It’s February of 2009 and I am staring at a cigarette neatly arranged on the table in front of me, next to my coffee cup, an ashtray and a lighter. I have been smoking since I was seventeen when I worked at the phone company opting for a smoke break rather than having a candy bar out of the vending machine. At the time, it seemed the better choice. I could see the results of the candy bars. So I find myself thirty-eight years later sitting here, in the grips of this brainless habit, ready so smoke my last cigarette. This is far from my first attempt, but I was determined it would be my last.
I am baffled at my willingness to search couch cushions, pockets and scour the floorboards of my car for enough loose change to buy a pack. I love to smoke. I have no desire to quit, but when the price of a carton went up to forty dollars I knew it was time to throw away my lighters. Smoking trumps logic. Money was the issue. Health was not.
What follows is the diary of this journey and what I learned along the way.
11:00 a.m., February 12, 2009
Quitting was a decision I struggled to make all the way up to the last cigarette I had this morning- with five dollars burning a hole in my pocket, I was ready to jump in the car and get just one more pack, trying to convince myself that I wasn’t ready yet. This is when
I discovered two committees that had taken up residence in my cerebral cortex. For all practical purposes I shall name them the “Atta-girl” committee and the “Smoke ’em if you got ’em” committee, shortened to SEIYGE for character conservation.
Now while acknowledging these voices might seem borderline schizophrenic, I needed the company of half of this committee to help get me through this daunting challenge.
The “Atta-girl” committee assured me that the stores will always be there, and they will always have cigarettes to sell. One of these stores is less than one minute from the house. Just in case I go into some kind of shock, it will be within a very few minutes before reviving myself with nicotine inhaled resuscitation.
So, I opted not to spend the five dollars and plow through this thought, setting up this little ceremony at the kitchen table, smoking my last cigarette right down to the paper filter, and then some. What happened next is nothing short of insane.
I started to cry like I was losing my best friend. Hysterical crying.
Next, I got angry and started yelling, pacing around the house, staring. My eyes went crossed. I couldn’t think. I hyperventilated. I walked aimlessly from room to room. I couldn’t concentrate. This was the first five minutes.
I decided on the recommendation of the “Atta Boy” committee, to find another avenue to indulge my edgy nature. I decided to write about this experience and see where it goes.
I am on my second piece of nicotine gum, and its 1:30 p.m.. So far I haven’t killed anybody.
Its 2:30 and I’m getting all weird and nervous. Anxious. If there were cigarettes here, I would easily be able to rationalize having one. I’m even angrier for doing this to myself. Smoking in the first place, I mean. Putting myself in this position
Its 3:50 and the last hour has been a little tense. I’ve already scoured the bottom of the garbage can for any butts, and checked all my coat pockets and old purses for a stray cigarette. No luck. After the frantic search, I seemed to calm down a little. I will wind up repeating this idiotic routine at least a dozen more times before I’m convinced that I didn’t overlook anything.
