As I approach the anniversary of that first day, the first day without booze, the first day without weed, or sex, or anything to numb, I can’t help but feel excited and anticipatory of the grief to come with another first. The first day without cigarettes. April 6th, 2010, my one year sobriety/goodbye porn birthday, is my first day without cigarettes. I bought my very last carton tonight, plan on handing out whatever is left to random bums on Hollywood Blvd. I feel nervous. Excited. In denial. Sad. Happy. Pissed off. Worried. Relieved. All at once.
I’m nervous that I won’t be able to do it. I know it is a fear based thing, and a silly one at that, and I remind myself if I can quit porn, booze, pot, coke, and all the rest then surely I can quit smoking too. But I’m on edge. I don’t want to turn into that Cunty Love Duck, the insane woman who cries at the drop of a hat because of stupid nicotine withdrawl, who fills her belly on sweet delicious things like cupcakes, trying to find some new high (and if you haven’t noticed I’ve REALLY cut down on the cupcake intake…. was getting a bit out of control there…), nervous I won’t feel like a complete person without my twenty little friends beside me. Insane. I know. But these are feelings… not facts.
I’m excited about not being stinky. About not spending money on something that literally smokes itself into oblivion. To go through the day without coughing, hacking, spitting (unless of course I really want to spit), and needing to “step out for a smoke.” I’m excited to be taking this new healthy way of living to the next step. It doesn’t make sense for me to not drink/drug/fuck randomly and still poison my body with lethal little bastards. Little fucking bastards.
I’m in denial about the whole thing and I’ll be the first to admit it. April 6th will never come. I can smoke forever and never experience any of the consequences. Smoking isn’t hurting me. They are my friends. When I quit it will be as easy as walking away from a bottle. Or a line. Or porn. BULLSHIT BULLSHIT BULLSHIT. Quitting porn is the hardest thing I’ve ever done and I have a feeling this will be even more difficult.
I’m sad because I feel, in this slightly sick way, they actually are my friends. That somehow, they’ve done something for me for the past 11 years aside from making me cough and short of breath. I’m also sad to have invested so much of my time into something so dumb. It’s just dumb. Intellectually I know this. Emotionally, talk about connected. These little bastards have run their fingers in every aspect of my life. From morning coffee to a goodnight puff, and I’m sad because I feel like I’m losing another piece of the ridiculous identity I prided myself on creating. I’m sad because it won’t be easy. Because I’m totally addicted. Because this calls for a huge lifestyle change, and not something which can take place over night.
I’m happy because I’ll have more time. More time to spend with friends, more time to work out, more time to write and paint, and breathe and live. More time to live. And I’m happy because I (hopefully) won’t get lung cancer, or some other terrible smoke related disease. I’m happy because I get to quit before they kill me. I’m happy because it means I’ve completed my first year in recovery, just as I intended upon doing, and year two will be even better because it will be smoke free. And I’m really happy I won’t smell like an ashtray.
I’m pissed off that it’s not easy. Pissed off I’m so addicted, I’m experiencing some low level anxiety a week before it even goes down. Pissed I have to carry cut off straws to distract my hands and mouth, and that THIS is what it’s come to. I’m pissed I want to use the patch. I’m pissed I don’t think I can quit cold turkey. I’m pissed that I’m losing my tubular buddies and they have been trying to kill me for years. I’m pissed I didn’t do this sooner.
I’m worried I will stumble. And fall.
I’m relieved it’s over. And I can move on.
One seven minute increment at a time.