I’m saying goodbye to smoking, really and truly. As I write this, I haven’t had a cigarette in nearly 72 hours. I want one — oh, how I want one!
But I won’t do it. I’d have to go out and buy another pack, committing to another 20 cigarettes (because I’m not wasting that much cash on something I don’t consume!) And ultralights are so unsatisfying anyway. Apparently more satisfying than I had reckoned, though, given how much I want one just now.
I was down to about 3 cigarettes a day, mostly consumed in halves. I decided I just wouldn’t buy another pack. It was a tough weekend; my answer to quashing craving is smoking another substance entirely, which is working reasonably well. But it had been a fuzzy week already and I was trying to work over the weekend to catch up, and I’m not really moving very fast now either. Slow enough to worry myself.
I’m getting soft and lazy, I tell you. Plus showing pre-depressive symptoms, and therefore worrying incessantly about the October Slump. So, you know, multiple potential sources of distress and triggers.
Anyway, I meant to focus on the fact that I’m really and truly quitting smoking, even though I don’t exactly want to as much as I should. I can do it. I can. I know it, whether or not I feel up to it.
Write what you feel: terrified by the lurking sense of Armageddon and the constant gray skies and what happens every year at this time. Squeezed. Too slow, as though moving through Jell-O. For days, the clock has moved so slowly, but I can’t tell whether I’m moving slowly or quickly. Uneasy, always ducking the low, threatening clouds. Subdued, faded, worn down and out. Uncertain about everything, can’t quite care enough about anything. Worried.