Post by judyb on May 20, 2004 11:48:59 GMT -5
from as3, Feb99
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Magical Thinking...
After countless tries at quitting, I had a recurring thought--that one
night
I would go to bed, and the next morning wake up and not even want a
cigarette. I would just wake up not only cigarette-free, but a
non-smoker.
It would be wonderful--I could just imagine the whole thing, and
relished
the thought. I had heard so many times (at least it seemed like many
times)
of people who "put the cigarettes down and never thought about them
again".
(Not taking it into account that this was not really how it happened
for
this person, but it certainly sounded good) I kept waiting for it to
happen
to me. It didn't.
I went through many phases, many trials--many of them were attempts
under
the guise of seeing just how little I would have to do to insure a
successful quit, I can see that now..Just what I could get away with.
The ashtrays became full, with the frequent rings of ash surrounding
them.
There were so many butts, that sometimes when I took the garbage out
for
pick-up, I would become self-conscious of their number, and wondered
if the
garbage man would notice, and what would he think...
I noticed things that escaped my attention before, like in the
"Houses/Apts.
For Rent ads, ""No smoking"" requirements. In the ""Personals"" section"
of
newspapers, in ad after ad, the person advertised described themselves
boldly as "Non-Smoker", very pointedly expecting the same in the
persons
answering their ads. It was clear what the prevailing winds were.
Then came the planning for the quit. I decided what I needed was new
surroundings, that part of my difficulty was the same familiar
surroundings,
all those reminders. I'd make a plan that I'd quit at the beginning of
a
weekend trip to the coast, and I'd not take any cigarettes, and when I
came
home, I'd be a non-smoker.
But there'd be that stop at the first gas station on the road.
This sort of scenario would repeat itself many times.
I'd plan a quit date to co-incide with a visit with my grandchildren,
using
the non-smoking AmTrak as the beginning--it would be all so
perfect--I'd get
on the train, unable to cave, and arrive smoke-free, odor-free the
next day
to the home of my non-smoking son and daughter-in-law, and I wouldn't
have
to go outside, slinking around.
What greater motivation could a person have, if it wasn't their own
flesh
and blood? But the plan would be foiled with a half-pack of cigarettes
in
the pocket of my sweater, "just in case" as I boarded the train.
Then there'd be the plan of quitting on a Monday morning, upon
arriving at
work--the plan would be to enjoy the weekend, and have my last
cigarette on
the way to work. Work would keep me busy, I thought, and a good
non-smoking
environment, and my plan called for "doing something else" at
breaks--but
something else turned out to be bumming one from someone. It was
just too
easy to bum one.
The idea I liked the most, was to quit during a vacation--no stress--a
new
place, a new beginning, I thought. I imagined foreign travel--I could
just
picture the whole thing--but on thinking things though, the last thing
I
wanted to do on my vacation was to go through withdrawal, in another
language.
But I certainly liked the idea and played with it a lot.
I knew that my worst enemy was my mind--until I could see cigarettes
no
longer as my savior--I was vulnerable to anything. When I did reach
that
understanding, I felt I was ready for a real quit.
I saw that my earlier attempts were not only were made still under the
influence of cigarettes as being something that I would "give up", but
were
marked by stressful situations--visiting, travel, work--at least some
degree
of stress involved in all of them. They were all had one thing in
common--magical thinking.
And this quit I was going to give it everything I had. No stone left
unturned--no rationalizations, no equivocations would be allowed. I
had
started Prozac about a week earlier.
Then I planned the quit--I needed to come up with the lowest stress
environment I could. That meant in my home, my blankie, my tv. That
meant
as much time alone as I could muster. That meant the ability to nap,
watch
whatever tv *I* wanted.
A friction-less world in which to do battle. For at this time, I had
come
to see through all the notions I had about cigarettes--it was no
savior,
nothing good--just an addiction to a chemical I didn't need. A stupid
little useless addiction. Just leaves and me. Me and some leaves.
It was Sunday afternoon. The SO had left for the day. I had planned to
quit
at midnight, but the anxiety of putting it off that much longer, and
the
fear I might change my mind got me to quit early, at 5:30pm that
afternoon.
Yes, initially, I was fearful. Who wouldn't be after as many attempts?
But
after successfully going through a craving or two--certainly not very
long--my fears seemed to lessen. I was successfully enduring the
cravings--and getting empowered each time. I was not cringing in fear
or
loss or weakness or temptations--this was a duel to the death, and it
wasn't
going to be mine.
You see, instead of giving up my rescuer, my savior, I was trashing
the SOB.
And I never let him forget it. This was not a plea for mercy--it was a
taunt--a dare--a double-dare to the SOB monster. Never, never, had I
felt
more in control of myself, my world, my life, than those first three
days.
I had replaced fear with Pissed-ness. At times I felt I was almost
enjoying seeing
the SOB monster shivering with frustration. Sometimes it was almost
fun--because I knew this was one battle I was going to win, or die
trying.
After three days had passed, and I felt I just couldn't stand another
moment
of the battle, when I experienced that first interval of relief. And I
knew
there would be many more of those, and less of the urges. There was
light
at the end of the tunnel for me, but not for the slimy SOB.
I had remained at home on my turf for the three-day battle, except for
two
brief excursions for more chocolate and supplies. On one of those I
misplaced my car in the vast expanses of a Walmart parking lot. But it
didn't phase me. I had my marching orders. And it was wonderful.
