Irish Stew
Some Tips for the Newly Quit
CelticCrone
1. Remove all firearms, ammunition, archery equipment, power tools, kitchen utensils, golf clubs or other dangerous items from your home. For their own protection, young children and incontinent pets should also be removed, if possible.
2. During the first 5-14 days of your quit, you will notice an improvement in your sense of smell. This change may be sudden and dramatic. You may want to avoid any areas known for strong odors during this time. You may also discover that your home is one of those areas. Allow 1-3 hours per day for scrubbing an obscure corner of your home in an effort to remove the mystery smell.
3. One effective technique for reducing stress is the recitation of a mantra. Your mantra for the next few weeks will be: "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that. I just quit smoking."
4. If you drink the recommended 8 glasses of water each day, you will need to remain within 150 feet of a lavatory during the first 3 weeks of your quit.
5. Many cessation experts recommend you keep a diary of your experience as you quit. A written record of your inability to control your emotions, words and actions may be useful later on during any criminal or civil proceedings. You may also want to discuss with your attorney which homicidal or other violent fantasies about your spouse, employer or local politician should not be recorded in that journal.
6. Many people find driving a car is a major trigger of smoking urges. If it is practical, you may want to consider using public transportation during the early part of your quit. If you must drive, carry gum, mints, cassette tapes of soothing music, a small rubber ball to squeeze in one hand, extra Kleenex for crying jags, a roll of duct tape for swearing jags, and extra toll fare change in the event that your aim is affected by the spasmodic trembling in your hands. Again, all firearms should be removed from the vehicle. You may also want to keep your journal handy to hand to the highway patrol officer in the event of an accident or traffic offense, since uncontrollable sobbing may prevent you from speaking clearly at that moment.
7. Whatever you do, DO NOT LOSE YOUR SENSE OF HUMOR.
Let me count the weighs....
CelticCrone
I stepped on the scale today to discover 5 pounds that were not there before. Here's where I think they came from:
1 pound is ANXIETY about maintaining this quit. I expect this will gradually disappear.
1 pound is FOG. My mind's been full of it since I quit, but the clouds are beginning to break apart. I think this will lift soon.
1 pound is REGRET that I wasted so much time in my life on this stupid habit, risking my health and the health of those around me. This too will pass I think with time. I know that I can't change the past and once this habit is no longer a part of my present, I will let this go.
1 pound is RESOLVE to succeed once and for all at this endeavor. I think I may gain a little more of this over time.
1 pound is PRIDE at making it this far. Like RESOLVE, I imagine I'll be gaining more of this in the days ahead, but it will be partially offset by losing the fog and anxiety.
And, if I just keep steady on this course until this new life is the habit, until nicotine holds no place in my thoughts, then I can let go of pride and resolve like balloons on a string and they, too, can drift away.
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Some people call me Maurice
CelticCrone
I check into a little website called All About Spirit occasionally for wee bits of wisdom to knock me back to the center. One appeared there today that led me to a small epiphany about the Q.
The inspiration read: "To succeed at anything, love it madly."
I started thinking about how you apply that to smoking cessation. It's certainly hard to love the early part with all those nasty withdrawal symptoms. You get a little respite where you can love your new feeling of control over your life, or breathing easier, or relishing the pats on the backs, but eventually that all goes away or becomes ordinary.
I realized that one thing I love about quitting this time is the friends I have here on the Q and I wouldn't have found them without the need to quit smoking. I can use the Q as the place to focus my love as part of the process. I think that was what was missing before, a way to incorporate love in the process.
"I just called to say I love you and I mean that from the bottom of my heart."
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CelticCrone
"Even if you are on the right track, you'll get run over if you just sit there." -- Will Rogers
This is not my first attempt at quitting, but it is my last. In my previous attempts, I HOPED that would be the case, but I could never say unequivocally that I would never smoke again.
