“I’m sorry,” he said and something about the slant of the spring sun coming in low through the window…perhaps something about the way it flattened itself across the oblate kitchen table… Or was it something in the long shadows that the mellow sun was casting behind me, across the floor and up the wall? Or was it something subliminal, hidden in the ticking of the mantle clock?
Something transported me back in time… Something.
“I’m sorry,” the old man was saying. He smelled like fresh-rolled tobacco and week-old cigarette smoke. He smelled of axle grease and musty hay and warm milk straight from the cow’s udder. He smelled like my father. The bed springs creaked. He rolled me toward him, tightly, so that his shirt buttons dinted my cheek. “It’s all right, now,” he was saying. “You’ll be okay.”
His wrist is pressed against my ear. His watch is ticking. “I’m sorry. Papa’s sorry.”
“Do you still love me?” my husband says.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
“I love you,” my father says. An hour later the sun has set. The lantern’s lit. The family sits around the supper table. Father still smells like axel grease and canned tobacco. He is smiling at us all. Mother says please and thank you and passes the bread and dishes out dollops from the hot bowls.
I’m wondering if nothing happened upstairs. I’m thinking that maybe things without words aren’t real. I smile and pass Papa the potatoes. I say, “You’re welcome” and eat everything on my plate. The sun sets and he wanders to the barn, the glow of his cigarette tracing his path in the dark. I heat the water, wash the dishes, and dump the slop. Before he gets back with the milk, I am in bed. I will sleep. In the morning, the sun will rise just as I put my feet on the floor. I will slip on my school clothes, eat porridge beside him, and wave goodbye as I run to the bus. Because he is sorry and nothing happened yesterday upstairs in the low mellow March sun.
“Shadri? Shadri? I’m sorry! Please, talk to me!” Please talk to me and smile and pass me my cigarettes and pretend nothing happened. Please? Because I said I’m sorry. Can I touch you? Can I kiss you? Can I make you feel better?
“Would you like some coffee? I’ll make some. Please, sit…”…in the mellow low spring sun and cast your long shadow behind you back in time while the clock ticks. “Shadri?”
He’s sorry for what? For hitting? Hitting too hard? Too often? For hurting? For not stopping? For what happened next? For keeping secrets? Maybe it's just money. His money. His secret. Maybe he is sorry.
“Shadri, I didn’t mean…”
Didn’t mean… Didn’t realize… Let me comfort… Let me hold… Let me wipe tears… silence your sobs… hold you… touch you… whisper…
“Shadri, come here. Give me a hug! Forgive me…”
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Can I kiss you? Can I hold you? Can I touch you? Can I rub you? Can I make it better? Will you kiss me?
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
I’m sorry do you love me here’s your coffee I love you pass the potatoes please look in my eyes please sit please forgive smile you’re all right it’s okay I love you please put your fingers here...
Nothing happened, okay?
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
www.eileenschuh.com
Showing posts with label women's issues. Show all posts
Showing posts with label women's issues. Show all posts
Monday, March 15, 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/
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Pangs, Pains, & Panic
Twenty-two smoke-free days and it strikes me that if smoking is like Twittering, quitting is like being in labour. The cravings--intense, painful, and raw--like contractions, come and go. Quitting smoking, like labouring, has positive results--that reportedly are well-worth the agony. However, that's about where the similarities end.
There's no one here to give me demerol, morphine, or a spinal to ease the pain when I'm in the throws of a craving. There's no one to assure me that the doctor won't let the cravings continue for more than 18 hours. There's no one rubbing my back, telling me that I'm half-way through my craving, and begging me to hang in there.
No one saying, "Breath deep. Keep breathing."
Two things kept me from panicking in the labour room. One was timing my contractions and knowing when I was half-way through them. The other was realizing that women for eons had being doing this and, therefore, I would too.
Knowing that the cravings will pass, provides a bit of comfort, but knowing others have successfully quit smoking doesn't help me much--because I also know that unlike labour, many have tried and failed. If three hours into labour a woman could change her mind and opt out of the pregnancy plan, we likely wouldn't have an over-population problem. However, in the quest to quit smoking, there is a choice. And everyone who tries to quit knows there is. That choice results in a hell of a lot more people failing in their attempt to quit than succeeding. I cannot comfort myself with the knowledge that all this pain is guaranteed to result in success.
