A long, long time ago, back before I was living la vida mommy, I was a smoker. Why is it embarrassing to admit that? Issues, I got ’em.
Anyway, about eleven years ago, give or take a few months, I had just opened a fresh pack of cigarettes and was enjoying my nicotine fix when all of a sudden, I was overcome with a wave of nausea. I quickly extinguished the sucker, got a drink of water and all was well.
A short time later, I reached for a cigarette, lit up, had a few puffs, and boom! Back came the queasies. By now I was convinced that I had a bad pack of cigarettes. Annoyed, I tried a new pack. Same deal. I even switched brands. No go. Every single puff from every single cigarette made me ill. Even the smell was making me nauseated.
Soon after, I found out I was pregnant with Matthew. Ohhhhhhh. Yep, quitting was really easy for me because pregnancy made me physically ill at the very thought of smoking. And for years after that, the smell was disgusting to me.
I have found that in times of extreme stress in my life, which incidentally have all been my mother having surgeries and health issues, I have craved cigarettes. So much so that I get a pack, smoke away the anxiety and then quit. Again. I don’t have a problem quitting. I usually don’t even finish the pack. I get sick of the stink and the phlegm and I’m over it. But I always seem to go to those damn things when I am in severe distress.
This past week was no exception. After what has had to be 7 or 8 years without a single puff, I found myself sucking on cigarettes to “ease the pain”. How dumb.
Six days of smoking and I noticed the lovely phlegm, scratchy throat, and just plain ick factor. Did it calm my nerves? Yes! Absolutely. But my brain was telling me with every puff what I was doing to myself. Finally I disgusted myself to the point of this:
At first I told myself that I would just stop and keep the leftover cigarettes for “next time”. But I knew that if I had them, ultimately they would get smoked. Did I really want that? No. So in a grand, dramatic gesture, as is my way, I ripped them up and threw them in the toilet. Out of sight out of mind.
I have an addictive personality, in runs in both sides of my family. Why can’t I be addicted to cleaning? Or exercise? Or something else productive and fabulous?
For now, I declare this habit dead once again. May it never show its expensive, nasty little butt again. (Do you see what I did there? Cuz I know I’m giggling.)