July 14, 2014

It’s that time of year again where I blast my “I’m going to quit smoking!” trumpet. Doo doo-doo doooooo!

It’s funny to me–funny strange, not funny ha ha–that it was around this time last year I tooted that same trumpet. I quit smoking July 27th, 2013 and did fairly well with not smoking cigarettes, but did use a vaporizer, until roughly six months later.

It was an unseasonably warm day in January. I was on my way to go stay with my father for a then undetermined amount of time. I was stressed out. Unemployed since my return to Nebraska at the end of May ’13, I went crawling to my dad’s house, tail tucked between my legs…and a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.

I stopped to get gas before I left Lincoln and as I was at the counter waiting to pay for my fuel, the rows of boxes called to me again. Just this one pack, Erin. Smoke one or two and throw the rest of us away. Okay, cigarettes. Okay.

Obviously, that didn’t end well. Six months later, still smoking. Erin, you ignorant slut.
In the middle of May, when I got my health insurance back after dagnab near 18 months without, I went to the doctor because yay, health insurance! I was, of course, told to quit smoking because that is a doctor’s job. Then all this whirlwind of abnormal tests and massive, Japanese city destroying fibroids and one hysterectomy later, my doctor is still drilling into my head I should quit.

And I agreed.

I’ve been having some hormonal imbalances since my surgery and I visited with my doctor last week for that and another issue I was having. That’s when her lightbulb turned on. To help with both mood swings and to help me quit smoking, she prescribed Wellbutrin, which I’ve been on for a week.

And then, someone that I didn’t really think gave a hoot about me smoking expressed concern and that caught me off guard. It’s funny–strange again, not ha ha–that I have been told countless times from my parents and some friends that I need to quit, and my reply is always “yeah, I know. Where’s my lighter?” I guess this person was the final voice that needed to chime in to help me realize that I need to quit and please stick to it this time.

As mentioned a paragraph ago, I’ve been on the medication for a week, which is basically the building it up in my system week, and I have noticed a decrease in the need to smoke. And a very low tolerance for alcohol. I had one beer Saturday and not only did it taste terrible, but I thought I was going to be ill, as well. Neat!

I’m supposed to set a quit date within this next week and go from there. I hate this part. It sounds terribly overdramatic, but setting a quit date is like waiting for your own funeral, which is probably the worst analogy I’ve ever made, but hopefully you get the idea. How about this: pick a day where you can’t do this thing anymore. It’s a thing you kind of like to do, and you do a lot of it, but after this day, no more. And don’t be cranky about not being able to do this thing anymore.

And that’s another ridiculous thing–I don’t really like smoking. It hurts. I stink afterwards. No fooling, the fingernail on my index finger is stained from nicotine, as well as my already awful teeth. I just stopped and read what I just wrote and I’m laying here thinking, “what the shit, woman? Seriously? All that is horrible but yet you keep doing it?” I know, self! I don’t get it either!

I smoke because of two things: boredom and because I erroneously think it helps my stress. I am an idiot.

Of all the things a person can do to combat boredom and I choose something that is killing me. Great. Good idea, you dumb cunt. Here’s a dirty syringe; why don’t you just poke your finger with it. I’m sure nothing’ll happen to you. And the stress thing is bunkum, too.

Have I mentioned I’m an idiot yet?

I really want this time around to stick. I need it to. I started smoking regularly 5 years ago for a stupid reason and I have to let that go once and for all.

Thursday, July 17th is my day. Let’s see how it goes, shall we?

As always, thanks for reading.

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