Where Do You Draw the Line?

I’m sitting here thinking about how I leave gooey lung chunks all over the screen of my laptop when reading my favorite blog.  It makes me laugh to the point where I start hacking and gagging and crying.  For normal people laughter is the best medicine.  For me?  Not so much with the smoker’s cough.  Tell me if you’ve heard this one before – “Careful.  You might cough up a lung.”

ANYWAY

Here’s the thing.  Some people are all loosey goosey about nicotine.  Maybe your everyday social smoker, or one of those who are all “I only smoke when I’m drinking.”  Then there are those that can smoke for years and just all of a sudden quit with no problems whatsoever.  Well, let me tell you I am NOT one of those people.

This is my story.  When I think about quitting, I tend to have small panic attacks.  You know those things where you’re chest gets all tight and your mind races and you find it hard to breathe.  Yeah, that’s just when I think about it.  Bet you’re dying to know what happens when I actually give it a shot…

Even if you aren’t, I’m gonna tell you anyway.  Here goes.

I have made the attempt numerous times.  Even with outside assistance from family, friends, prescription narcotics, patches, gums, lozenges and being hypnotized, among other things, I have failed miserably.  One person who has seen first hand the negative effects of my withdrawal is my mom.  She has seen the worst of it.  Others may have caught a glimpse, but my mom has gotten to witness the horror uncensored more than a few times.

The most recent incident was when I was in the hospital on bed rest for 3 weeks while pregnant with my last baby.  And yes, I smoked while I was pregnant.  With all three kids.  I’m not proud.  We’ll get to that later.  Anyhoo, needless to say they don’t let you get your smoke on in the hospital.  They basically had to drag me kicking and screaming to the labor and delivery unit.  I didn’t wanna go!  You can’t smoke in there!  (sick right?)  Once admitted (should have been the psych unit), I was okay.  Sort of.  I kept thinking to myself “it’s ok.  you don’t need one.  they’re bad for you and the baby anyway.  this is good. this is good. this is good. GET ME THE HELL OUTTA HERE!!! this is good.  AT LEAST KNOCK MY ASS OUT!!! I’m gonna lose it on this chick if she tells me one more time that she’s sorry she can’t stop blowing my veins and digging with the IV.  I’m gonna freakin lose it.” Instead, I’m smiling and joking and assuring the nurse that I don’t mind, I’m used to it.  I ask if they could possibly see if the doc would prescribe me some nicotine patches to take the edge off.  I got my patch, and for about 5 solid minutes I didn’t think about mutilating any innocent bystanders.  Meanwhile, my mom, who brought me to the hospital, has tears running down her face because she knows.  She.  Knows.  She cried while EVERY NURSE ON DUTY tried to start an IV.  She held my hand while they did it.  She cried and held me when I cried because of the withdrawal and my inability to hold myself together.   Yes, I was crying because I was crying.  There were lots and lots of tears.  I felt so incredibly ridiculous because I was going on like this for something like 3 days and nights.  How can anyone be this upset because they can’t have a friggin cigarette?  Why is it that I just can’t be a big girl and get over it.  So my mom stayed right there and held my hand and petted me and soothed, like only she can do.  I would try to stop the blubbering when a nurse would walk in the room, because I didn’t want to look like an ass, or a whiner, or get a pity party.  I am well aware that there are others out there who have WAY bigger problems.  I didn’t wan’t them to think that I believed my problems took precedence.  But, as soon as they would ask me if everything was okay, the floodgates were blown open once again.  My poor mom.  Those poor nurses.  My poor doctor.  So the days dragged on and on.  I crocheted, I sudoku’d, I iPod-ed, till I was blue in the face and close to stabbing someone in the eye with the crochet needle.

One morning, my doctor came to see me during her rounds.  As soon as she walked in the door I lost it.  She had seen me lose it before, so this was nothing new.  She looked at me and in a hushed whisper told me that she was going give me doctor’s orders to get 15 minutes of fresh air every day.  She told me with a wink that it would help with the “cabin fever”.  We both knew this was not my issue and we both knew that I was not going to get any “fresh” air.  How bad off and completely psychotic do you have to be to inspire your doctor to give you orders for smoke breaks. (Rhetorical there.)  I thought I was hiding it pretty good.  Guess not.

Ok, so I’m going on and on and on here.  Sorry.

The crying and inward badgering and self-loathing, that doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface.  Everything I do, everywhere I go, everything I see,  every move I make is associated with smoking.  In the car (not with the kids, I’m not quite that ignorant), after a meal, after a diaper change, after a movie, after waking up, after sex, after feeding the baby, after washing the dishes, after going to the bathroom, after taking a shower, during makeup application, while on the computer, and so on and so forth.  If it is possible to be smoking, I am.  Without fail.  I also tend to get really, really mean.  Not your normal I -just-quit-smoking kind of mean, either. Frighteningly mean.  I am so very much not a mean person.  In fact, I’m a bit passive agressive.  I avoid confrontation like the plague.  But without nicotine I am a monster.  Also, if an opportunity presents itself where I can’t smoke?  Opportunity missed.  Going on a long road trip?  Two cars.  One for me and one for the rest of the family.  This is all so pathetic and sad, and yet so true.  It will be a miracle if I press the publish button.  I don’t want people to know how hopeless and pathetic I am.  I don’t want to be that person who lets something as petty as a cigarette control their every move.  I certainly don’t want to air my dirty laundry for sympathy or criticism.

On to the smoking while pregnant thing.  I know it’s f-ed up.  I know it’s wrong.  I know I should have quit.  I know the damage it can do.  I know that it made people think that I didn’t care about my unborn children (which couldn’t be further from the truth).  This is what the drug does.  It makes you believe that everything will be okay.  It tells you lies.  It gives you the wherewithal to make excuses for yourself and what you’re doing.  And I am a certified professional at making excuses for smoking.  (see entire post)

I know what you’re thinking.  ”Two of her kids were pre-mature.  Obviously it was because she smoked.”  I would really like to believe it wasn’t.  There were so many factors that caused their prematurity I’ll never know for sure if it was partly my fault or not.  For instance, the Pre-eclampsia, Toxemia, Pulmonary Edema, Pitting Edema, stroke level blood pressure, excessive weight, stress, withdrawal,  migraines from dangerously high blood pressure, etc.  I will never stop kicking myself for it.  EVER.  It kills me to think of how selfish I was.  How selfish and stupid.  Water under the bridge.  I thank God every day for looking out for my babies when I didn’t.  I thank God every day that he gave me the privilege of having healthy happy babies when it was the last thing I deserved.

And still, I sit here typing with a cigarette burning in the ash-tray.

Gimme a W!!!

Gimme a T!!!

Gimme an F!!

My apologies for the not so fun post today.  Actually I’m not going to apologize.  I take that back.  I hope somebody sees this and uses it as an example of how they don’t want to end up.

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