Dear Cigarette,

you stink.

Once, I enjoyed when we were together. You were a good friend in times of need – always relaxing, always understanding, but for me, these times have long since come to an end.
Over the years, I have grown tired of you – but no matter how I try to show you the door, you still refuse to leave.
I will keep trying… and maybe one day, I will be strong enough to kick you out once and for all – for you, my former friend, are an unwanted guest.

Sincerely,
The Addicted

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thank you.

I love it when people get me thinking.

For one of my recent blog posts, I chose the topic addiction. YourOtherMotherHere, author of The BreastfedBlog left me an exceptional comment.
She wrote:

“I read once that the hardest thing a human being can do is fight an addiction because you are actually fighting your own mind.”

It reverberates… and is just too special to be buried in the comments section.

Thank you for sharing this with me/us.
Amazing.

Cigarettes and the Incredible Hulk(ette)

I quit smoking three days ago.

Grrrr.
To those who don’t know what I look like, this is me… right now.
Nice to meet you.

Woman-Hulk

For the past couple of days, I have gnawed my way through around 1000 toothpicks, violently attacked a gazillion sugar-free (bleh) bubble gums with my chompers, accidentally swallowed about half of them (I would not be totally surprised if my rear end decided to start blowing happy little bubbles soon), crayoned my way through a coloring book for children and even started knitting socks! The embarrassing things we do to keep the mind busy.

Quitting sucks.
But it has to be done.

It  all started a few weeks ago. Flu Season ruled Germany and I (like so many others) surrendered to the seemingly irresistible trend of coughing and wheezing. It looked like a ‘must-have’ at that time, so of course I joined the fun.
I was pretty much down and out for a couple of days, but as soon as I got better and could draw a few breaths without coughing, I went back to smoking.

I know. Very wise decision.
What lengths addicts go to. So very proud of myself.

The cough never really stopped, but I nevertheless kept smoking, thinking it would get better eventually.
Last Friday, I got struck down by the flu yet again. This time with a nice ‘light pneumonia’ as an extra treat diagnose on the side.
The doctor who examined me joyfully said, “Hey, do you want an Oxygen Tank when you’re 50? Keep on smoking!”

That hit home.
Hard.

I work in Health Care.
It is not that I don’t know all the risks; hell, I preach them occasionally – but I guess I never really listened to myself.
Now, I am freaking embarrassed.
How fucking stupid is it to light a cigarette when you can barely breathe, just to satisfy these nagging voices in your head, yelling at you to surrender to addiction?!
How fucking stupid is it to let objects, that come in little packs and look so tiny, enslave you?

Am I really so weak that I let them rule my life???

Just saying.
I am thankful my doctor put it that way.
No, I don’t want an Oxygen Tank. I want to be able to breathe all on my own.
It scared the crap out of me.
I guess sometimes you have to hear something a thousand times, before you actually listen.
My, what thick skulls we have.

I do not know where I will end up with my struggle.
I am far from saying I will never touch a cigarette again – because right now, those disgusting little false friends are pretty much all I can think about. My mouth is tingling, I’m totally on edge, I am pretty sure my skin is actually turning green (note to self: put a Danger! Keep Out! – sign on the front door and pray any possible surprise visitors heed the warning) and I am daydreaming about lighting 10 cigarettes at once, drowning in a delicious cloud of blue smoke.

Instead, I will put toothpick #1001 between my teeth, snarl at my taunting thoughts and keep on scolding all the furniture in my apartment.

I know, I created a monster.
But damn, that monster desperately wants to keep breathing past the age of 50.

Wish me luck.
Grrrr.

**********************************
photo credits: uk-muscle.co.uk

beauty’s cruel face

falling.
it is all he remembers.

huddled in the corner of the dark, dank room, he tries not to feel. not to think. not to engage in the same battle yet again.
sanity versus longing.
a hopeless attempt.
despite his efforts, the image of her is still fresh on his mind; no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to shake it off.

her eyes.
those cold, feline eyes staring down at him.
so beautiful.

he shivers in the darkness.
no light. time does not exist.

has it been days now? months? years?

he can’t remember.

the soft shuffle of bare feet on naked earth makes him sit up straighter. he braces himself for yet another encounter with her.
the woman.
the Goddess.

the battered, wooden door opens agonizingly slow.

it is her.

taking her time, she steps into the room, placing her bare feet gracefully on the hard-packed earth. her legs, long and slender; playfully covered by the thin, silky gown caressing her skin; her body, a silhouette, illuminated from behind.
he swallows, licks his parched, chapped lips.
perfection.

the immaculate, pale skin of her arms and chest seems to glow as she bends down to him, her hand moving up to his shoulder ever so slowly.

finally.
cold. so cold.

her frozen lips slightly parted, she delicately runs her slender fingers from his shoulder down to the center of his chest.
he shivers.

he feels neither thirst, nor hunger. neither exhaustion, nor pain.
he feels only her touch.
he craves… only her.

so this is it. the end of all things.

and as her lips draw closer to seal his fate, he loses himself in her cold, feline eyes.
there will be no dawn tomorrow.

addiction

smoke billows lazily from her slightly parted lips. the nervous tap tap tap of her long fingernails on the table draws his eyes, again. her eyes averted, she slouches in her chair; her expression… unreadable.
he wishes she would stop.
he wishes she would stop hiding behind her mechanisms and face him – but how could he force her?! he would never.
the haunting tick tock of the kitchen clock rings in his ears, adding eerie frequencies to her fingernails’ rhythm.
coffee, black. long gone cold, but he clings to the mug, holding on for dear life, needing to feel something solid, and yet fearing it might break in his sweaty palms.

how could she do this to him?
how could she face yet another trial and have nothing to say?
he can see the mockery – purple, taunting, on the side of her neck.
he can smell the cologne on her skin, her clothes.
he can see the color of her lips, just a shade too red… raw, from kissing someone else’s lips.
and yet, she sits there… silent, numb. not offering one word, not even trying to mask her failure.
he watches her put out her cigarette.
he watches her pick at her chipped nail polish.

will this ever end?

the fight, long gone from their postures; only helplessness remains.
to the sound of the judgemental kitchen clock, they endure yet another endless night… with no hope for a brighter tomorrow.