Turning Inside Out

[Ann]

Turning Inside Out

CelticCrone



"Even if you are on the right track, you'll get run over if you just sit there." -- Will Rogers



This is not my first attempt at quitting, but it is my last. In my previous attempts, I HOPED that would be the case, but I could never say unequivocally that I would never smoke again.

Before this, smoking cessation was something I imposed upon myself from the outside. It was an external test of willpower, a challenge to be disciplined in my life. I would read the cessation materials that spoke of recognizing your triggers or developing strategies to cope with cravings and think, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, enough of the baby steps, let's get on with it." People who analyzed their smoking addiction seemed overwrought or self-absorbed. In fact, calling it an addiction instead of a habit sounded a bit dramatic. To me, it all came down to stamina: quit, maintain, move on. Don't whine about it, don't analyze it, just do it. For 26 years, through countless failed attempts, I never wavered in my devotion to that approach.

In June of this year, I was diagnosed with anemia: very sudden, very severe anemia. One cause of such anemia is cancer and, since I smoked, the first diagnostic step was a chest x-ray. I was handed a slip of paper that read "chronic tobacco abuser" and directed to radiology. I know that phrase isn't really different from the term smoker, but it felt different. It felt dirty, it felt irresponsible, it felt pathetic. And, of course, I had the humbling return trip from radiology: holding my x-rays up to the light in the elevator, promising God I'd quit smoking if He'd please, please, please not let me find a spot on my lungs.

I sweated out the days until my follow-up appointment making nervous jokes with my boyfriend about his inheritance, searching the internet for the symptoms of every cancer associated with anemia, and praying none of them sounded familiar. When the chest x-ray came back negative, I began to work on keeping the promise I made in the elevator.

Maybe it was that promise, or the shame of the junkie label on my x-ray slip, or finally having some awareness of my own mortality, but whatever the reason, something deep inside of me shifted. Suddenly, every attempt before this seemed shallow, half-hearted and lazy. I knew one thing: the change that needed to be made was on the inside, not the outside. Nonsmoker is an outside label. Releasing the desire for nicotine is an inside change.

I did ordinary things: I got a prescription for Zyban, I read everything I could find on smoking cessation -- no matter how redundant, I wrote down my reasons for quitting and various incentives and put them on a key ring to read when a craving hit. I still couldn't bring myself to list my triggers or coping strategies, but I read about them enough to absorb it by osmosis.

I did some not-so-ordinary things. I decided to approach it from a spiritual level. I gave myself four guidelines:

1. I would pay attention. This meant noticing my mood swings, cravings, homicidal thoughts, the experiences of others, coincidences that spoke of guidance -- but not judging them, just watching them.

2. I would hang out with the holy. Many spiritual disciplines suggest that those setting out on spiritual path surround themselves with others of similar bent, for support and guidance. I picked the Quitnet for my congregation.

3. I would be gentle with myself and those around me. I would consciously be soft in my approach - release, not deprivation. I would strive not to take myself too seriously or lose my sense of humor.

4. I would look for, and bow to, the divinity in those around me -- aware that the journey is not what is ahead or behind, but what is in the now.

Shortly into my quit, I developed a very strange symptom: waves of guilt would suddenly wash over me. Again and again, I would have this sensation, a very physical sensation, of guilt flowing through me. Sometimes I would recognize the source of the guilt, usually some fairly minor offense. But more often, it was just guilt, with no act attached to it. It was a very strange sensation, but not an uncomfortable one. It felt like a cleansing, like it was being released from somewhere within me. Today, I found the place where it was hiding. Today, I met the junkie within me.

That's why it bothered me -- calling it an addiction, labeling me a "tobacco abuser"! It was classic junkie denial! AND YOU CANNOT BE A JUNKIE WITHOUT BEING SELFISH. Feeding an addiction means putting it ahead of everything and everyone in your life. You must be disrespectful of your body and the bodies of those closest to you. You must be thoughtless about imposing your stinking, harmful habit on others. You must be neglectful of other responsibilities, deceitful about your reasons, to sneak off to indulge in it. You cannot truly honor the divine around you while you are so d**n busy answering the call of your siren.

Just as I could not smell the stink of cigarettes on the outside, I could not see the sewer of addiction on the inside. The guilt rising out of my gut is 26 years of selfishness. It is thousands of self-absorbed acts, lies, and shameful deeds.

Today, my eyes are open. Today, I can smell the fresh air beyond my prison window and trust that I truly will be free.

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