Before this, smoking cessation was something I imposed upon myself from the outside. It was an external test of willpower, a challenge to be disciplined in my life. I would read the cessation materials that spoke of recognizing your triggers or developing strategies to cope with cravings and think, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, enough of the baby steps, let's get on with it." People who analyzed their smoking addiction seemed overwrought or self-absorbed. In fact, calling it an addiction instead of a habit sounded a bit dramatic. To me, it all came down to stamina: quit, maintain, move on. Don't whine about it, don't analyze it, just do it. For 26 years, through countless failed attempts, I never wavered in my devotion to that approach.
In June of this year, I was diagnosed with anemia: very sudden, very severe anemia. One cause of such anemia is cancer and, since I smoked, the first diagnostic step was a chest x-ray. I was handed a slip of paper that read "chronic tobacco abuser" and directed to radiology. I know that phrase isn't really different from the term smoker, but it felt different. It felt dirty, it felt irresponsible, it felt pathetic. And, of course, I had the humbling return trip from radiology: holding my x-rays up to the light in the elevator, promising God I'd quit smoking if He'd please, please, please not let me find a spot on my lungs.
I sweated out the days until my follow-up appointment making nervous jokes with my boyfriend about his inheritance, searching the internet for the symptoms of every cancer associated with anemia, and praying none of them sounded familiar. When the chest x-ray came back negative, I began to work on keeping the promise I made in the elevator.
Maybe it was that promise, or the shame of the junkie label on my x-ray slip, or finally having some awareness of my own mortality, but whatever the reason, something deep inside of me shifted. Suddenly, every attempt before this seemed shallow, half-hearted and lazy. I knew one thing: the change that needed to be made was on the inside, not the outside. Nonsmoker is an outside label. Releasing the desire for nicotine is an inside change.
I did ordinary things: I got a prescription for Zyban, I read everything I could find on smoking cessation -- no matter how redundant, I wrote down my reasons for quitting and various incentives and put them on a key ring to read when a craving hit. I still couldn't bring myself to list my triggers or coping strategies, but I read about them enough to absorb it by osmosis.
I did some not-so-ordinary things. I decided to approach it from a spiritual level. I gave myself four guidelines:
1. I would pay attention. This meant noticing my mood swings, cravings, homicidal thoughts, the experiences of others, coincidences that spoke of guidance -- but not judging them, just watching them.
2. I would hang out with the holy. Many spiritual disciplines suggest that those setting out on spiritual path surround themselves with others of similar bent, for support and guidance. I picked the Quitnet for my congregation.
3. I would be gentle with myself and those around me. I would consciously be soft in my approach - release, not deprivation. I would strive not to take myself too seriously or lose my sense of humor.
4. I would look for, and bow to, the divinity in those around me -- aware that the journey is not what is ahead or behind, but what is in the now.
Shortly into my quit, I developed a very strange symptom: waves of guilt would suddenly wash over me. Again and again, I would have this sensation, a very physical sensation, of guilt flowing through me. Sometimes I would recognize the source of the guilt, usually some fairly minor offense. But more often, it was just guilt, with no act attached to it. It was a very strange sensation, but not an uncomfortable one. It felt like a cleansing, like it was being released from somewhere within me. Today, I found the place where it was hiding. Today, I met the junkie within me.
That's why it bothered me -- calling it an addiction, labeling me a "tobacco abuser"! It was classic junkie denial! AND YOU CANNOT BE A JUNKIE WITHOUT BEING SELFISH. Feeding an addiction means putting it ahead of everything and everyone in your life. You must be disrespectful of your body and the bodies of those closest to you. You must be thoughtless about imposing your stinking, harmful habit on others. You must be neglectful of other responsibilities, deceitful about your reasons, to sneak off to indulge in it. You cannot truly honor the divine around you while you are so damn busy answering the call of your siren.
Just as I could not smell the stink of cigarettes on the outside, I could not see the sewer of addiction on the inside. The guilt rising out of my gut is 26 years of selfishness. It is thousands of self-absorbed acts, lies, and shameful deeds.
Today, my eyes are open. Today, I can smell the fresh air beyond my prison window and trust that I truly will be free.
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CelticCrone
Now that my eyes are open, I see for the first time how much my addiction clouded my vision. I realize how different the journey would have been had I never begun smoking, or quit at a more youthful age.
