... and nicotine patches.
Running out of cigarettes in the middle of the night used to be my biggest fear. I could not possibly imagine what I would do without them for an entire night of long hours, without holding the dry, thin, cylindrical object in my fingers, seeking comfort inhaling the bitter smoke. The idea that I might, one day, not be able to smoke was enough to drive me insane. And I mean INSANE. To the extent of calling a cab in the middle of the night and paying two dollars for a trip to the nearest kiosk to buy a one dollar pack of cigarettes (yes, prices in Armenia are still relatively cheap last time I checked, despite the US dollar losing its value against the local currency).
I buy cigarettes in cartons these days. Cheaper, more convenient, and the risk of running out is not as frequent. I have three packs of cigarettes left. A few days ago I told myself that once I’ve smoked them all, instead of buying a new carton, I’ll get a patch. A nicotine patch. I’m still uncertain when, why and more importantly how that idea came to me, but lately I have been thinking, that perhaps, one day I should stop smoking. That perhaps, one day, I could and would stop smoking. Even as I’m typing this, I don’t think I fully believe that in about three or four days I may stop smoking. Altogether. Hmmm.
The thing is, I’m not just addicted to those damn cigarettes. I like them. In fact, I love them. I love the taste. The bitterness. The process of lighting up, the first drag, inhaling, holding it in, exhaling. I even like the gross, nasty smell that sticks to my fingers long after I’ve smoked. I like those few minutes when even at my most distressed, I can distract myself and not think about anything. Just draw it in. And out. The serenity of it…
I also cannot quite imagine how I would continue doing my everyday things without them – it’s as much of a habit as it is an addiction. What do I do when I first wake up? When I drink coffee? When I’m listening to that one piece of music that simply has to go with a cigarette? What do I do when I’m sitting outside, writing. Or people watching. Or meditating. Or decompressing. Do I actually think that sticking a little patch soaked with a certain chemical to my skin is actually going to stop my cravings for a cigarette by simply giving me sufficient supply of nicotine so that I don’t go crazy? And bite somebody’s head off?
And more importantly, do I really think, and really believe, that I’m going to quit smoking? Really? REALLY?
Smoking has always been more than an addiction to me. I grew up in a traditional society where women who smoke are look down upon with dismay for reasons other than mere health concerns. They are often considered of questionable, if not altogether lose moral character. Smoking was my way to revolt, to refuse to conform and follow the rules of a society I could not quite identify myself, let alone accept and reconcile with. This was my way of asserting myself and standing up for my choices, even if this particular one was harmful and damaging to my health and possibly gave me a questionable reputation. At the same time, I used to be attracted to the dark aspect of it, and apparently had certain fascination with self-destructive behaviors. It surprises me that considering my compulsive and addictive nature, I never got into drugs and alcohol, never even tried to. I’d be just the type for a junkie, I’m sure. But I used to find it attractive - a dark, stick thin figure, an empty stomach, strong black coffee with no cream and sugar, and cigarettes. Lots and lots of cigarettes. And books. And notes. Scattered all over the place. And I pretty much lived that life for several years. And all these years I have fought battles for my rights to smoke. I’ve kicked off quite a few men who I’d date randomly and sporadically during my school years, who would as much as dare to hint that I stop smoking. There were also those who were less subtle and would tell me pointblank that they could not possible be seeing a woman who smokes. That an Armenian woman does not smoke. That women should not smoke. Period. I’d shrug my shoulders – your loss, now get lost. And continue smoking. Some of the worst fights in my previous relationship were about my smoking. It had gotten to the point of absurdity of me being forced to make a choice between cigarettes and the person I was with – the ridiculousness of the idea enough to throw me into blind rage. I stood my grounds, I defended my choice. I yelled and screamed. And broke dishes. And I continued smoking.
