done. All I want to do is sleep. I want to stay in a motel

It’s important for me not to view this experience as a negative ordeal. It’s not depriving myself, it’s healing myself. Cleaning up the smoky stuff is part of that. Get a pail of soapy water and a rag and start washing everything. I washed all my pillows (and there’s lots), only to find them re-contaminated by the ambient nicotine from the walls and furniture. I need biohazard bags. I have opted to get rid of soft furnishings, including my bed and carpets. This will leave me in a very bare place (I don’t mind now). My physical self is undergoing the same process. I just hope nothing is too far gone to salvage. I hope the pain in back of my left lung isn’t going to be a huge incision scar like the one I saw on the anti-smoking website. It’s in the same place as my dull, constant pain. I’m worried.

The lesson is about how this addiction touches everything. Metaphorically too. The spaces between that could only be filled by smoking. Sitting in my car as I get ready to drive, or the last bite of a meal. The transitions that leave me confused or needing to have “something”. Impatience for the next one and the next one, even as I visit, talk and engage. Everything carries the stench.

Am I outraged yet? I should be. No one should have to live like this.

It’s here.  Flagging optimism, emotional fragility, irritable and easily angered.  I remember this from every other quit and it’s usually derailed the attempt.  This is when the rubber hits the road.

All the reasons for quitting seem unrealistic and abstract.  I’m left weakened for the excuses and rationales to creep in.  My brain is fogging up and life seems to be headed toward a cluster f**k.

Nothing’s changed, really.  I knew last week the car was going to need replacing, that work was both unpleasant and boring, and that I would be facing more medical tests and a ton of expenses related to moving.

Why am I gob-smacked when it happens?

Week one is easy — anyone who quits with all the best intentions will tell you that it’s after that euphoric success, the force of habit reinforced thousands upon thousands of times grabs you by the throat and threatens to defeat you.

The trick is to face it.  To afford yourself the opportunity to learn to cope smoke-free, realizing there’s no time like the present.  It won’t get easier otherwise.  Each demon must be recognized and dismissed.

This is the time for “character building”, “No pain – no gain”, “when the going gets tough, the tough get going”.  Bring on the cliches and the popcorn.  It WILL get easier.  Smoking doesn’t get things done.  Practical stuff — shopping for a car, holding up against a toxic workplace until another position is found, moving through the xrays and stress tests — this is what needs to happen.  Smoking won’t change or improve that.

Next week is “Heck Week”.

I’m sitting right now in a very smelly chair. I’d get rid of it if I had another one. I caught a whiff of cat piss and stale nicotine when I unlocked my door. In the doctor’s waiting room, sweat and cheap cologne wafted from every direction. Ubiquitous plumes of tobacco smoke indicated the huddles of smokers outside. It’s everywhere. Everyone but me smokes.

Supper was incredible. Fresh asparagus, salmon with lemon, chanterelle mushrooms and first-of-the-crop strawberries. No sauces or enhancements. None needed, since I could REALLY taste everything.

My nose and tastebuds are awake to everything — vile or exquisite.

I committed to never smoking again just four days ago. I didn’t know my world smelled so bad. I wasn’t aware how gorgeous my food was. My kitties got more attention. In the same way, I didn’t allow myself the range of nuanced feelings about things. The one response to everything is to have a smoke. No variety of possible responses to different situations — just the one. Soon all situations are the same. You’re pissed or sad, so you smoke.

I crave to be awake to the vile or exquisite ranges of existence. Happy jokes that make you cry, anger that proves your calmness. Helpless emotions unmoored and sailing away while I dance on the shore. Breathing.

So I go to the doctor to make sure I’m not sick. To check cardio-pulmonary functions. To rule out tight pains as sitting around for too long. I decided that even if I’m dying, I don’t want to smoke.

I’m not sick. I know it. Now that I can listen to my deep intelligence, I can hear it say “Yer good”.

I danced today. Found my nourishing theme music in Coldplay’s “Viva la Vida”. Danced my ass off.

To the mechanistic nicodemon I say, “Just try to be this good!”.

I want everyone to be well. I want my future to smell good. I want to feast with the dear ones without needing to run outside.

I want us all to breathe. I don’t want to see myself or anyone else die from such a stupid thing.

Things addiction taught me

1) Reach for the pack.

2) Anticipate the next smoke.

3) Freak out if there isn’t a next smoke.

4) Pay the money, and I’ll kill you — what part of that bargain don’t you get?

5) Oh yes, I control your life. Every half hour for the rest of your miserable life, you’ll think of me.

Sweet.