I am 9 days smoke-free. I am currently using nicotine patches to help me quit for good. I’ve quit twice before, both times I did it “cold turkey”. The first time I quit for 3 years, the second time I quit for a year-and-a-half. Then I have made a million failed attempts to quit. I can see now that the two “major” relapses were because I didn’t have enough destress tolerance skills to navigate through life’s hardships.
I’ve posted on here several times, since it helped me quit the second major time. But, shame from such quick relapses drove me away again. I still had too many false narratives and excuses, and I felt like such an imposter among such strong recovering addicts. It was like I was a coward amongst warriors in the midst of battle.
I prayed—begged God— to heal me of this addiction to cigarettes. My love outweighed my hatred, and my hatred was all-consuming. I prayed that by the sweat of Joseph, the tears of Mary, and the Blood of Christ would wash this addiction away from me. Because I can’t do it alone.
Then it happened…my second mini stroke. The first was when I was 30, now again at 36. In the ER, with a BP that exceeded 200, and a team of doctors around me, I wasn’t scared of dying—I was scared of not living. They scrambled around worried that I had an aneurysm, then worried that my right corotid artery was separating, then worried that I was having a heart attack. (The test results showed I did).
I looked over and saw my wife, trying to be strong, but scared. She lost her only son 15 years ago. Now, she was watching me die.
I didn’t think about dying, I figured it was or wasn’t going to happen. And, I didn’t bargain with God; I was in too much pain for such trivial things. I thought about how selfish I’ve been.
I thought about how I’ve taken food out of her mouth by buying cigarettes, by how mean I’d be if I couldn’t find any cigarette money, about how good she’s been to me, so patient, and this is how I’ve repair her; I thought about my young nephews and nieces that my heart delights in—and how they’d live believing that I loved cigarettes more…and they weren’t wrong. I thought about my Mom and how I’d cruelly treat her by having her plan my funeral. I thought about the kids in the foster home I worked at and how they begged me to quit. About how many people begged me to quit… No one, not even me, was enough.
I bowed unhesitatingly under the golden calf of nicotine.
Then at 36, they found a 6mm nodule on my left lung.
All of that still wasn’t enough.
I continued to smoke, albeit significantly less.
My mom told me her grandma and other relative died at 41 of lung cancer.
That’s too close.
So now I’m 9 days smoke-free, and I am struggling. I don’t know how to live without a cigarette, so hated and resented, in my hand.
And, I’ve spent years hating them—now am I cursed to spend the rest of my life wanting them again?
I’m struggling, and through choices that are a mixture of self-inflicted and not; I only have my wife and my mom as a support. So, I’m also feeling alone—and in these moments i would have a cigarette be my friend.
I need help, and can’t do it alone.