I'm panicking. For over three weeks I've engaged in a distracting, agonizing, personal, and lonely battle with the nicotine demons. It's a battle I'm imagining will last forever. Again and again my soul will scream out for comfort. For years, I'll be restlessly wandering the house, empty and dark inside. Forever, I'll hear demonic voices whispering tales about the pleasures of 'Players.'
An endless battle I'm not assured of winning. The enticing option to retreat always there. No ointment to soothe my wounds. No deadline to win the war. Pangs, pain, and panic.
DOES ANYONE OUT THERE HEAR MY PAIN?
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
There's no one here to give me demerol, morphine, or a spinal to ease the pain when I'm in the throws of a craving. There's no one to assure me that the doctor won't let the cravings continue for more than 18 hours. There's no one rubbing my back, telling me that I'm half-way through my craving, and begging me to hang in there.
No one saying, "Breath deep. Keep breathing."
Two things kept me from panicking in the labour room. One was timing my contractions and knowing when I was half-way through them. The other was realizing that women for eons had being doing this and, therefore, I would too.
Knowing that the cravings will pass, provides a bit of comfort, but knowing others have successfully quit smoking doesn't help me much--because I also know that unlike labour, many have tried and failed. If three hours into labour a woman could change her mind and opt out of the pregnancy plan, we likely wouldn't have an over-population problem. However, in the quest to quit smoking, there is a choice. And everyone who tries to quit knows there is. That choice results in a hell of a lot more people failing in their attempt to quit than succeeding. I cannot comfort myself with the knowledge that all this pain is guaranteed to result in success.
I'm panicking. For over three weeks I've engaged in a distracting, agonizing, personal, and lonely battle with the nicotine demons. It's a battle I'm imagining will last forever. Again and again my soul will scream out for comfort. For years, I'll be restlessly wandering the house, empty and dark inside. Forever, I'll hear demonic voices whispering tales about the pleasures of 'Players.'
An endless battle I'm not assured of winning. The enticing option to retreat always there. No ointment to soothe my wounds. No deadline to win the war. Pangs, pain, and panic.
DOES ANYONE OUT THERE HEAR MY PAIN?
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Quest to Quit Smoking
My pre-planned quit date was September 1st.
I was on a road trip to Alaska with two friends and my husband as the days ground toward that dreaded last cigarette. Champix, the smoking cessation drug, built up in my system as the miles slipped behind us. I struggled to cut back on the amount I smoked and ended up smoking more as I desperately sought comfort from cigarettes which were no longer offering that pleasure. I crocheted, I laughed, I drank wine, watched grizzlies, and took photos of glaciers.
On the fifth day of taking Champix, 22 August 2009, I wrote in my diary. "Concentrated on pleasures from other sources: the kiss of my puppy, beautiful scenery, laughter of friends, beautiful flower baskets, the crunch of a Smarties' candy shell and the smooth chocolate beneath. The bite of dark roasted Arabic coffee. I feel better to have taken some conscious and deliberate steps to wean myself, rather than passively waiting for the pills to 'cure' me. Gives me a sense of control participation and counters the panic I feel when I contemplate life without cigarettes. If I quit Champix, cigarettes would again give me pleasure. However, the nicotine demons would demand my health and dollars in exchange for their service. I don't want that.
I realize the instant, on-demand spurts of nicotine pleasure have dulled many legitimate opportunities to experience positive emotions. Not only through the addiction aspect, ("Here, take the grandson. I need a smoke!") but also by dulling the senses of smell and taste. These two senses are closely linked to memory. I think of being a child and inhaling the smell of rain, dew on roses, frogs. Sharp cheese, fresh mown hay...spontaneous pleasures. Gifts: no sacrifices needed."
Day 11, 28 August 2009: "Have done well cutting back. Had 5 cigarettes all day. Cravings, if resisted, vanish in 5-10 seconds. Cravings only happen every 3-4 hours."
Day 14, 31 August 2009: "Felt depressed, as if saying farewell to a friend who for years has been there to comfort me. Have difficulty concentrating on good things about not smoking. Had about 4 cigarettes today. In the evening, I throw my last one into the campfire embers. I contemplate how one simple decision (to quit Champix) could bring back my friend. I do not feel at all like celebrating. I mention it to no one."
