I guess I’ve been a tad dishonest. I have fallen in love before.
It was still a co-dependant relationship and nothing about it is healthy, and I’m still often taken back to the days of first feeling those head-over-heels thoughts. But there’s still a lot of hurt and anger and resentment about this relationship I’m speaking of.
I love smoking.
I hate it.
It’s been good to me; it’s been hell on my wallet and my future health.
I’ve tried to quit a bunch of times and my heart wasn’t in it. I’ve gone mental, when trying to erase those little torture devices from my day to day, taking a drug that has worked for everyone I’ve known that’s tried it. It made me so all-over-the-place that within a week, I knew I had to wean myself from it.
I honestly didn’t even quit when I was pregnant. At first, I wasn’t allowed to. High risk pregnancy, heart issues, a history of losing eight other babies – all reasoning for two doctors to tell me not to quit, because it would place too much strain upon the developing Isobel. I was instructed on how to cut back from a pack a day habit to five or less cigarettes within a 24-hour period, over a few months’ period. Get that? 20 to 5, but I had to take months to narrow them down.
I did good. Then my dad was dying. And food and lack of caffeine and smoking less went out the window. I blame myself and those cigarettes I smoked for the duration of the last trimester for her colic. I blame him, honestly. Like I need more things to pin on my father, but yes, I pin that one on him, too.
But over the past month or so, I’ve been smoking less, unintentionally. And this is a good thing, really. This gets me a tad excited, how I used to need to buy a pack every 36 hours and now, it’s every three or four days. This makes me think that maybe, inadvertently, I’m naturally giving them up.
I’ve smoked, in total, for 13 years. I started when I was 12, quit when I was 15, and started again on the day that Rockstar Ex and I broke up, when I was 19. Smoking is what, if you believe more in science than karma, killed my father. Smoking is what could kill me one day.
Yet I love it. I’m in love with it. And I don’t want to break up with smoking.
And I have three really really really good reasons.
What the hell would I do during time outs? And what if I gained a bunch of weight? And really, the major one: I wouldn’t be a cool kid, anymore.


