A year ago last night I smoked my last cigarette, tossed the butt into the campfire, and went to bed. The next three months were hell. I gained 25 pounds over the first four weeks mostly because I bought 3lb bulk bags of Rocket candies. I liked unrolling them from the cellophane. I liked popping them into my mouth, one at a time, and feeling them fizzle and melt on my tongue--tiny bursts of pleasure to replace the quick fix of a cigarette.
I dutifully continued my Champix prescription--the smoking-cessation drug that stole the pleasure from nicotine. Knowing that even if I did sneak a smoke it would do nothing for me, certainly helped keep me from temptation. Although I imagined (and often dreamed) about the relaxation,the stimulation, the comfort, the pain-relief that I'd get from dragging on a cigarette, filling my lungs, and exhaling—the reality was--I'd get no comfort.
Soon, Rockets no longer comforted me, either. The first six months were a continuous battle to find a replacement for cigarettes, a desperate seeking for something to fill that empty, cold, black hole in my gut, my soul, my life.
Excercising, forums/information/support at http://www.quitnet.com/ , pacing, eating, yoga, deep-breathing, family visits, phone calls, hikes, anti-depressants, bubblebaths, wonderfully supportive friends and family.
I create a website, learned to Tweet, began blogging, wrote novels, queried agents,and, yes, signed my very first publishing contract. “Schrodinger’s Cat”, a novella to be released by Wolfsinger Publications in both print and ebook format in 2011, is the fufilment of a childhood dream.
I’ve overcome my agony. I’ve learned, grown, stretched, cried, smiled and laughed. I’ve succeeded. All without the “help” of nicotine. There is a life beyond the butt. I still struggle with weight. Struggle with cravings. Struggle with the emptiness.
The best motto for me is that I can, at any time I want to, light up again. I don't, because I choose not to. That’s an important choice that others under control of the nicotine demons, don’t have. I’m free and intend to remain so.
I donated the first $1,000 I saved to the Haitian Red Cross earthquake relief and the second $1,000 to the Pakistan flood relief effort. It’s neat that so many have benefited from my quitting. It’s incentive for me to keep quit. Someone somewhere in the future is going to need monetary help and I’d feel pretty badly if I’d already wasted those needed dollars on a senseless harmful pleasure.
Thanks, guys for your unfailing support. Share with me in celebrating a full year free from cigarettes.
To join me in supporting the Red Cross Pakistan relief effort visit my personal Red Cross fundraising page http://my.e2rm.com/personalPage.aspx?registrationID=936168
Or visit my website http://www.eileenschuh.com/books-free-reads/ where I’m offering donors a free short story. Links to various charities precede “A Nepaterian Visitation”.
My Quit Smoking diary starts here: http://eileenschuh.blogspot.com/2009/08/on-addiction.html
Eileen Schuh,Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
Showing posts with label cravings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cravings. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Friday, November 20, 2009
Epiphany
E.piph.a.ny (noun) [i piffbnee]
1. sudden realization
A sudden intuitive leap of understanding, especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence.
Encarta Dictionary: English (North America)
I had intended ‘Magic of the Muses’ to be a blog about my journey towards publication. Instead, it turned into a diary of my Quest to Quit smoking. I reluctantly admitted that my blog was not attracting the attention of editors, writers, agents, and publishers, but rather drawing visits and comments from scientists, from those in the throes of nicotine withdrawal, and from those professing to hold the magic solution to addiction.
As I dealt with the pangs of quitting, I doggedly pursued my efforts to find an agent--pitching my adult novel, “Noraebang.” However, my obsession with cigarettes (or lack thereof) took a toll on my creativity. My writing efforts became limited to short email queries, blog updates on my battle with the butt, and incessant chatter on Quitnet forums.
When I hit day 60 smoke-free, I began proudly offering advice to those less seasoned in their quitting efforts, despite the fact I was becoming increasingly tense about finishing the last of my Champix prescription. It was about then that a Quitnet expert advised me that if I wanted to be a successful quitter, I had to give up my belief that cigarettes were pleasurable.
I didn’t think this was a viable concept as I considered the pleasure derived from nicotine a ‘fact’, not a ‘belief’.
However, I remembered once reading that one should be wary of putting too much faith in facts. Facts change. For example, it was once a fact that man could not journey to the moon. Was the pleasure of smoking a malleable fact like man’s space-travelling abilities? Or was it an unchangeable and forever kind of fact, like 1 + 1 = 2?
