Why Quitting Smoking F*cking Sucks
Click to viewDon’t worry, I’m not going to turn this into a self-pitying explosion of emotion where I wallow in the wake of my own decision to stop smoking - at least, I think. This is just a little entry to let everyone in the internet world know what my close friends, co-workers, and everyone in a five foot radius around me already knows: I’m quitting and I’m feeling rather shitty at the moment.
It’s less about the fact that I don’t have nicotine in me and more about the fact that I can’t do something that I want to do simply because some douche bag had to go and prove that it is bad for you (especially if you have dormant tuberculosis ).
A friend who has quit (three times so she has to be an expert on the subject - right?) told me that I need something to distract my hands with. I picked carrots. I would have picked candy, but because my body sucks and can’t have gluten, finding a good candy replacement is hard. So, I have a zip lock bag full of fucking carrots. I can’t begin to explain how betrayed my mind feels when it needs a quick fix of nicotine and instead gets a kick of vitamin A.
I’m also probably the most anxious (and easy-going) person you will ever meet (I think the juxtaposition is what fuels my anxiety). Smoking kept me grounded. It gave me something to do - something to focus on. I could tap on the carton, roll the cigarette in my fingers, and when I felt particularly destructive, I could unroll that paper and watch 12 dollars worth of tobacco scatter around me as mothers push their children by me in a huff.
I also miss the people I met while smoking. How else would I have met those French porn directors, the triplets who shared a cat, or the man who told me: "When you try to light a cigarette, you never can. And when you find a cool kite, there is never any wind (Insight of homeless man with really big kite, and probably the best person I ever gave a smoke to).
The worst part is that I don’t become a raging wanker. I refuse to allow a (self-inflicted) decision to make me explode at tourists who don’t hold their umbrellas high enough or taxis that insist on almost running my foot over. I sit in my frustrated, carrot filled world, and roll my eyes. It’s bad enough having to be the person that asks, “Oh, does this have wheat in it?” at restaurants - now I have to be the person that says, “Oh, no thanks, I don’t smoke.”