Why was I so afraid? What was I so afraid of? What was it that terrified me so much about quitting smoking?
I had gotten to the point where the thought of quitting, or even cutting-back , felt like a threat to who "I was"--a smoker. I would literally break out into a sweat at the thought of being without my cigarettes. I loved smoking; I hated smoking! Don't we all? It really is a love-hate relationship after all.
Quitting smoking seemed like an impossible dream--one that would never belong to me. I didn't know how to quit. And so I feared quitting and continued taking the "easy road" (actually it was the "hard road"), smoking my way to an early death.
This relationship persisted for years. I hated cigarettes, and I cursed them for MAKING ME love them so much. And so, I went on smoking--quitting, always on my mind. Every now and then, a family member would give me a hard time about smoking. They would ask me when I planned to try to quit again. Can you guess what my response would be? I would immediately go have another cigarette (even if I had just finished one). I was completely terrified to quit and thinking about it just "stressed me out", making me smoke more--one of my classic excuses not to quit.
What was I so afraid of? I was fearful of feeling lost, incomplete, crazy, out-of-control without my "sickorettes". Besides, I "knew" I could not live without my cigarettes (this almost seems funny to me now--if it weren't so sad).
However, in order to appease others, I would attempt yet another one of my famous half-hearted "quits"--You know, the "quits" where you are just "white-knuckling" it the whole time. Always, knowing that it was just a matter of time before I would go and sneak a ciggie behind their backs and eventually start smoking again.
My quits would go a little something like this: I would usually "hang in there" for a few days. Then, around day 2 or 3, I would start feeding the fuel for my typical "I AM going to smoke, no matter what" attitude. It would usually lead to me throwing a temper tantrum, even threaten to kill myself. I would do whatever it took to get the "green light" to have a smoke. Sometimes it took a few hours, sometimes a few days--but I always got my way (well, I didn't really, but the cigarette companies sure did).
I really wanted to quit dammit. Yet, here I was smoking again, feeling worse about it than ever before. Feeling worse even than when I was miserable without a cigarette while "white-knuckling" it through the quit.
After over a dozen of those "quits", I got fed up of feeling defeated. I got tired of being tired. I no longer wanted to "think" about quitting--I hated having that hanging over my head all the time. That is when it finally happened. That was the day when I stopped being scared. Well, scared of quitting smoking anyway. That day, I decided to no longer fear "quitting" and decided to embrace "gaining".
Ten days into my "gain" I have discovered a new fear. It often comes to me in the form of a nightmare--when I am defenseless to fight. The nightmare begins as I see images of cigarette packs, sometimes half empty, sometimes full--still sealed with pretty cellophane wrappers and gold easy-to-open tabs. It shines and shimmers. It taunts me, it toys with me, it lures me in, and I am hypnotized. I want it, but I just can't seem to get to the pack. Something is always in my way, stopping me as I try to grab the pack. I am irritated by this nuissance, this person in the shadows, who won't let me get to my precious "smokes". I try to get to the pack one last time, but the shadowy figure reappears, snatching the pack before me. That was when I finally got a good look at that darn thug. Well, you are never going to believe who that "thug" was--it was ME!!!