During each of my three pregnancies, cigarettes (both mine and others) were obnoxious and nauseating—not really a pleasure. Perhaps there was some flexibility to the fact. Perhaps cigarettes weren’t pleasurable when I was pregnant and weren’t pleasurable to some people, but...if I were to, say, suck back a Player’s Smooth with tomorrow morning’s coffee, could I actually believe that experience would not be pleasurable?
An ad hoc poll of my ex-smoking buddies showed them evenly split between those who believed cigarettes were no longer pleasurable, and those who had no doubts that they were. If I could bring myself to believe that smoking was a disgusting, unsatisfying activity, it would certainly be a fair bit easier to give up my cravings, resist temptation, and get on with a smoke-free life—forever. But was it at all possible?
Was it even sane to convince oneself to believe something that one knows isn’t true? I worried I was doomed to be a slave to nicotine. And all the pain and panic of the past weeks would be for nought.
Then something strange happened.
I opened my eyes one morning, pushed my Pomeranian away from my face, and knew something I hadn’t known when I went to sleep. I immediately panicked.
Although it is eerie that characters visit me, dictate stories to me, boss me around, and argue and stuff, I love writing and their stories are so interesting I find it easy to ignore the freakiness.
But this was different. I simply opened my eyes and my brain had this thought, "Quitting smoking is just like 'Noraebang'".
And I go, “Yeah, like right.” The pom is again licking my face—a sure sign that he needs to go out. I toss him to the floor. Some of the characters in my novel, “Noraebang,” smoke, but as far as I know, none of them quit.
My head insists on explaining the wayward thought, "The addiction--"
"Noraebang isn't about addiction,” I argue, reluctantly pushing back the covers and setting my feet on the floor. “It's about a woman in an abusive relationship." I swing my feet in circles to keep my toes away from the puppy’s tongue.
"And how does it end?"
"Not very well," I think dourly. I shuffle to the door and escort the pup onto the balcony. "I thought the heroine finally saw the villain for what he was in reality, but the moment there's an inkling of a chance that he loves her, Allie is back grovelling at his feet..."
"What was he in reality that she didn’t see?"
"Carbon was a scum bag! He raped her; beat her; abused and used her." I glower out across the leafless treetops. The misty morning autumn air slides under my nightie. I shiver. The pond is still. A lone Canada goose swoops in for a landing.
"Does the scum bag love her?"
"I have no idea. If he does, it certainly doesn't match my definition of love." I think about the ending to the story. I hadn’t wanted that ending. I had wanted my hapless heroine to be intelligent, strong--to be guided by commonsense. I wanted her to discover real love, not remained trapped by her misplaced loyalty to an abusive man.
"Does she love him?"
"Yeah. Unfortunately..." The dog is scratching at the door to go back in.
"Why?"
A flock of geese floats in over the far hill. My lone goose rises to join his brethren. I follow the dog back into the bedroom.
"I don't know why she loves him. His sparkling eyes? Perhaps his deception?”
It wasn’t easy knowing why she loved him. He’d lied to her about his feelings, his motives...lied about everything. I open the bedroom door and puppy runs to find his master. I hear coffee perking. I close the door to the smell of fresh ground Arabica and shuffle to the ensuite.
“At one time,” I point out to myself, “she needed to bond with him to survive. Maybe she's scared of what life will be like without him. Maybe it gives her justification for falling for him in the first place."
"Ahh, I see. Substitute "she" in the preceding conversation with 'Eileen' and "he" with 'cigarettes' and what have you got?"
Does Eileen love cigarettes?
Yeah. Unfortunately...
Why?
I don't know why. Cigarette’s sparking eyes? Perhaps cigarette’s deception? At one time, I needed them. Cigarettes lied to me about their feelings, their motives...lied about everything. Maybe I’m scared of what life will be like without cigarettes. Maybe it gives me justification for starting to smoke in the first place....
Yes, my life surprisingly parallels that of a heroine in a novel I’d written long before I’d even considered giving up cigarettes. I hadn’t known then, hadn’t known until now that entanglement in an abusive relationship was so similar to an addiction.
I stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror. My heroine didn’t learn to ‘unlove’ her abuser as I had wanted, but perhaps I ought to quit loving nicotine and see it for the villainous, dangerous, abusive, enslaving thing that it is. I was beginning to believe it was possible, imperative. I sigh and turn from the mirror.