The most insidious trait of this addiction is its ability to capture its victims in childhood and adolescence. We were rosebuds, beautiful, perfect, ready to blossom. The bond of addiction wraps around each bud like a string, binding it up, preventing it from fully blooming. Only when the bond is broken can the petals fall open and the full beauty of the flower be discovered.
A part of me would mourn for all the children kept from blooming. My heart is tempted to break for all those whose freedom came so late in life, for all the years sacrificed to that clouded view. It would be easy to feel sorrow for what my life might have been.
Instead, I watch the season pass into autumn. The pastels of summer fade and the landscape is reborn with the rich golds, yellows and maroons of mums in bloom. Now I know it is all right that our blooming was staggered by our choices.
Those who entered adulthood unhindered by their weaknesses are the crocuses and tulips, exuberantly bursting forth at the earliest opportunity. Those who succumbed to youthful temptation, but wisely corrected their course earlier in adulthood are the summer blossoms, tall and full and lush. Those of us who postponed conquering our addictions until later ages are the mums, cheering up the landscape when summer's beauty fades.
This is o.k. I will not regret the path I have walked. I am perfectly content to be a brilliant mum.
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CelticCrone
On the first day of my quit back in August, I threw the I Ching (a Chinese fortune telling device) for guidance for this journey. The interpretation for my throw was "endurance." I don't know how the rest of you feel, but I don't think of that word as particularly inspiring. My word associations for endurance would be things like grueling, drudgery, hardship, suffering, long lasting struggle. Despite my misgivings, I printed it out in large type on my set of quit tip cards. During the first two weeks of my quit, I read my cards each time I had a craving. Needless to say, I read the cards A LOT.
As often happens on this serendipitous path of mine, once I was aware of the word, I saw it EVERYWHERE. The context and discussion of it in those sightings slowly began to change my feelings about it. It is a far more positive word than I first imagined.
In some place I no longer recall, I saw it described as having two distinct facets: inner constancy and outer flexibility. It is not passive. It is not just stoic stamina. To be flexible you must anticipate, you must bend, you must thrust and parry. Flexibility requires creativity and a positive attitude. You must be like the sapling in the storm, bowing and dancing with the wind. Do otherwise, think negatively or become rigid, and you will break.
Endurance is really the essence of the Quitnet. We strive first to remain steadfast to our cause, ceaselessly chanting Martha's mantra: "Smoking is not an option." But we must also be flexible in dodging the obstacles. The variety of our posts is testament to our collective flexing: tips, praise, gentle scolding, venting, teasing, distractions, laughter. We learn to sit back in the seat and rise and fall with roller coaster, instead of rigidly gripping the handle bar.
My two-month toast is to the collective wisdom of the Quitnet community for instinctively providing one another with both the inner and the outer tools from this journey. Bless your sweet little heads.
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CelticCrone
My apologies to Osho, the late Zen master, if my paraphrasing doesn't do justice to his wisdom, but I read something of his that I think speaks well to our collective journey.
Osho addressed one's life journey by describing the journey of seed to flower. The seed cannot know what is going to happen, the seed has never known the flower. The seed cannot even believe it has the potential to become a beautiful flower.
The seed must first break through its hard shell, its security. Immediately, the fight starts, the struggle with the soil, the stones, the rocks. The seed was hard, but the sprout is very soft and the dangers are many. The seed could have survived for millennia, but the sprout is much more vulnerable.
But without breaking through that protective shell the seed would never experience being a sprout, a shoot, a blossom, will never experience reproduction or death and rebirth. So the sprout starts toward the unknown, toward the sun, toward the source of light, not knowing when or why.
I think many people begin the journey to becoming nonsmokers not really knowing what to expect. They're not sure what life without cigarettes will really be like and, deep down, they're not really certain they can quit at all.
When they finally risk giving up the security of cigarettes, two things happen: 1) they discover that they are shaky and vulnerable and 2) they are immediately bombarded with a thousand triggers to trip them up. The trick is to keep on moving toward that illusive realm of "no smoking," trusting it will be a better place without really being sure of what it will be like.
