Entries Tagged 'Addiction' ↓

I started smoking when I was 12.

I quit for a while when I was with the rockstar ex – sometimes I still snuck some, but for the most part, I was attached to him and the fact that he would leave me if I smoked (or drank, or did drugs. Ahem.) meant more to me than appearing a bad-ass. I bought my first new pack the day we broke up. And a 26er and an 1/8th.

Anyway.

I’ve been happily smoking for the past decade. I even met The Ex, Isobel’s dad, because we bonded over cigarettes in the smoking area of the parking lot each of our warehouses shared.

Smoking’s done a lot for me: kept me thin, cut back on my appetite, gave me a low birth-weight baby who almost tore me a completely new one (just think, if I hadn’t smoked while I was pregnant, she would have been bigger, and then that 3rd degree tear might’ve been more severe)¹.

It’s also helped my horrible blood circulation, yellowed my teeth more than I can solely blame a history of bulimia and poor hygiene for, aided in the crow’s feet and forehead creases I see everytime I look in the mirror.

It killed my father – something that I’m not altogether unhappy about² – and it could do the same for me. Hopefully, my slate would be clean enough that no part of Isobel would get satisfaction watching me suffer if such a shitty fate were to befall me³.

Anyway.

Last night at 2:18am, I had my last cigarette.

This is the longest I’ve gone in a decade without one drag, puff or french kiss from the bum on the corner to suck the tobacco fumes from his lungs. I’m actually doing okay. The cravings haven’t been bad at all, and idleness is my only issue.

I think it’s because I’m attempting it for a completely different reason than I ever have before. And I’m using the patch.

I’m not quitting smoking because of my health. Or the health of my daughter (I think we both know I’m a little invested in that, once you get past the whole “smoked while pregnant” judgements you’re having).

It’s not to extend my life, or ensure that I can run a marathon, or that my bones stay strong, or decrease my risk of blood clot when going back on the pill (ps. I’ll never go back on the pill, FYI).

I’m not trying to or considering conceiving in a universe made up of reality, and I certainly don’t really give a shit about the colour of my lungs or my risk of heart disease.

And it’s not for the logical, either. It’s not because I’ve tallied how much money I could be putting into paying off debts or into Isobel’s education instead of buying smokes.

Plain and simple? I’m quitting because I’m vain.

I don’t want those fucking wrinkles. I want better teeth. I want to consider laser hair removal on like, 90% of my face and even if you think it’s an old wives’ tale, I blame smoking in part for the fine blonde hairs that cover every inch of it and the eating disorders for the rest of my body.

It’s a hassle, always having to remember to have enough smokes to last me through the night and into the morning until Isobel will be ready to leave the house – because I can’t run out at 11pm to get more if I run out. It sucks, having to rifle through my new purse that doesn’t have the perfect pocket for my pack and lighter like the old one did.

And the big ticket? I want a signature scent.

I used to have this friend, and any time you were around her, any time you went to her house, or anything she’d had around for a few days came into your space, you could smell her. She smelled of hippies, but in a soft, feminine way and just the scent catching you unaware could be incredibly soothing.

I want that. I want to walk into my apartment after a morning outside to smell my smell. I want people to link me with lavender and vanilla.

I need every nook of mine to scream good-smelling-girl, to replace that girl would was mocked in elementary school, called Smoky the Bear, because she always smelled of her father’s loose tobacco, the smoke of which he’d blow right into her face after taking a drag from his home-rolled aluminum foil pipe.

I don’t want to be that dirty child, anymore.

—————-
Now playing: Fiona Apple – Never Is a Promise
via FoxyTunes

As his hands slid up and down my back, scratching and circling and I stared into the distance at nothing, I wondered

what is he waiting for?

When his hands slid inside my shirt, I knew he wasn’t really waiting. Just nervous. While his fingers flexed and gripped parts of me that are usually reserved merely for gentle massages, and his tongue barely tasted the terrain that begs for deep exploration, I thought

why am I doing this?

I didn’t have an answer. I knew I’d been thinking about doing it for a while, plotting half-consciously, eyeing the merchandise, considering whether the prize would fit in my coat closet. But I didn’t know why. I knew that I was on automatic, that the program got rebooted the first moment that a lingering smile met my body, then face.

RidingYourWayToHappiness version 2.69 is an application with a lot of bugs in it. Eventually, with even occasional use, the end user is left frazzled, distracted and with a need for a complete memory wipe in the form of bourbon, vodka or whiskey. The cheap kind that burns your throat and the pictures in your head.

I’ve never wanted to be that girl, and time and again, I have been. The one that perceives an interest and walks her way into a lap so as to, what? Quench the oft-overwhelming self-hatred that speaks louder than any other personality facet. To silence the mantra

you are never good enough and you never will be, except for when you’re making some other person feel as if their shit is hot and you can’t resist it.

It sucks, being a slut.

I’ve been good, possibly you could call it, not fucking outside of the box. Waiting until there was a definitive maybe instead of an unspoken temporary. I don’t know why I might have backtracked, since I wasn’t facing a drought, weight gain or wrath of my father’s.

I shut down almost immediately. As I was pulling him into me, I was pushing him and myself away. This was purely a physical thing and there was no room for thoughts, feelings or sensitivity. The foreplay was unnecessary and the mind-play ahead of it was, too. The brain had been turned off long before his hands finally found their way into my bra. I think he needed to think that I needed him to talk and caress me; most have. But the whole time I was pondering

how much longer can I do this before his hands getting to know me means he knows too much? When will the award ceremony no longer be worth the pre-show?

I don’t kiss, you see. It’s too close. Too much. Too heavy a potential for tragedy and feelings, more than lust and less than marriage. I don’t kiss, you see.

But I did.

And then, dirty, ashamed, wondering why I fell off the wagon and when the next meeting was, and why my sponsor wasn’t calling me back, I walked. I walked for miles and simply breathed in one mouthful of tobacco-laden air after the next. I slipped into a place I used to when I was younger, an alternate reality wherein I am not myself, I’m putting on a show.

I shut down.

Because of that, because I didn’t simply address it within myself and make steps to correct it. Because I laughed off my indiscretion as simply that – an oops – because I thought that everyone stumbles and it’s okay that I did, too. There I was, merely a bit later, with my dress around my waist, my stilettos cha-chaing against the tiled floor, and unwilling to look at myself in the mirror as I bit my bottom lip harder with each successive climax. I wondered

who am I?