Now, if only Allie had come to believe Carbon was a no good rotter...
Ephiphany: A sudden intuitive leap of understanding, especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence.
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
1. sudden realization
A sudden intuitive leap of understanding, especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence.
Encarta Dictionary: English (North America)
I had intended ‘Magic of the Muses’ to be a blog about my journey towards publication. Instead, it turned into a diary of my Quest to Quit smoking. I reluctantly admitted that my blog was not attracting the attention of editors, writers, agents, and publishers, but rather drawing visits and comments from scientists, from those in the throes of nicotine withdrawal, and from those professing to hold the magic solution to addiction.
As I dealt with the pangs of quitting, I doggedly pursued my efforts to find an agent--pitching my adult novel, “Noraebang.” However, my obsession with cigarettes (or lack thereof) took a toll on my creativity. My writing efforts became limited to short email queries, blog updates on my battle with the butt, and incessant chatter on Quitnet forums.
When I hit day 60 smoke-free, I began proudly offering advice to those less seasoned in their quitting efforts, despite the fact I was becoming increasingly tense about finishing the last of my Champix prescription. It was about then that a Quitnet expert advised me that if I wanted to be a successful quitter, I had to give up my belief that cigarettes were pleasurable.
I didn’t think this was a viable concept as I considered the pleasure derived from nicotine a ‘fact’, not a ‘belief’.
However, I remembered once reading that one should be wary of putting too much faith in facts. Facts change. For example, it was once a fact that man could not journey to the moon. Was the pleasure of smoking a malleable fact like man’s space-travelling abilities? Or was it an unchangeable and forever kind of fact, like 1 + 1 = 2?
During each of my three pregnancies, cigarettes (both mine and others) were obnoxious and nauseating—not really a pleasure. Perhaps there was some flexibility to the fact. Perhaps cigarettes weren’t pleasurable when I was pregnant and weren’t pleasurable to some people, but...if I were to, say, suck back a Player’s Smooth with tomorrow morning’s coffee, could I actually believe that experience would not be pleasurable?
An ad hoc poll of my ex-smoking buddies showed them evenly split between those who believed cigarettes were no longer pleasurable, and those who had no doubts that they were. If I could bring myself to believe that smoking was a disgusting, unsatisfying activity, it would certainly be a fair bit easier to give up my cravings, resist temptation, and get on with a smoke-free life—forever. But was it at all possible?
Was it even sane to convince oneself to believe something that one knows isn’t true? I worried I was doomed to be a slave to nicotine. And all the pain and panic of the past weeks would be for nought.
Then something strange happened.
I opened my eyes one morning, pushed my Pomeranian away from my face, and knew something I hadn’t known when I went to sleep. I immediately panicked.
Although it is eerie that characters visit me, dictate stories to me, boss me around, and argue and stuff, I love writing and their stories are so interesting I find it easy to ignore the freakiness.
But this was different. I simply opened my eyes and my brain had this thought, "Quitting smoking is just like 'Noraebang'".
And I go, “Yeah, like right.” The pom is again licking my face—a sure sign that he needs to go out. I toss him to the floor. Some of the characters in my novel, “Noraebang,” smoke, but as far as I know, none of them quit.
My head insists on explaining the wayward thought, "The addiction--"
"Noraebang isn't about addiction,” I argue, reluctantly pushing back the covers and setting my feet on the floor. “It's about a woman in an abusive relationship." I swing my feet in circles to keep my toes away from the puppy’s tongue.
"And how does it end?"
"Not very well," I think dourly. I shuffle to the door and escort the pup onto the balcony. "I thought the heroine finally saw the villain for what he was in reality, but the moment there's an inkling of a chance that he loves her, Allie is back grovelling at his feet..."
"What was he in reality that she didn’t see?"
"Carbon was a scum bag! He raped her; beat her; abused and used her." I glower out across the leafless treetops. The misty morning autumn air slides under my nightie. I shiver. The pond is still. A lone Canada goose swoops in for a landing.
"Does the scum bag love her?"
"I have no idea. If he does, it certainly doesn't match my definition of love." I think about the ending to the story. I hadn’t wanted that ending. I had wanted my hapless heroine to be intelligent, strong--to be guided by commonsense. I wanted her to discover real love, not remained trapped by her misplaced loyalty to an abusive man.
"Does she love him?"
"Yeah. Unfortunately..." The dog is scratching at the door to go back in.