I must say I'm glad to be part of this special garden. What diversity in bloom, how universal the pain of getting here.
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CelticCrone
First, my heartfelt thanks to ToddL for the sweet post in honor of my 100 days and to everyone who sent good wishes and generous compliments on my hat.
I've been trying to think of some meaningful commentary to mark this occasion, some parable from my journey that will make a newbie's trek easier. Instead, I sit here wondering why this quit has been so easy. I have winced these last few months reading other people's struggles with health problems, family difficulties, stressful jobs and heartless bosses. I am in awe of those who maintained their quits despite working in a bar or living with a smoker. I have not had to contend with any of those problems.
I have been in bars, even had a few drinks, since the first week of my quit without once being tempted. I have lunched with smoking co-workers, stood outside with my former smoking buds without ever desiring to borrow a cigarette. Duane's son smokes, but only on the second floor where his quarters are. He has occasionally left a pack of Camels in the kitchen or living room, but it has never bothered me at all. I don't think I consciously did anything special to explain this phenomenon, but I think I know what set it up.
First, I quit and failed 3 times in the year preceding this quit. That forced me to begin this quit very humble about my ability to conquer this addiction. I think that allowed me to be honest with myself about how powerful and deep seated my addiction was.
Second, I had a good medical scare that motivated me to make this attempt. It made me very conscious of my own mortality and realize that my choice was to smoke or to live. For the first time in my life, I could not deny that, eventually, this habit would kill me.
Third, this time around I tried to incorporate spirituality into the cessation process. I analyzed my addiction on a deeper level. I watched my physical and psychological symptoms from a more detached vantage, where I could appraise them more honestly. I approached quitting as release, not deprivation.
Finally, I found the Q. Every day I was reminded that successful was possible, that failure was only one cigarette away, that to succumb meant returning to the agony of those first two weeks. Every day I had the opportunity to be an example, a mentor, and I began to take that responsibility seriously. Most importantly, it was here at the Q that I learned that this process could be filled with laughter.
Then, I opened my eyes and I was at 100 days. I feel like someone who's simply been enjoying a walk on a fine day and suddenly realizes they're miles from where they began. I don't really know how I got here, but I do know I wouldn't be here without each and every one of you.
Thank you.
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STEP 1: HUMBLE YOURSELF. Your addiction to cigarettes is a beast about the size of Godzilla. Stockpile all the ammunition you can get your hands on ahead of your quit date. If a pacifier is what you works for you, swallow your pride and keep on suckin', brother!
STEP 2: THINK ROCKY BALBOA. During the first week of your quit, that Godzilla of addiction is going to twist your innards, pound your head, fray your nerves and stomp you into the ground. Remember Rocky: face bruised and bloody, eye swollen shut, slumped against the ropes. Rocky prevailed in the end because, when things were looking bleakest, he did one simple thing: HE REFUSED TO FALL DOWN.
STEP 3: NO, REALLY, IT IS YOU. Even if you normally have the disposition of Mother Teresa, during weeks one through four of the quit you will discover the Hitler hiding under your habit. You will find that even the smallest of offenses warrants your full wrath. You will be tempted to give cashiers, employers, and discourteous bus passengers a piece of your mind. Don't. Actually, a piece of your mind is not worth much at this point. You are an irrational boob. Bite your tongue. It will save you countless apologies and, possibly, a lawsuit down the pike.
STEP 4: HEY, STUPID! YES, YOU. Between week one through, oh, maybe week twelve, you will have the i.q. of a rutabaga. You will forget things. You will be clumsy. With the exception of performing household chores at 3 a.m. to combat insomnia, you will accomplish almost nothing of significance. This is temporary. However, if you have a safety sensitive job (i.e., nuclear reactor operator, air traffic controller, mohel), you may want to consider taking a few days off.
