I’m feeling incredibly jumbled, so please forgive this disjointed train of thought; derailed even.
It’s started to really hit me, forty-eight hours in, my thoughts are stuck in the molasses waves of withdrawal. I can’t wait for them to break. Until then, I’ll rest my bones within the ebb and flow of craving. It’s hard though, to focus on anything else. My brain screaming for more; slow drones. It wants another hit and it won’t let me look away.
Fuck the years I’ve put in keeping away from the stuff. Fuck the rational proof that, ultimately, I’ll feel much better without cigarettes. I just want to blot out my stress with clouds of tobacco smoke. It’s that rush I’m after, the jolt, and I’m willing to gamble at any cost.
My toes tingle, my focus is honed, and I’m ready to take on life. Until, that is, I need another puff, and another, and another. That’s the true price really, you lie to yourself. You’re delusional, you know full well there’s no intention of stopping despite the bargaining.
No matter how much you rationalize, one more doesn’t exist. It’s a fool’s finish line; a mirage. There’s no such thing as a casual crackhead, just as there isn’t a casual smoker. Cigarettes just happen to be less stigmatized. There’s absolutely no differentiation between how our brains behave; chemically speaking. The triggers may be different, the intensity as well, but the underlying belief system that drives us to pick up, whatever it is, is nearly identical.
Instead of surrendering to our emotional pain, the same pain that enabled us, we hold off. We tell ourselves “Tomorrow, tomorrow is when I’ll allow myself to feel that.” You see, withdrawal isn’t about the lack of a substance. It’s much more about confronting emotional pain and allowing what’s been programmed, long before even, to surface. The letting go of our blanket, even if it’s a shitty blanket, like cigarettes, is simply the catalyst.
Our vices, the things keeping us trapped, don’t cause the pain. They’re only the levies holding back our trash feelings.
In our own right, we all ride waves. We all fall off our various wagons. That’s ok, there’s no shame in it. Once we allow ourselves to let go of it, the shame that is, we heal. Suddenly there’s no urge, because more often than not, we’re looking to hold up a mask. We’re using something, our vice, to justify our own long held insecurities.
“Look world, there’s no way I’m a good person, I do XYZ...blah...blah...blah.”
Every time we pick up, it’s all about the self affirmations. We’re telling ourselves that we aren’t worthy, so just let it go baby. Not the vice, that will come, but the self loathing. It’s gonna be good, it’s always gonna be good. Underneath all the gunk, once we’ve dredged our minds, there’s only love, so shake it up. Do what others don’t, allow yourself to feel. Don’t shy away, look how deeply your desires drive into you.
Now, think to yourself, if all of this can go so far along a destructive path, visualize how much further it can go on a constructive one.
A twisted hand with half gnawed fingernails, sporting blood raw cuticles, clutched the stainless steel handrail next to my seat. It belonged to a woman of a hard fifty years. She was balding, missing most of the body in her hair, much like what a little girl’s doll becomes after years of abuse, and her scalp shown through.