"Why?"
A flock of geese floats in over the far hill. My lone goose rises to join his brethren. I follow the dog back into the bedroom.
"I don't know why she loves him. His sparkling eyes? Perhaps his deception?”
It wasn’t easy knowing why she loved him. He’d lied to her about his feelings, his motives...lied about everything. I open the bedroom door and puppy runs to find his master. I hear coffee perking. I close the door to the smell of fresh ground Arabica and shuffle to the ensuite.
“At one time,” I point out to myself, “she needed to bond with him to survive. Maybe she's scared of what life will be like without him. Maybe it gives her justification for falling for him in the first place."
"Ahh, I see. Substitute "she" in the preceding conversation with 'Eileen' and "he" with 'cigarettes' and what have you got?"
Does Eileen love cigarettes?
Yeah. Unfortunately...
Why?
I don't know why. Cigarette’s sparking eyes? Perhaps cigarette’s deception? At one time, I needed them. Cigarettes lied to me about their feelings, their motives...lied about everything. Maybe I’m scared of what life will be like without cigarettes. Maybe it gives me justification for starting to smoke in the first place....
Yes, my life surprisingly parallels that of a heroine in a novel I’d written long before I’d even considered giving up cigarettes. I hadn’t known then, hadn’t known until now that entanglement in an abusive relationship was so similar to an addiction.
I stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror. My heroine didn’t learn to ‘unlove’ her abuser as I had wanted, but perhaps I ought to quit loving nicotine and see it for the villainous, dangerous, abusive, enslaving thing that it is. I was beginning to believe it was possible, imperative. I sigh and turn from the mirror.
Now, if only Allie had come to believe Carbon was a no good rotter...
Ephiphany: A sudden intuitive leap of understanding, especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence.
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Beware: The power of your pen
I've been Quit 68 days. Saved $448.80. Salvaged 7 days, 17 hours of my life.
I get those stats from the Quitnet website which includes discussion forums for quitters, expert advice, links to personal advisers, a buddy system--lots of good stuff. I enjoy this site because not only does it support my quit, but it's a chance for me to help others who are quitting. (http://www.alberta.quitnet.com/)
I'll let the following excerpt from an email I wrote to my good friend and confidante, C**, relate what happened next....
Hi, C**
I managed to antagonize users of another forum--my Quitnet forum! I have a fellow quitter accusing me of trying to lure ex-smokers back to cigarettes!
Sheesh! What does he think I am? A nicotine demon hired by the tobacco companies to infiltrate Quitnet and lure back their customers? What the hell? It upset me. Lots. Remember I advised you that one should only hand over the power to hurt to those we respect? I didn't follow that advice.
I have spent lots of time on the Qnet forums offering support and encouragment, so the one time when I seek advice and encouragement and get shot down like that.... I guess I ought to have had more of a sense of humour about it. [Writing emails to you always sparks that possibility.] Actually, for the first time since it happened, I'm finding myself giggling about it. Thanks, C**, for giving me that perspective.
What happened was I wrote an email to Qnet's experts saying I only had a couple of weeks left on my Champix prescription and was scared I'd go back to smoking once it ran out. I was told (among other tidbits of advice) that to be a successful quitter I had to stop believing cigarettes were pleasurable. This startling advice was akin to being told I would inherit a billion dollars as soon as I believed the ocean wasn't salty...
So, that was the question I posed on Quitnet: had anyone out there been able to come to believe that cigarettes aren't pleasurable? Surprisingly (to me), there are many who have and many who believe this is a prerequisite to successful quitting.
One lady responded that since I hadn't believed cigarettes were pleasurable before I became addicted, it was just a matter of returning to that state of mind. To which I replied, it was not all that simple a step for me as I had found cigarettes pleasurable long before I took my first puff-- and in rather flowery, powerful language explained how as a child I'd been entranced by my father's smoking habit.
Do you suppose it was that wonderful piece of prose--describing slender swirls of blue twirling up the sunbeams...the contented look in my father's eyes...the wondrous aroma when he opened a fresh can of tobacco--
D'ya think that's what made him suspect me of infiltrating????
Thanks, C**. It now seems totally humorous to me.... No more tears...
---------------
I had intended my Qnet words to communicate my powerful affinity to nicotine. I thought if others better understood my addiction they'd be able to offer me more appropriate advice and encouragement. It was all about me.