STEP 5: GET OVER YOUR PITIFUL, LITTLE SELF. During the course of the quit, you will suffer from the blues, the blahs, the bleaks and rock bottoms. The best cure for those conditions is right here on the Q. Find someone in worse shape than you and extend your hand. Find someone just getting ready to quit and share your experience. Find someone who's discouraged and offer hope. Find someone who's feeling down and offer humor. You may find that sharing your wisdom helps you discover insight for yourself. Besides, it feels good after weeks of being a rutabaga.
STEP 6: IF YOU FALL DOWN, DON'T JUST LIE THERE. This is one of the few times in your life when failure actually looks good on your resume. Failure teaches you where you're vulnerable. Failure teaches you how deceptive addiction can be. Failure shows you where the booby traps are. Don't lament your failure. Use it as a stepping stone to freedom.
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For any that missed it, I wrote earlier this week asking to forgo my 6-month anniversary party due to a 3-week roll in the dirt that tarnished my quit.
There is a silly Quitnet tradition that redemption from such a fall can be sought in a two-fold process:
First, upon falling off the wagon, submit an epitaph, in rhyming verse in tribute to your former smoke-free self.
Second, upon climbing back up on the wagon, submit a second rhyming epitaph for the laggard who recently fell off.
Since my quit had more of a near-death experience, I'm cheating and cramming them to a single entry. (NOTE TO POETRY CRITICS: Hey! I'm still under duress, here!)
Here goes:
Alas, alack and woe is me! My QUIT choked in its infancy. It sputtered, gagged and got bug-eyed. Just five months old, it almost died.
Gasping, choking, nearly dead, it raised its fevered little head. With whispered voice, it softly spoke: "Oh, crap! Must...tell...the Quitnet folk."
"Must get my act together quick. Cannot continue to be sick. Must muster every ounce of pride and stop this slide toward suicide."
With all the strength that it could rally, my QUIT climbed up from that dark valley. It struggles still, this goal in view: to never let down friends like you.
On a more serious note, I also promised to post a more thoughtful analysis of what triggered my stumble. That post is in the works, but I wanted to get this obligation behind me.
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THE CONFESSION, PART II: The Analysis
CelticCrone
It isn't hard discerning what triggered Duane and I to smoke cigarettes last month. We talked about it. We planned it. It was a small part of THE ONCE AND FINAL BLOWOUT. What is more interesting is how twisted that logic seems in retrospect. We're still discussing that.
THE MOTIVATION
Duane and I share one important characteristic: we both are determined to NEVER become rigid -- about money, about culture, about religion, about roles, about our careers. We treasure the diversity of our friends. We joke about raising "free range" children. We dare each other to try new things.
When I was young, I began compiling a list in my head of rituals I would perform at least once a year to keep myself from getting stuck or acting old. Thinking back on it now, I laugh a little at how naive it seems, but I also sigh a little at how many things were gradually crossed off that list.
THE EARLY LIST
At least once a year, I will:
HITCHHIKE WITH A FRIEND TO AN UNFAMILIAR DESTINATION. This one didn't last long for obvious reasons.
SWIM NAKED. I kept this up into my mid-to-late thirties, but one day wearing a swimsuit became more appealing than going without. It mostly involved loss of body heat.
SMOKE A JOINT. I did this on my birthday every year until I turned 40. When they implemented random drug testing at Duane's job, he whined about feeling left out.
DO A CARTWHEEL. My gymnastics career ended when I tore my hamstring doing a cartwheel with a full splits landing -- on a bet, at our local pub. I was 38.
DRINK ENOUGH TO BE FOOLISH. See "do a cartwheel," above.
SLEEP UNDER THE STARS. By my late thirties, sleeping on rocks and twigs was no longer the pleasant experience it had once been.
It wasn't just leaving the list behind that bothered me. I also started noticing the rituals we had begun ADDING to our lives. We started reading food labels for sodium and fat content. We avoided MSG because we noticed our joints ached the day after. We cut back on caffeine. I had once bested all my brothers in chile-eating contests. Now, I have a prescription for Zantac. Downhill skis gave way to cross country skis -- and, the last few years, we've hardly even strapped on those. We've actually discussed whether military service might help Son Number Two learn more responsibility.
