Oh childhood. You didn’t need an i.d. to buy cigarettes when I started smoking, which is a good thing since I was eleven years old. I loved smoking. I was extremely good at it from my first inhale and I did it until my mid-thirties.
Then, I quit for ten years.
Tomorrow I am quitting. It’s ridiculously expensive. It’s deleterious to my health which seems doubly idiotic when I haven’t any health insurance. I’m tired of coughing myself awake when I sleep. And I’m tired of being enslaved to one more thing over which it feels as if I have no control.
This wasn’t a considered decision. Yesterday, in my car, heading for a graduation and for no apparent reason I began having the sort of difficulty breathing that comes from terror. Stress attacked me and stayed in my chest all day long. My breaths were shallow, at best, and though there wasn’t any pain, there also was little oxygen. I hid it. Mostly. Most of the day.
But I had already, there, in the car, decided: this pack and a half I have left are the end. I told everyone who would listen so that I might have better odds of success.
I will quit on the second Sunday in June. I will quit because I can. I will quit because there are so many other things wearing me away over which I’ve absolutely no control. I will quit because I need a new perspective. I need my life to change. Again. Here is the window through which I most frequently am glancing.
The view is small. It allows little light in. It’s mostly blocked. I am locked away in a batcave, mostly alone, looking out onto a tiny, little, limited world where there seems to be nothing and no one waiting for me.
Here is the view I crave.
The view is wide. There is a world out there full of ebbs and tides and the possibility of journey, full of everything and everyone who recognize the light in me.
(P.S. I deserved better. You know that.)