Until I wrote the above email to C**, I had not considered the effect my alluring words might have on a community of people trying to quit.
Writers--always keep your readers in mind. Beware: The power of your pen...
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
I get those stats from the Quitnet website which includes discussion forums for quitters, expert advice, links to personal advisers, a buddy system--lots of good stuff. I enjoy this site because not only does it support my quit, but it's a chance for me to help others who are quitting. (http://www.alberta.quitnet.com/)
I'll let the following excerpt from an email I wrote to my good friend and confidante, C**, relate what happened next....
Hi, C**
I managed to antagonize users of another forum--my Quitnet forum! I have a fellow quitter accusing me of trying to lure ex-smokers back to cigarettes!
Sheesh! What does he think I am? A nicotine demon hired by the tobacco companies to infiltrate Quitnet and lure back their customers? What the hell? It upset me. Lots. Remember I advised you that one should only hand over the power to hurt to those we respect? I didn't follow that advice.
I have spent lots of time on the Qnet forums offering support and encouragment, so the one time when I seek advice and encouragement and get shot down like that.... I guess I ought to have had more of a sense of humour about it. [Writing emails to you always sparks that possibility.] Actually, for the first time since it happened, I'm finding myself giggling about it. Thanks, C**, for giving me that perspective.
What happened was I wrote an email to Qnet's experts saying I only had a couple of weeks left on my Champix prescription and was scared I'd go back to smoking once it ran out. I was told (among other tidbits of advice) that to be a successful quitter I had to stop believing cigarettes were pleasurable. This startling advice was akin to being told I would inherit a billion dollars as soon as I believed the ocean wasn't salty...
So, that was the question I posed on Quitnet: had anyone out there been able to come to believe that cigarettes aren't pleasurable? Surprisingly (to me), there are many who have and many who believe this is a prerequisite to successful quitting.
One lady responded that since I hadn't believed cigarettes were pleasurable before I became addicted, it was just a matter of returning to that state of mind. To which I replied, it was not all that simple a step for me as I had found cigarettes pleasurable long before I took my first puff-- and in rather flowery, powerful language explained how as a child I'd been entranced by my father's smoking habit.
Do you suppose it was that wonderful piece of prose--describing slender swirls of blue twirling up the sunbeams...the contented look in my father's eyes...the wondrous aroma when he opened a fresh can of tobacco--
D'ya think that's what made him suspect me of infiltrating????
Thanks, C**. It now seems totally humorous to me.... No more tears...
---------------
I had intended my Qnet words to communicate my powerful affinity to nicotine. I thought if others better understood my addiction they'd be able to offer me more appropriate advice and encouragement. It was all about me.
Until I wrote the above email to C**, I had not considered the effect my alluring words might have on a community of people trying to quit.
Writers--always keep your readers in mind. Beware: The power of your pen...
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The Circle of Time
This is my 44th consecutive smoke-free day. As my life as a smoker draws to a close, my career as a writer opens wide.
Life is a fabric woven from segments like these--intertwined memories and expectations, beginnings and endings, past, present, future--self and the universe. I am the pattern that emerges from this tapestry of choices and fate, traumas and celebrations, failures and triumphs. As it is with the universe, this pattern that is me is ever changing, ever renewing, ever becoming.
Most writers blog about the use of the semicolon, the proper format for a query letter, the upcoming release of their newest book, the source of inspiration, etc. Likewise, I intended to use "Magic of the Muses" to showcase my skill as a writer, promote the novels I've written, find the agent/publisher I'm seeking. My blog, however, evolved into an intimate diary of my quest to quit smoking.
Between the hours involved in blogging about this quest, and the time spent pacing and eating--distracted by cravings and pain--my writing career seemed to be going nowhere. Yet, in my inbox an email from an agent appeared, requesting a copy of my novel, "Noraebang" to review. Next came a tweet from an American scientist, interested in my tweeted and blogged campaign to quit.
As my nicotine cravings gradually fade along with the need to write about them, my time becomes increasing devoted to cultivating the interest in my writing sparked by "Magic of the Muses".
I am diligently pursuing an agent, preparing queries and answering responses. I'll keep you posted. Perhaps my next blog will be entitled, "Me and my Agent".
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
Life is a fabric woven from segments like these--intertwined memories and expectations, beginnings and endings, past, present, future--self and the universe. I am the pattern that emerges from this tapestry of choices and fate, traumas and celebrations, failures and triumphs. As it is with the universe, this pattern that is me is ever changing, ever renewing, ever becoming.