THE LAST STRAW
In early January, Duane was diagnosed with a medical condition that came with the caveat that he should abstain from alcohol. It wasn't a very big sacrifice, really. We'd often go months and months and months without ever raising a glass. But now it became a SYMBOL. This was it. No pot, EVER. No cigarettes, EVER. No alcohol, EVER. We could never, ever be stupid, irresponsible, giggling dolts ever again. WE WERE SENTENCED TO BE BORING FOR THE REST OF OUR LIVES.
THE PLAN
Thus was hatched the plan for THE ONCE AND FINAL BLOWOUT. We borrowed the keys to Duane's brother's cabin in northwestern Wisconsin -- and set off with a new "list" to work on. At lunch in Frederic, we ate thick cheeseburgers and piles of fries -- and washed it all down with mugs of beer. We drove to the Hole in the Wall Casino and doubled our annual gambling limit of $50. We lost our money and laughed about it. We bought a pack of Merit Ultra Lights. We smoked some. We stopped in Little Sweden for dinner and ordered big steaks and shrimp drenched in butter. We poured thick dressing on our salads and put sour cream AND butter on our baked potatoes. We ordered cocktails we had never heard of before. We bought a bottle of whiskey and headed back to the cabin. We drank the whiskey, smoked the cigarettes, peed in the snow and danced with the dog until after midnight. We were reckless.
The next day we quietly atoned. We spoke somberly about how foolishly we'd behaved, but our discussion was frequently interrupted by wistful sighs about the finality of it all.
THE AFTERMATH
The following week I submitted a proposal to bid on a much better job at work. My boss was enthusiastic about the proposal. I called Duane at work with the news. He met me at the bus stop and proposed that we walk to the bar down the street to toast the possibilities. After three drinks, we bought a pack of cigarettes. We smoked a few, but threw the rest away at the bus stop on the way home.
The next week, a friend ask Duane to fix his car. When the job was done, he offered to buy Duane a drink. Duane came home with a pack of cigarettes with 3 missing. Together, we took care of another four. Duane placed the remainder in the freezer. It would be our "drinking pack," BUT we had to quit drinking AND smoking ALTOGETHER before Fat Tuesday. We would redeem ourselves over Lent....and live crappily ever after.
Duane bought beer the next day -- a 12-pack of his favorite, a 6-pack of mine. Over the next three days, we drank all of the beer and finished off the "drinking pack." By now, it was bothering me to watch people smoking at the bus stop. At the lobby shop at work, I caught myself noticing the cigarette display. I told Duane we had to stop ONCE AND FOR ALL or I was going to end up hooked again. He agreed. We decided to have on LAST HURRAH that weekend and THEN call it quits.
We did exactly that.
The first couple of days afterward, we would grumble at one another and blame the other for being too sensitive. I said I wasn't haven't physical symptoms, but some the emotional stuff sure felt like withdrawal. Duane said he didn't want to talk about it, analyze it or dwell on it. I told him he was being awfully touchy. He told me to shut up.
THE REFLECTIVE PERIOD
After about three days, we started being civil again and the I'm no longer staring at the bus stop smokers. We started to talk about ironic it is that the prison of addiction twisted into a symbol of freedom for us. I brought up The Early List. We laughed at how stupid it sounds now. We started talking about other rituals we have created in our lives that keep us from becoming dullards.
We decide to write a new list.
FAR MORE OFTEN THAN ONCE A YEAR, WE:
WALK IN THE RAIN WITHOUT UMBRELLAS.
TALK TO STRANGERS.
MAKE SOMETHING WITH OUR OWN HANDS.
READ A BOOK, ATTEND A PLAY OR SEE A MOVIE THAT'S BEEN LABELED CONTROVERSIAL.
MAKE SNOW ANGELS.
BREAK A SILLY RULE.
LEARN THE NAMES OF OUR WAITRESSES, CASHIERS, BUS DRIVERS AND REPAIR TECHNICIANS AND TREAT THEM LIKE FRIENDS.
WEAR HATS WE LIKE WITHOUT CARING IF IT WILL MESS UP OUR HAIR.
