Sunday, 17 May 2009

• Today and Tomorrow

  He was twenty years old and entirely too cool to even acknowledge a little high school nerd like me. His hair was dirty blond, his skin was deeply tanned, and he may have had beautiful eyes, but I couldn't look into them to discover their color for any reason; inviting criticism wasn't high on my priority list. Spending time with him, however, was and I was thrilled when he said he might stop by, if nothing else was going on. I was fourteen, home alone for an extended period for the first time, and... a complete moron.
  
  I don't do anything "just a little bit." When I engage in something, I dive in head first without testing the water. One of the last things I remember about that day was waking up momentarily next to a bountiful puddle of my own colorful vomit on my bedroom floor with my pants down to my knees and hearing my father say that he'd take care of me after he'd driven my best friend home. Several hours later, I woke there again to a darkened, silent house. In the wee hours of the morning, I crawled up the stairs to my parents' bedroom, where I swore I'd only had ONE (never ending) glass of sloe gin. I cried, lied, and begged for mercy. The next day, I spent hours trying to scrub the carpet clean. I was grounded for months. I didn't touch another drop of alcohol for more than two years.
  
  When I was sixteen, I started babysitting for my best friend's cousin. The cousin and his girlfriend both worked at a local pizza place and paid me, after the first few weeks of cash, with cheap beer and cold pizza. We'd sit around drinking every night after they got off work until I had just enough time to crawl into bed at home before my father's alarm clock went off at 4 a.m. By the middle of my senior year in high school, we had a routine: we drank until I was nauseous, smoked some weed to settle my stomach, and occasionally fired up a crack pipe for fifteen minutes of invincibility when we had $20 after buying beer. My morning routine changed, too. Instead of worrying whether my hair had reached the proper height, I was raiding the medicine cabinet and downing a bottle of whatever was in my parents' mini-fridge as I showered. I slept through my classes, so I could start all over again that night.
  
  In February of that year, someone finally noticed that I was drunk in school. I spent a month in a lockdown rehab facility, where I played along until they started talking about sending me home. The night before my "graduation," I walked out. My best friend's mother let me move in with them and I stayed there for three months. My aunt took me in, let me finish my senior year, and shipped me off to college at the end of the summer. I was "sober" for almost ten months before I started drinking again. I hid my drinking from the Voice until I was raped and found out about my pregnancy. As of this moment, I've been sober for 5,831 days (or 15 years and 356 days).
  
  Compared to my current addiction, quitting drinking was insanely easy. Really, getting sober was the only course of action available to me. Maintaining sobriety is the difference between having this blessed life with my nuclear family and hearing snippets of second and third-hand gossip about how well my daughter is doing in school or how my husband has moved on and is dating again. I've picked up some tools in the last 15 years that have proven useful in keeping me on track. It's rare that I think about drinking at all; usually, these thoughts are momentary regrets that I can't taste a new concoction that sounds tasty or, at its worst, that I can't be more like "normal" people. Fortunately, I know what a steaming pile of poo that is.
  
  Yesterday, I bought NicoDerm CQ. I've been smoking at least a pack a day for the last 18 years, minus the 28 days I spent in rehab and six months back in 1997. This morning, as I was considering all of this, I ran out to buy what I hope is my last pack of "Newport 100's in the box."
  
  Even as I was driving to the gas station, I knew it was a bullshit excuse.
  
  "You didn't finish reading the user's guide. You can start off right tomorrow morning."
  
  I'm already bargaining with myself and I haven't even tried to stop yet.
  
  I have just as many good reasons to quit smoking as I did to quit drinking:
  

  1. My father needs a smoke-free environment to recover in. Someday.
     
  2. I'm scared to death of cancer and the increased risk I've imposed on my husband, daughter, dog, and cats.
  3. I'm tired of coughing with every change in air temperature, chest congestion, and sinus problems.
     
  4. The cost per carton has risen to $57 and I could definitely spend that money on something more rewarding.
  5. I hate the taste, smell, and the film coating the walls of my office.
     
  6. I want to live the best quality of life I can for as long as I can. 
  7. I want to grow old with my husband.
  8. I want to spoil my child's future children.
  9. I am a strong, independent woman and I don't need this freaking crutch to cope with stress.
  10. I miss smelling subtle scents.
      
  11. I have no idea what food actually tastes like anymore.
      
  12. Measuring time in ten minute increments or scheduling around the need to smoke is stupid, and insane.
  13. I have been smoking for more than half of my life. If I were still pegging my jeans or depleting the ozone with excessive hairspray use, I'd seek professional help. Why is smoking any different?
  14. As a non-smoker, I would no longer contribute a minimum of 7,300 cigarette butts, 365 packs, and 37 cartons to the local landfill yearly, further reducing my destructive impact on the environment.
  15. My dog avoids me when I'm smoking.
  16. Smoking provides a barrier between me and those around me that is unneccesary.
      
  17. Now is the best time, for everyone involved, for me to quit smoking.
  18. If Uncle Doc can do it, I can too.
  19. This is the last holdover from my using days.
  20. Cuddling after sex rather than getting up to smoke ftw.

  I wish I didn't make that excuse and buy that pack. At least I recognize it for what it is. I'm not going to consider this my first failure. I'm not going to throw out the pack. Today, I'm going to enjoy my Sunday. We have a mailbox to assemble and erect. There's been some consideration given to grilling. Dinner will definitely consist of meatloaf burgers, corn on the cob, fresh fruit, and salad. I might even be feeling spunky enough to finish up the laundry. Later, I will finish reading the user's guide. Tomorrow is a new day.
  
  

  Tomorrow is THE day.
  (And so is the day after that.)
  

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