Most writers blog about the use of the semicolon, the proper format for a query letter, the upcoming release of their newest book, the source of inspiration, etc. Likewise, I intended to use "Magic of the Muses" to showcase my skill as a writer, promote the novels I've written, find the agent/publisher I'm seeking. My blog, however, evolved into an intimate diary of my quest to quit smoking.
Between the hours involved in blogging about this quest, and the time spent pacing and eating--distracted by cravings and pain--my writing career seemed to be going nowhere. Yet, in my inbox an email from an agent appeared, requesting a copy of my novel, "Noraebang" to review. Next came a tweet from an American scientist, interested in my tweeted and blogged campaign to quit.
As my nicotine cravings gradually fade along with the need to write about them, my time becomes increasing devoted to cultivating the interest in my writing sparked by "Magic of the Muses".
I am diligently pursuing an agent, preparing queries and answering responses. I'll keep you posted. Perhaps my next blog will be entitled, "Me and my Agent".
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
Read a preview and excerpt from my novel
"Noraebang"
http://www.eileenschuh.com/noraebang/
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Day 36: Suck it up, Princess
I received an email about my last post, suggesting I shouldn't minimize my fight to quit smoking. Although others in the world may be facing greater and more painful challenges, addictions are a very serious issue for individuals and for society.
I have to agree. In fact, the woman who inspired me by working through the grief of losing her grandson to a drunk driver, was quite likely the victim of someone with an addiction--alcohol addiction. Addictions are the evil behind many criminal acts. [They have a prominent role in my crime novels which are previewed on my website: http://www.eileenschuh.com]
I did not intend last week's blog to minimize my addiction, my pain, or my efforts to quit. I believe, though, that I was attributing entirely too many words and exclamation marks to my weeping and moaning. I chose to start smoking and I chose to quit smoking. Lots of people, like the grandmother in my last blog, are hurting through no choice of their own.
So, what I was trying to say to myself was, "Suck it up, Princess!"
Although encouraging people to talk about their pains and problems is touted as a great stress reliever, studies have shown otherwise. During conversations about trauma, people react emotionally and physically as if they were actually experiencing the events. The moral? Sometimes it's best and healthiest to leave things be and move on--think about other things, other people, sunnier times, brighter futures.
To this end, I will briefly inform you--the cravings are much less frequent and less intense. My candy consumption is decreasing. And my husband has announced he is joining me in 'butting out' for keeps.
On a lighter note, I asked for tidbits of humour on Facebook and Twitter and promised I'd post on my blog the joke that made me laugh the most.
Thanks to Shevi Arnold for the following giggle: "Would everyone who believes in telekinesis, please raise my hand."
And, equally humorous, thanks to my cousin, Maureen, for the following laughs:
My face in the mirror isn't wrinkled or drawn.
My house isn't dirty, the cobwebs are gone.
My garden looks lovely and so does my lawn.
I think I might never, put my glasses back on!
A librarian admitted to hospital for surgery got this card from her associates: "If they take anything out make sure they sign for it!"
Funny Definitions:
BEAUTY PARLOR: a place where women curl up and dye
CHICKENS: the only creatures you eat before they are born and after they die.
EGOTIST: Someone who is usually me-deep in conversation.
TOOTHACHE: the pain that drives you to extraction!
Thanks, guys, for making me laugh!
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
I have to agree. In fact, the woman who inspired me by working through the grief of losing her grandson to a drunk driver, was quite likely the victim of someone with an addiction--alcohol addiction. Addictions are the evil behind many criminal acts. [They have a prominent role in my crime novels which are previewed on my website: http://www.eileenschuh.com]
I did not intend last week's blog to minimize my addiction, my pain, or my efforts to quit. I believe, though, that I was attributing entirely too many words and exclamation marks to my weeping and moaning. I chose to start smoking and I chose to quit smoking. Lots of people, like the grandmother in my last blog, are hurting through no choice of their own.
So, what I was trying to say to myself was, "Suck it up, Princess!"
Although encouraging people to talk about their pains and problems is touted as a great stress reliever, studies have shown otherwise. During conversations about trauma, people react emotionally and physically as if they were actually experiencing the events. The moral? Sometimes it's best and healthiest to leave things be and move on--think about other things, other people, sunnier times, brighter futures.
