It’s been 10 weeks, two days, four hours, and 13 minutes since I had my last cigarette. And trust me, those 13 minutes count.
I started smoking when I was 14 because it was cool. Even though I had asthma, even though I was a singer, even though I was not capable of running a lap around the track in P.E. without dry heaving, I loved it. People in my social circle did it, cute boys did it, and it pissed off adults that I did it. When I took that first drag I never dreamed I would smoke past high school. When I graduated I never dreamed I would smoke past college. When I graduated from college I knew I really needed to stop. But I never did.
Until 10 weeks and change ago, when I had the worst asthma attack of my adult life while on vacation in Colorado. I could not catch my breath and I stayed that way for three days. The day of my attack I had my last cig. Almost passing out from not being able to catch my breath finally put the whole smoking thing into perspective.
I love being a non-smoker. Now I can exercise without wanting to die. My senses of smell and taste seem to be restored. My hair, clothes, and skin smell so much better. It feels amazing to breathe and not wheeze.
But here’s the crummy part: even with my new found senses and great smelling hair, it is ridiculously hard to stay smoke free. Since I quit I have thought about smoking about 10,000 times a day. I have dreams about smoking. I try to make deals with myself like “I will just have one a week.” But I haven’t and I won’t.
Do I deserve a medal? Hell no. Am I an idiot? Hell yes. But I am working on it. So far, so good.
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