Holy smokes (pun sort of intended), this morning was bad, bad, bad. The worst it's been, actually. It is somewhat counter-intuitive that it gets more difficult the longer you go (at least for me).
I bought a pack of smokes on my way to work. I also got a soda. I haven't had caffeine since I quit either, so I decided I was going to do it up, apparently. I felt weird and kind of panicky all morning. I was agitated and full of nervous energy, but also really tired, too. I did not do any of my usual morning routine. I didn't go to the gym, I didn't get dinner prepped for when I get home, I didn't spend any time on this site. I tossed and turned on the couch and then I took my blood pressure, which had gone back up to where it was on Sunday morning when I was still smoking.
That was just the catalyst I needed to make me decide to buy cigarettes, because I figured, what's the point? That, coupled with reading all the stories yesterday of people going 3, 5,13 years without smoking, who then ended up smoking again; well, to say that stopping smoking felt extremely futile this morning is an understatement.
So, I bought them. I opened them up and pulled one out and smelled it and put it in my mouth. I sat there like that for a minute or two with the lighter in my hand, with heart thudding loudly and painfully in my chest and then I started to cry. Because, once again, I felt like a huge failure. It didn't matter that I have a wonderful marriage to the love of my life or a great relationship with my family or great friends or a good job that I actually like. It didn't matter that I've been going to the gym and actually getting exercise for the first time in forever or that I had plans to do things around the yard and house this spring/summer--things that I've put off for years, because I would always get too winded to do any of them for very long. None of that mattered. All that mattered was that, once again, in spite of anything else I may have accomplished in my life, I was not able to beat this and therefore was just an effing failure.
Next to the deaths of my brother and father and grandmother and my moms's heart attack and broken hip, this was one of the worst moments I've ever experienced. That probably sound melodramatic, but it's true. So, I cried and wondered for the umpteenth time, why is this so, so hard for me to do???
I got out of the car and went to the trash can and threw the pack, the soda and the lighter away. I didn't smoke. I wanted to smoke almost more than I've ever wanted to do anything, but I didn't. But, it scared the crap out of me (and still does) at how close I came.
By this point, I was pretty much in the throes of a full-blown panic attack. I was shaking, dizzy, sweating--the works. So, I took a xanax and drove to the park near my house and sat there for a while until I calmed down. I called the hub and spoke to him for a bit and he made me laugh, as he almost always does, and I finally made my way to work. A little late, I might add, but I'm here, smoke free, barely.
Please tell me that it does get easier.