Quitting Smoking: Eleven Months Today

I smoked my last cigarette late New Year's Eve, December 31, 2011. Technically, it may have been closer to two in the morning on January 1^st, 2012, but I hadn't gone to bed yet, so I think calling it December 31^st is fair game. Eleven months ago. Wow.

For folks who want to quit and are looking for inspiration, I have the traditional good news/bad news. I successfully quit: good news. I'm still out of breath when I walk; I waited too long to quit: bad news. I never cheated: good news. I want a cigarette every hour of every day: bad news. I saved $1650: good news. I neither saved nor did anything meaningful with that money: bad news.

When I was a smoker and wanted to stop, I looked to success stories for magic talismans of wisdom to ward off the demon Nicotine. Brush your teeth often, they said. Drink lots of water. Chew gum instead. Use patches or nicotine gum. Use smokeless cigarettes. Behavior modification is the key, they claim. Paint your walls, have your furniture professionally cleaned, remove all traces of nicotine from your environment.

I'm pretty sure I did none of those things.

I just suffered through withdrawal every time I wanted to smoke and made a conscious decision: Nope, not gonna smoke THIS cigarette THIS time. I breathed instead. Sometimes I pretended to smoke -- not with my hands -- but I drew the invisible smoke deeply into my lungs and held it, imagining it was there. I exhaled it long and slow. I consciously relaxed my body and let the tension out with the “smoke.” And it worked for me.

But then again, eleven months later I find I still want to smoke a cigarette. And then again, again, I successfully stopped smoking cigarettes. So did I succeed, or fail?

[SMOKING TRIGGER WARNING – Text in yellow] I miss the ritual of turning the pack over and over in my hands, feeling its smooth fullness. Tapping it to pack the tobacco more tightly. I miss the feel of the cellophane wrapper. I miss peeling the little string, the cling of the top, having to shake it loose into the waste basket. I still envision opening the foil – I never tore mine off; I peeled back two triangles so I could refold the top and keep the tobacco bits from spilling out of the pack.

I miss tapping the closed top of the pack against my left hand until the first virgin cigarettes pop their white heads out into the air free at last, free at last, thank God almighty! I always chose the center-most cigarette, the one in the “middle” for good luck. Ha. Good luck cigarette, what a concept. Anyway, I digress.

After selecting my cig, I would feel its fullness and appreciate it. Put it to my lips and flick my lighter, watch as the two joined, and pull the heat up into and through. I enjoyed the smoke entering my mouth and traveling down my bronchial tubes, entering my lungs. I never was a really deep lung smoker; I pretty much smoked about down to where the bronchus splits.

But I did smoke for over forty years, and I smoked a lot. I smoked from the moment I woke up until the instant before I went to bed. The past few years, I'd say an average of a pack and a half a day, although when I did the math savings, I calculated a single pack.

Then there was the actual smoking ritual itself. For some reason, this is not as vivid to me. But I know I enjoyed it. I don't even want to try and remember it, honestly. It's like missing an old lover – or, to be silly, “old flame.” To quote the lyrics from “The Way We Were,” What's too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget. Let's just say I enjoyed smoking, and I miss it, and to be perfectly honest if I could still breathe, I would still smoke.

Call me recalcitrant [I just Googled “recalcitrant” to be sure that was the exact word I wanted, and skimmed over the following sentence which triggered a wander down Giggle Lane: Under Potty Training Refusal – even recalcitrant stoolholders respond within two months. I bet that's a long, HARD two months . Sorry. I realize scatalogical humor is iffy at best.

I am glad I don't smoke now. I prefer not to smell cigarette smoke, but it doesn't disgust me. Sometimes it's enjoyable. I haven't kissed anyone who smokes (yet) and I'm curious how that will go. I know that when someone enters my car who's just put out their cigarette, that it's a little intense for a moment or two, but tolerable and soon passes. I am thankful I didn't become one of those former smokers for whom the slightest whiff of smoke triggers a gag reflex or other strong aversion reactions because many of my friends and family are smokers.

This is not real positive and encouraging, and I apologize. I almost feel as if I should fib and get on the bandwagon with all those other people I read and hear about and say I feel ten times better and stronger and healthier. But that's not me. I waited too long to quit. I feel pretty much like I did before I quit, except I don't cough nearly as much now. And that's good. But it's not great.

In summary, I am thankful I was able to stop. I am grateful I did not resume smoking. I urge you to stop NOW before it's too late. Do what it takes. There must be dozens of methods – find the one that will work for you. For me, going from one crutch to another was not the answer; I know I have an addictive personality. For you, it may be the panacea you seek.

Every cigarette you skip is a good one. Don't hate yourself if you light up again. Don't consider the process destroyed – just smoke that one and quit all over again. There's always a next time (till there's not, but that's another story and you won't have to deal with quitting then anyway). I will say that the excuse/rationale of smoking so you don't gain weight is ridiculous. Gain a little weight. You can lose weight later; you can't always regain lung function. Just sayin'. Lung function wins, hands down, every time.

Bottom line: Be good to yourself. Treat yourself with respect. Do the best you can and be loving and forgiving with you. If you are able to quit, more power to you. If not, there'll always be another cigarette to skip. Good luck. I love you. ~~ Ginger

PRIORITIES

*Language*


I meant to pick up cigarettes at the grocery yesterday, but I forgot and by the time I got home, it was too late to go back out. The neighborhood's gone downhill, if you know what I mean. I held off until five this morning and couldn't stand the nicotine fit another minute. Pulled on some sweat pants and drove over to the One-Stop. Around here, it's called Da Sto'.

I should've known better than to get out when I noticed the man swigging out of a half-pint whiskey bottle. A sign on the storefront read "It is a crime (misdemeanor) to consume alcoholic beverages on these premises." But I needed cigarettes and figured I could buy them and scurry back to my car in less than a minute. Nothing else was open yet.

Four men stood in a clump inside the store, not really in line but not shopping either. I hurried to the counter and waited to be acknowledged. The clerk warily watched the group of men. They were shifting now, splitting like a cell about to divide.

"I need a pack of Basic menthol light 100s, please. The light green, long ones."

The clerk ignored me. I glanced over my shoulder. The clump had mitosed and become two pairs of men. One pair moved toward the liquor section. 

"I'd like one pack of Basic menthol light 100s and I'm in kind of a hurry." I held up a five-dollar bill so the clerk could see I was ready to pay him. I noticed a sign over his shoulder. "You must be at least 21 years of age to purchase beer or wine." 

The clerk bent over and reached under the counter, keeping his head in sight.

The two men near the counter split – one dashed up and shoved me out of the way.

I slammed into a snack chip display before I hit the floor. Frito-Lay products rained down on me. I wondered if my hip was broken. I heard a voice. "Give me your fucking drop cash. All of it. Don't hit no fuckin' alarm either, motherfucker." 

The two men near the back had disappeared. I covered my head with my arms.

"No problem, man. Be cool, it's all good. I can't open the drop cash box. Take the register money, okay?" The clerk's voice was high and wavery. I thought he might cry.

"Shut the fuck up! Put it in the bag, motherfucker. Put those cigarettes in there too." The cash drawer rang open. Coins pinged on the floor. I heard items being stuffed into recyclable plastic bags. "Don't look at me, fucker. Look away if you know what's good for you." 

Damn, I need a cigarette.

I heard crashing, glass broke. Fluids gurgled out. The door banged open and running footsteps faded away. Cautiously, I peeked between my forearms. "Are they gone?" 

The clerk finally answered me. "Yeah. I'm calling the law."

As I crawled to my feet, I repeated, "Can I have a pack of…"