I’ve quit smoking. I’m now on Day Five, and it sucks, really, really badly. I can’t imagine anything more physically uncomfortable or mentally excruciating. It is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I sit here trying to type, but all I can think about is the smoke that’s lacking. So I think of things less painful, like sticking a knife into my temple. Slowly, so I can enjoy it.
Every swallow of beer causes some level of anguish. Sure, I want the beer – that’s not going to change – but I don’t want that after-taste, that taste that’s just screaming for a drag to make it whole.
(I could give up the fight. But Allen Carr tells me I’m not even supposed to be fighting. He says there’s absolutely nothing to give up! Hah! How silly of me to be thinking otherwise!)
My discomfort has stretched past the painful now, reaching a terminal monotony that has me glumly fantasizing about rolling up one last smoke while I prepare the noose.
I’m long-time smoker, a heavy inhaler, and it was a full-time habit – witness that trapped look in my eyes, see my stained teeth and hands. I used to drive myself crazy at work, smelling that tarry goodness on my fingers, winding myself up until I could contain myself no longer. Somehow it helped my concentration – or seemed to – by breaking it, then making it, then breaking it again.
(An illusion, Allen says. All an illusion. Must keep this ailing brain well-washed)
It’s now Day Six and the physical addiction is supposed to be gone. But how can it only be psychological now? So it’s just my brain after six days which is wanting to stick an ice pick into my eye? It’s really my brain doing that? How can that be?
That last sip of beer there just about killed me. Just as it was sliding down my throat there was this full-body need for fullness, wholeness, one-ness with self. There’s no one without the other. How can this non-smoking even be remotely possible? Please, someone, help me help myself. Load up that gun; pass me the cyanide; do something useful.
Allen Carr can go fuck himself. If this is the EASY WAY I’d hate to see the hard one. If you’re exceedingly stubborn (check) and actually loved smoking (check) then what are you supposed to do? The very problem with Allen Carr is that he tries throughout that stupid book of his to convince me that I didn’t enjoy it. Sorry Allen, I did – I genuinely did enjoy smoking. In fact, I fucking LOVED it. I knew this long before I quit and knew it would make for a difficult time. But there’s no help from bullshitting dead-from-lung-cancer Allen, no-siree, cause he’s positive I didn’t enjoy it. Well fuck you, Mr. Carr. I’m glad you’ve helped so many people stop smoking, but you’re wrong. Getting out of this duplicitous agreement I’ve been living with for so many years is going to take a little more than telling myself even more lies.
Oh, I would smoke one of those beauties right now. Nice fresh Drum, rolled slowly and with care. And just happily smoke away until the ship sinks under me…
I loved smoking, but I hated what it did to me. I can’t even climb a flight of stairs anymore without worrying about a heart attack. What kind of a life is that? I have a family now, and I love them dearly. But I fucking love smoking too. Tough shit, eh? These thoughts need to be answered. Sometimes you gotta choose what’s important.
Allen Carr’s instructions state specifically not to use any form of nicotine replacement therapy. This, I think, has made it more difficult that it had to be; but at least now I don’t have to spend months trying to get off the gum, the lozenges, the patches.
It’s Day Eight. I’ve now been through a whole week of this torture. But the longer I go the more I realize how important it is that I succeed. I do not want to go through this again, not next month, not next year, not ever. There’s no point in going through all this and then just giving in.
Suicide no longer interests me in the same way it did earlier in the week. Now I want to hurt things. I want to hit and kick and pummel. It’s tiresome keeping it all for myself. But I won’t hurt my wife, nor my boy… how about my cats? Maybe I can get away with just a bit more of my loving torment than usual. Like strangling them until their eyeballs start to bulge and their throats twitch and pulsate. Their back paws start making pathetic defensive gestures, but they are getting weaker and weaker, and their eyes start glazing… um, wait. It’s still just fantasy at this point, right? Fantasies about killing my kittens?
Ah fuck.
To help allay my depression I bought a video game. I couldn’t immediately figure out this one particular section so I just wandered around the game’s landscape for awhile. I found a nice oak tree with some shade, away from the melee, so I sat myself down for a rest. I still heard the screaming in the distance, but in my immediate space things were tranquil. I sat for a minute, enjoying the summer afternoon, but then, in a flash of inspiration, I dropped all my grenades at once – right at my feet. Big bang! And there’s me, all torn to shreds on the grass. What a hoot! So I kept at it, trying more and more creative and violent ways to kill myself, but the more satisfying it became, the more I wanted a smoke. It’s like that with everything good. One satisfying moment begets another, and a moment is nothing good without a smoke.
I think I’m going a bit nutso. I didn’t think I would get nasty but I have zero patience at the moment. My boots just got a kicking cause they looked at me the wrong way. The thing is, I hadn’t even realized they were looking at me, let alone me caring about it one way or the other. Then all of a sudden I’m in a rage.
I think I’m doing ok with Bruce but I’ve noticed my wife is now choosing the chair nearest the door.
My soul is on a plate but the plate has been left fouled at the bottom of the pile for months now so it’s stinking something rotten. And so the writing of this requires a pause here and there, n’est ce pas? A wee moment to roll it up while the words form. A drag or two to incubate that bon mot. The writer lets the smoker roll up another of those beautiful little cancerous muses; the smoker obliges, lights her up and inhales like we’re getting through some kind of crisis. But maybe the words start coming, and so it’s back into the overfilled ashtray, and now life can go on as it should until the next dragful moment. How in the hell can I ever make it work without this ritual? How can I ever feel alive and effective without it?
I understand how shit it is, the smoking – how it ruins me. This is no way to go about life, especially now that I’ve got a young family wanting me to stay around a few more years. Yet at the same time I know I can be happy and so me if I just allow those evil smoking instincts to take ahold. I will go with thee, and gladly.
Bullshit.
It’s all bullshit.
Day Nine.
And now I find the things that used to just make my lip curl, or my feet clench, or just make me type these keys that much harder – these minor irritants are starting to hurt my knuckles. I must be careful with myself, walk quietly, whisper. Maybe wear a helmet. I’m not trusting my fists.
Day Ten.
This is easy! No problem! Now, can I have a fucking smoke please? This is getting ridiculous. This depression has taken hold again; the violence interalized. Instead of sparkling eyes and boundless energy I am cloaked with a listless emptiness. I have lost something very dear to me, and I am missing it profoundly. The usual bright spots in my life – my wife, my boy, my bike – these are still lovely but are no longer punctuated, italicised, underlined.
Day Fifteen
Surely day fifteen is a magic day. It is getting easier – or, more precisely – less difficult. I had my first genuine moment of pleasure today when I realised I was a non-smoker. I think some part of me was still just taking a test-drive down this evil path, and maybe I’ve finally realized that this really is my choice. The three weeks – the hardest bit, they say – is almost over.
This Train is for Gourock 