I’ve been smoking for almost ten years. I’ve always pictured myself as a woman who smokes. And drinks coffee. And smokes. Relentlessly. I’d go through a pack of cigarettes like it was a handful of peanuts and by the time the evening was over, my pack would be empty. I have spent endless nights awake, smoking, reading, writing. This time last year I had an entire month of doing nothing but stay at my mother’s apartment, try to eat well and figure out what I was going to do next. And chain-smoking from morning till night. Since then I have cut back considerably. For one thing, no more indoor smoking. No more smoke breaks every thirty minutes or so during my work hours. No more smoking in restaurants, even in tobacco capital, unless I’m sitting outside. And I no longer go to bars.
And now I’m thinking about quitting. In about three days I’m planning to stick a patch on myself in hopes that that little piece of whatever it is will substitute not only the nicotine to which I’m addicted, but everything else that smoking is for me. A habit, pleasure, distraction, comfort, my past, my memories… What's ironic, I’m not even sure if I want to quit. Well, that’s not quite true. I do want to quit, but the funny thing is, my reasons are far from all the reasons you'd think one would have, including the money i'd save and the obvious health concerns, which one would think should be a priority.
I more and more realize that this whole smoking thing has become a nuisance to me and the very few people who are around me these days. And of course they all have to be non-smokers. Even the guy who works at Phillip Morris is a non-smoker. Blah. Whatever. It’s only now and here in the States, that I have thought, for the fist time, about the discomfort that smoking can cause to non-smokers. It actually bothers me. But what bothers me more, is how much I have to go out of my way to make sure that I’m not suffocating anyone in at least twenty yard radius. When I’m surrounded by people, the fact that i have to wait to finally be able to snatch a moment and sneak out to smoke a cigarette, while feeling guilty the whole time, is humiliating. Making sure that there’s no one in the aforementioned twenty yard radius is just plain aggravating. Feeling constantly guilty and apologetic about my smoking is just as demeaning. It belittles me, and I rather not feel that way than go outside and smoke my damn cigarette. And as much as I continue saying that “It’s my thing. I love it. Let it go.” the constant bitching about my smoking is not going to stop. The funny thing is thought that the one person who is most discomforted by my smoking doesn’t bitch. And rarely says anything. But sometimes it’s even worse than loudly expressing disapproval. That way I can at least snap back, like I did in the past. And have extra motivation to stick to my guns. His silence is disarming. I can’t yell back. I can’t break dishes. And smoking no longer gives the satisfaction that it used to. All I can do is feel bad and guilty and make sure I washed my hands and brushed my teeth before I go back into the room where he is.
But the main reason for my trying to quit is that a few months back, out of sheer curiosity and in hopes of getting rid of pent up frustrations and anger, I started running. And now I’m really getting into it. And truly enjoying it. What amazes me most is that after all these years of self-abuse my body is still strong and capable enough to perform this physically and cardio-vascularly demanding activity. It stuns me that my tarred lungs still have the ability to last me for entire two, three and even four miles on my better days, at more or less decent speed, without having to stop. The high I get from rush of adrenaline and endorphins is magical enough to make me swear, while I’m in motion, to never smoke another cigarette in my life again.
Smoking and running generally don’t go together. It’s either one or the other. I’m at a point when I’m starting to like the latter more to try and stop the former. Do I actually believe that it’s going to work? I’m not sure. I am not as enthusiastic as I might sound in this post, but mainly because I’m skeptical by nature, especially when it comes to things immediately related to me. But then, most of the things that I’ve accomplished so far were driven by this skepticism combined with something else that sort of resembles curiosity. Depending on which one overshadows which determines the outcome. Or something along those lines. A mind trick of sorts, i guess. I have to admit that I’m just as curious about quitting as I’m skeptical. So there, I said it. I know I talked too much. But before I go…
I bought new running shoes today. Really fancy and expensive ones, named after me, to replace the shabby old pair that I’ve had since… high school. I can’t wait to I get them in the mail. Tomorrow I’m getting the patch, although I won’t stick it until Tuesday. I’m sure there will be rants and raves about the whole process, so please forgive me if I start getting on your nerves. I’ll try not to turn this into a full blown anti-smoking campaign. But this is my blog, god dammit. And this poor little thing has witnessed everything I once thought I ‘d never be able to do, from breakup of my marriage, to my full recovery, to grad school acceptance and now running. Maybe, well maybe, smoking will be one of these things.
