Monday, 17 November 2014

Stog Log - Day 1:


Like microscopic gremlins, I feel as though I’m being chewed at over & over, from the inside out.  I’m consistently forced to remind myself to relax my shoulders & neck; they seem to find their natural state all bunched together, waiting for the “relief” that isn’t coming.  The cerebral “Let’s Make A Deal” game show host is proposing all manner of philosophical angles that come in the form of pangs [fully formed contractual offerings that occur to me in a fraction of a second].  I keep reaching for them, going to their usual ideally chosen spot, & every time I’m genuinely aghast that they’re not there [like they’ve been stolen], coupled with both self-loathing, disappointment & an uncomfortable obligatory resolve.  Every single time I sit back down in my desk chair, I’m prompted to facilitate further “relaxation”. 
I have resolved to quit smoking.  A notion, that in 27 years, I’ve only entertained in jest.  I was never one of those people who’d buy a pack at a time, as if to designate that single pack as their possible last pack.  No, I’d buy cheap & in bulk; I never wanted to expend any mental energy on where my next smoke was coming from.   Having an abundant supply meant never having to worry about letting one turn to ash in the tray, while I tended to other matters.
               I’m pretty much using Yoda’s mantra, “Do or do not, there is no try.”  As I’ve never tried before, this seemed appropriate.  At this point, I’ve thought about quitting since my heart attack in mid-August 2013; but, I’ve also run through the gamut of attitudes.  I’ve gone from: Double up, so that my heart just explodes & all this is just done with for good; to where I’m at now, figuring out the full force & extent of my will & its power.
Psychosomatically, I feel like a slow churning cement mixer full of razor-ribbon & fiberglass insulation.  Armed only with the notion that this horrible & unyielding feeling will diminish with each passing moment, I find myself exhausted.  It’s only 10:50AM & I’m ready for a nap [or a smoke – ha ha ha – yeah, not funny!].
Philosophically, my ducks are in a row; sound, determined ducks.  There isn’t a crumb of tobacco in my apartment.  I gave my ex-roommate every piece of cigarette related paraphernalia: loose tobacco, rolling tubes, ashtrays & cubes… even the stuff I don’t use, if it was connected to smoking, it had to go.  I’ve been gearing up with the maxim, “It’s over”, as if to assure myself this is an inevitability, something that was predestined to happen, and now it’s time has come.  Addiction is complex & convoluted, simple & definite thoughts seem like the only way to block an adversary that will use every sneaky tactic in the book to snake its way back in.
In the preceding week, I came to recognize that there are only Pros for stopping smoking & Cons for not quitting.  There are no Pros for the continuation of smoking [other than to feed addiction], as there are no Cons for quitting.  In the end I’ll be richer & healthier.  I’ll feel better, look better, smell better [both of what I can smell & how I smell].  My clothes won’t stink, my walls won’t be coated in resin, my kitties will be free of 2nd hand smoke; the list goes on, & it will, more tomorrow…

1 comment:

  1. FUCK, I just typed a fuckin 20 minute fuckin message and it did'n register!WTF?