It’s officially the two week mark of my endeavor to quit smoking. My conclusion?
Quitting smoking is really hard.
I’ll be honest… I haven’t exactly gone two weeks without a cigarette. I’ve cheated — pretty much every single day since March 11th, which if you remember from my original post on the topic, was the day I had set as my quit-date in honor of what would have been my grandfather’s 80th birthday were he still alive (and may he rest in peace).
I started off weak on that fateful Tuesday… I still had three cigarettes left in what should have been my last and final pack. Instead of throwing them away after ceremoniously breaking them in half, I smoked all three of them inside the two hours after I woke up and before I had to go to work. By the end of that first day, I was a complete wreck. I cried and nearly had a panic attack — and then I broke down and begged Bob for a cigarette. I had three more before bed time.
I made Bob hide the remaining cigarettes in the pack he bought just for my breakdown. We agreed they would be my “emergency” cigarettes, for those occasions where I felt like I needed to KILLABITCH. I’m officially coining that word as a unit of measurement for frustration/rage. In fact, by the end of the day, my mood had reached several killabitches.