A Month and 7 Days.

It’s been a month and 7 days since my last cigarette—since my big ass birthday and the fiasco that happened afterwards—the hospital trip and the no phone call from the parents and just feeling awful and a bit deserted.

The one upside of the whole event though was that it forced me to quit smoking—not by any tough love but I just woke up and was done. I mean, I have tried quitting in the past and have even wrote about here on my blog multiple times but never before have I just woke up finished with it. I can’t stand the smell, I don’t feel it’s attractive and I am just completely beyond that place or want in my life.

My mom once told me that when she saw me light up a cigarette, each time she had a brief flash of wanting one—that the gesture seemed familiar and a memory of good things. I kind of have that weird flash to—of how much fun it was—but I don’t find myself fighting the craving. I don’t need the patch or gum to get me through it like before—I don’t notice every cigarette butt on the street or think about asking to bum one because “if I don’t buy a pack then I’m not a real smoker”.

The reason I haven’t written about this before now was in the past when I tried to quit and failed—it was hard to have people judge me on that behavior—and know that somehow everyone knew that I was a failure again at breaking the habit. But I don’t have this fear of failing again.

It’s kind of a cool feeling.