I’ve been struggling with how to write about my 4th of July. I’m already finding myself whitewashing it in my mind, and composing a story that spins things so I’m the hero, but I think I need to go for brutal honesty here. Addiction is addiction, I’m not going to say anything that will be a surprise to anyone. But lying to myself will set me on the wrong path.
I spent the holiday weekend at our cabin in the woods of Upper Michigan. My family owns the place and we all take turns vacationing there. I’ve been going up there my whole life; it’s my favorite place in the world.
And oh my goodness, the smoking triggers are everywhere. The lake, the woods, sitting on the porch, fires, alcohol, relaxation, sunsets, sunrises, long walks, canoe rides, and more and more and more. And smoking has been part of all of it for the last 20 years.
I went up there by myself for the long weekend. I knew the triggers would be bad, and I thought I was prepared to deal with them. Instead, my very first night, I ransacked the place looking for any stray packs my aunt (the only smoker left in the family) might have left behind after her last trip.
I didn’t find any, thankfully. And I didn’t go into town to buy some, or to the cabin up the road to bum some. I wish I could say it was a fit of insanity that passed, but I did it again the next day when I realized she could have left some in the garage or in the glove compartment of the 4-wheeler. Ransacked the entire garage. Found lots of interesting stuff, but thankfully no cigs.
After that second fit I settled down and enjoyed the rest of my long weekend. I still wanted to smoke, but was able to deal with it the way I have been dealing with it all along, letting the thoughts drift in and out, and not giving them any importance. And I thoroughly enjoyed myself, I re-learned how to enjoy the cabin without cigarettes, and I came home yesterday a happy person.
But it scares the hell out of me, how close I was to coming home a relapsed smoker. What was so different up there? Was it the sense of isolation? Feeling that it wouldn’t have counted, or would have been my little secret or something? I knew it was wrong, knew I would regret it, but I still tore the place apart looking for some. And I would have smoked any I found.
Okay, confession over. Today is day 118 smoke-free, and still counting, thankfully. Shaken up, but moving on.