Keep your eyes on the prize,
Roadkill
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Magical Thinking...
After countless tries at quitting, I had a recurring thought--that one
night
I would go to bed, and the next morning wake up and not even want a
cigarette. I would just wake up not only cigarette-free, but a
non-smoker.
It would be wonderful--I could just imagine the whole thing, and
relished
the thought. I had heard so many times (at least it seemed like many
times)
of people who "put the cigarettes down and never thought about them
again".
(Not taking it into account that this was not really how it happened
for
this person, but it certainly sounded good) I kept waiting for it to
happen
to me. It didn't.
I went through many phases, many trials--many of them were attempts
under
the guise of seeing just how little I would have to do to insure a
successful quit, I can see that now..Just what I could get away with.
The ashtrays became full, with the frequent rings of ash surrounding
them.
There were so many butts, that sometimes when I took the garbage out
for
pick-up, I would become self-conscious of their number, and wondered
if the
garbage man would notice, and what would he think...
I noticed things that escaped my attention before, like in the
"Houses/Apts.
For Rent ads, ""No smoking"" requirements. In the ""Personals"" section"
of
newspapers, in ad after ad, the person advertised described themselves
boldly as "Non-Smoker", very pointedly expecting the same in the
persons
answering their ads. It was clear what the prevailing winds were.
Then came the planning for the quit. I decided what I needed was new
surroundings, that part of my difficulty was the same familiar
surroundings,
all those reminders. I'd make a plan that I'd quit at the beginning of
a
weekend trip to the coast, and I'd not take any cigarettes, and when I
came
home, I'd be a non-smoker.
But there'd be that stop at the first gas station on the road.
This sort of scenario would repeat itself many times.
I'd plan a quit date to co-incide with a visit with my grandchildren,
using
the non-smoking AmTrak as the beginning--it would be all so
perfect--I'd get
on the train, unable to cave, and arrive smoke-free, odor-free the
next day
to the home of my non-smoking son and daughter-in-law, and I wouldn't
have
to go outside, slinking around.
What greater motivation could a person have, if it wasn't their own
flesh
and blood? But the plan would be foiled with a half-pack of cigarettes
in
the pocket of my sweater, "just in case" as I boarded the train.
Then there'd be the plan of quitting on a Monday morning, upon
arriving at
work--the plan would be to enjoy the weekend, and have my last
cigarette on
the way to work. Work would keep me busy, I thought, and a good
non-smoking
environment, and my plan called for "doing something else" at
breaks--but
something else turned out to be bumming one from someone. It was
just too
easy to bum one.
The idea I liked the most, was to quit during a vacation--no stress--a
new
place, a new beginning, I thought. I imagined foreign travel--I could
just
picture the whole thing--but on thinking things though, the last thing
I
wanted to do on my vacation was to go through withdrawal, in another
language.
But I certainly liked the idea and played with it a lot.
I knew that my worst enemy was my mind--until I could see cigarettes
no
longer as my savior--I was vulnerable to anything. When I did reach
that
understanding, I felt I was ready for a real quit.
I saw that my earlier attempts were not only were made still under the
influence of cigarettes as being something that I would "give up", but
were
marked by stressful situations--visiting, travel, work--at least some
degree
of stress involved in all of them. They were all had one thing in
common--magical thinking.
And this quit I was going to give it everything I had. No stone left
unturned--no rationalizations, no equivocations would be allowed. I
had
started Prozac about a week earlier.
Then I planned the quit--I needed to come up with the lowest stress
environment I could. That meant in my home, my blankie, my tv. That
meant
as much time alone as I could muster. That meant the ability to nap,
watch
whatever tv *I* wanted.
A friction-less world in which to do battle. For at this time, I had
come
to see through all the notions I had about cigarettes--it was no
savior,
nothing good--just an addiction to a chemical I didn't need. A stupid
little useless addiction. Just leaves and me. Me and some leaves.
It was Sunday afternoon. The SO had left for the day. I had planned to
quit
at midnight, but the anxiety of putting it off that much longer, and
the
fear I might change my mind got me to quit early, at 5:30pm that
afternoon.
Yes, initially, I was fearful. Who wouldn't be after as many attempts?
But
after successfully going through a craving or two--certainly not very
long--my fears seemed to lessen. I was successfully enduring the
cravings--and getting empowered each time. I was not cringing in fear
or
loss or weakness or temptations--this was a duel to the death, and it
wasn't
going to be mine.
You see, instead of giving up my rescuer, my savior, I was trashing
the SOB.
And I never let him forget it. This was not a plea for mercy--it was a
taunt--a dare--a double-dare to the SOB monster. Never, never, had I
felt
more in control of myself, my world, my life, than those first three
days.
I had replaced fear with Pissed-ness. At times I felt I was almost
enjoying seeing
the SOB monster shivering with frustration. Sometimes it was almost
fun--because I knew this was one battle I was going to win, or die
trying.
After three days had passed, and I felt I just couldn't stand another
moment
of the battle, when I experienced that first interval of relief. And I
knew
there would be many more of those, and less of the urges. There was
light
at the end of the tunnel for me, but not for the slimy SOB.
I had remained at home on my turf for the three-day battle, except for
two
brief excursions for more chocolate and supplies. On one of those I
misplaced my car in the vast expanses of a Walmart parking lot. But it
didn't phase me. I had my marching orders. And it was wonderful.
Keep your eyes on the prize,
Roadkill