TALK ABOUT RELIGION, POLITICS AND SEX IN PUBLIC -- POLITELY, BUT NOT TOO QUIETLY.
SPEAK UP WHEN SOMEONE MAKES A BIGOTED REMARK OR TELLS AN OFFENSIVE JOKE.
ROLL ON THE GROUND, GIGGLING, WITH A CHILD, A DOG OR EACH OTHER.
HANG OUT PLACES WHERE NO ONE LOOKS LIKE US OR THINKS LIKE US.
TIP GENEROUSLY.
CONDUCT ENTIRE CONVERSATIONS IN RHYMING VERSE -- OR FILLED WITH BAD PUNS.
EAT SOMETHING WE'VE NEVER TRIED BEFORE.
SAY "THIS IS MY TREAT," HAPPILY AND OFTEN.
SING OUT LOUD, EVEN THOUGH NEITHER OF US DO IT WELL.
LAUGH OFTEN, MOSTLY AT OURSELVES.
We still have a hard time saying "forever" in reference to our redemption, but I no longer worry that the grandkids will think we're stiffs.
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The Zen of Quitting
CelticCrone
"All human power is a compound of time and patience."-- Honore de Balzac
Sometimes that most difficult concept to grasp in this process is that success depends largely on what you don't do. Western culture always emphasizes "action" in overcoming obstacles, but quitting smoking is one arena where just "holding on" is the key to victory.
It is a struggle made easier by knowing when to retreat: from temptation, from aggravating environments, from other people. It is a place where silence is often the wisest choice -- especially when you're feeling most indignant or self-righteous. It is a journey made easier by contemplation and introspection.
The heroes of this war may not have muscular physiques, superior intellects, cunning or even courage. Some of the best warriors on this battlefield possess one simple gift: patience.
So, wait. The craving will pass. Wait. Your ability to concentrate will return. Wait. Your physical symptoms will subside. Wait. Your blue mood will lift. Wait. There is the sweet air of freedom just down the road. To get there, just wait.
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Damming the Demon
CelticCrone
In the angst of perpetual relapse, I have spent a lot of time contemplating a way to reduce the allure of the "I can just have one" myth. I think the imagery that works best for me in deflating that temptation is visualizing the quitting process as a WPA dam project.
When you quit, your goal is to build a barrier between yourself and your addiction. Your challenge is twofold: find a way to keep the raging current of addiction held back, while you simultaneously construct a structure study enough to tame it permanently.
The first goal entails endless strategies for diverting addiction's course temporarily. The second is the tedious process of building the dam. You must build a framework of support ("Q-beams" work well!), then slowly build upward. Each craving outlasted, each trigger ignored, is a brick. Patiently, you watch it grow into this monument to self-control, strong enough to not only hold back the torrent, but to transform the churning water into a calm reservoir.
At some point, you look at this massive structure you have built and, swollen with pride, deem it indestructible. You overlook the fact that its permanence is dependent on constant maintenance and vigilance against wear. You look at this enormous barrier and wonder what harm could one cigarette do -- one tiny, tiny hole in this monstrous dam. You forget that just on the other side is your addiction, standing almost as tall as your barrier. You are lulled by the calmness of the water, forgetful of it's angry, raging past.
At first, it works, this dam of yours. A small, innocuous drip seeps through that tiny cigarette hole, but the dam is not endangered. Slowly, slowly over the days ahead the drip becomes a trickle and the trickle starts to pick up speed. The mortar around the opening loosens and tiny chinks are washed away.
The destruction now begins in earnest; ever larger pieces are blown out by ever increasing gallons of water. What took months and months to build is transformed to rubble in days and hours.
Standing amid that heap of bricks and mud, the courage to begin again, the stamina to start all over -- brick upon brick upon brick -- seem beyond your grasp. The weight of defeat and guilt sap you of strength and hope. Even the knowledge that you succeeded in this endeavor once before does not soothe you when you're standing ankle deep in ruin.
You are the architect of your dam, but you are also the maintenance crew. Do not let the glory of one role allow you to neglect the other.