To this end, I will briefly inform you--the cravings are much less frequent and less intense. My candy consumption is decreasing. And my husband has announced he is joining me in 'butting out' for keeps.
On a lighter note, I asked for tidbits of humour on Facebook and Twitter and promised I'd post on my blog the joke that made me laugh the most.
Thanks to Shevi Arnold for the following giggle: "Would everyone who believes in telekinesis, please raise my hand."
And, equally humorous, thanks to my cousin, Maureen, for the following laughs:
My face in the mirror isn't wrinkled or drawn.
My house isn't dirty, the cobwebs are gone.
My garden looks lovely and so does my lawn.
I think I might never, put my glasses back on!
A librarian admitted to hospital for surgery got this card from her associates: "If they take anything out make sure they sign for it!"
Funny Definitions:
BEAUTY PARLOR: a place where women curl up and dye
CHICKENS: the only creatures you eat before they are born and after they die.
EGOTIST: Someone who is usually me-deep in conversation.
TOOTHACHE: the pain that drives you to extraction!
Thanks, guys, for making me laugh!
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
Monday, September 28, 2009
My pain is infinitesimal
I have nothing wise to say today about hitting Day #28 smoke-free. The cravings are less frequent, but their intensity has not diminished. This past weekend I was at a workshop and instead of being in the company of friends who'd successfully quit, I was with those who enjoyed their cigarettes. I could have had a puff. I could have stood outside the doors with them instead of being stuck at a table with ladies I didn't know.
I want to join my buddies for just one cigarette. No one would find out. The woman across from me asks what I do for a living. I begin telling her about my website, my blog, and my dream of becoming a published novelist. She tells me about a poem her young niece wrote as a tribute to our soldiers in Afghanistan. An announcement that the next sessions start in 3 minutes cuts short a very interesting conversation.
I'm caught up in the presentation on covert surveillance techniques and don't entertain a single thought about smoking until the next break. I longingly watch my buddies slip outside. I follow them, watch them through the glass doors, turn away and finger a red MADD ribbon on a display table. A framed photo of a smiling toddler catches my eye. The baby looks so much like my grandson.
"My daughter's boy," the woman behind the table says. "He was killed by a drunk driver." My heart leaps, my eyes moisten.
"I've been volunteering for Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) for the last 11 years--since it happened. I talk at schools. I talk to prisoners."
I stare at her, wondering from where she gets her courage.
"He lived with my daughter in our basement. I remember him calling up the stairs in the morning, 'Grandma, are you awake, yet?'"
A nicotine fix is the farthest thing from my mind.
"I remember tiptoeing in to see him as he slept. I remember thinking, 'I love you so much, I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you.'"
The workshop ends and I pull up to our cabin. My grandson greets me with a gurgle and a 5-toothed smile. I think of the stories that I would not have heard had I been on the other side of those glass doors.
I have nothing wise to say about being smoke-free. There's nothing I want to complain about. On a scale of 1 to 10, my pain is infinitesimal.
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
I want to join my buddies for just one cigarette. No one would find out. The woman across from me asks what I do for a living. I begin telling her about my website, my blog, and my dream of becoming a published novelist. She tells me about a poem her young niece wrote as a tribute to our soldiers in Afghanistan. An announcement that the next sessions start in 3 minutes cuts short a very interesting conversation.
I'm caught up in the presentation on covert surveillance techniques and don't entertain a single thought about smoking until the next break. I longingly watch my buddies slip outside. I follow them, watch them through the glass doors, turn away and finger a red MADD ribbon on a display table. A framed photo of a smiling toddler catches my eye. The baby looks so much like my grandson.
"My daughter's boy," the woman behind the table says. "He was killed by a drunk driver." My heart leaps, my eyes moisten.
"I've been volunteering for Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) for the last 11 years--since it happened. I talk at schools. I talk to prisoners."
I stare at her, wondering from where she gets her courage.
"He lived with my daughter in our basement. I remember him calling up the stairs in the morning, 'Grandma, are you awake, yet?'"
A nicotine fix is the farthest thing from my mind.
"I remember tiptoeing in to see him as he slept. I remember thinking, 'I love you so much, I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you.'"
The workshop ends and I pull up to our cabin. My grandson greets me with a gurgle and a 5-toothed smile. I think of the stories that I would not have heard had I been on the other side of those glass doors.
I have nothing wise to say about being smoke-free. There's nothing I want to complain about. On a scale of 1 to 10, my pain is infinitesimal.
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
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