September 1st: Quit Day: "Over-riding feeling of depression throughout the day. Past traumas and tragedies mull around in my brain. Can I live with bad memories and current stresses without nicotine?"
September 2nd: "Awake to rain and puppy piddle on the mattress at my feet. No showers in this campground. Remnants of weird, busy dreams. It's so cold. Cravings are frequent and intense--but short-lived. I'm prickly with my friends. Moody. Quiet. Depressed."
September 3rd: "Wake in a more cheery mood. Today I feel better, stronger, more committed. This morning my mouth felt cleaner--the first advantage of non-smoking I've experienced. I wish I wasn't travelling so that I could engage in more exercise and have easier access to healthy snacks. Bought a 4-pound sack of Rockets candies. I don't fit any of the jeans I've packed."
September 4th: "Dark, bottomless emptiness into which 100 sour candies, a steak supper and two pieces of apple pie fall. Coffee and Irish Cream. I'm never sated, never full. I could eat forever. Sugar, caffeine, alcohol. Deep breaths of mountain air, long hikes. Four pounds of Rockets. Half a jug of white wine. 14 hours of sleep. Nothing is ever enough. Nothing fills the emptiness."
September 5th: "Coffee and cream liqueur. Two-hour hike through mountain muskeg. Fall colours, red berries, green moss, blue lakes, quiet. Friends. Hot sun. Slow nagging headache. An afternoon nap turns bad. I can't wake up for supper. Tired. So tired. Tummy stirs. Eyes close. Day 5. Yes. I can do it."
September 6th: "If I knew cigarettes would give me pleasure, I'd fall for the temptation. It's the bane of the addict--the drug always calls..."
Today, 12 September 2009, is my 12th smoke-free day. It has not been easy. It is not getting any easier. I feel like a baby that's lost its soother, a toddler bereft of her teddy bear, a child letting go her mother's hand to step into the classroom on her very first day of school.
Friends, I've been there, done all that, grew through it all and survived. We all know that this time will be no different.
Check out some tobacco trivia at http://www.eileenschuh.com/did-you-know/
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
I was on a road trip to Alaska with two friends and my husband as the days ground toward that dreaded last cigarette. Champix, the smoking cessation drug, built up in my system as the miles slipped behind us. I struggled to cut back on the amount I smoked and ended up smoking more as I desperately sought comfort from cigarettes which were no longer offering that pleasure. I crocheted, I laughed, I drank wine, watched grizzlies, and took photos of glaciers.
On the fifth day of taking Champix, 22 August 2009, I wrote in my diary. "Concentrated on pleasures from other sources: the kiss of my puppy, beautiful scenery, laughter of friends, beautiful flower baskets, the crunch of a Smarties' candy shell and the smooth chocolate beneath. The bite of dark roasted Arabic coffee. I feel better to have taken some conscious and deliberate steps to wean myself, rather than passively waiting for the pills to 'cure' me. Gives me a sense of control participation and counters the panic I feel when I contemplate life without cigarettes. If I quit Champix, cigarettes would again give me pleasure. However, the nicotine demons would demand my health and dollars in exchange for their service. I don't want that.
I realize the instant, on-demand spurts of nicotine pleasure have dulled many legitimate opportunities to experience positive emotions. Not only through the addiction aspect, ("Here, take the grandson. I need a smoke!") but also by dulling the senses of smell and taste. These two senses are closely linked to memory. I think of being a child and inhaling the smell of rain, dew on roses, frogs. Sharp cheese, fresh mown hay...spontaneous pleasures. Gifts: no sacrifices needed."
Day 11, 28 August 2009: "Have done well cutting back. Had 5 cigarettes all day. Cravings, if resisted, vanish in 5-10 seconds. Cravings only happen every 3-4 hours."
Day 14, 31 August 2009: "Felt depressed, as if saying farewell to a friend who for years has been there to comfort me. Have difficulty concentrating on good things about not smoking. Had about 4 cigarettes today. In the evening, I throw my last one into the campfire embers. I contemplate how one simple decision (to quit Champix) could bring back my friend. I do not feel at all like celebrating. I mention it to no one."
September 1st: Quit Day: "Over-riding feeling of depression throughout the day. Past traumas and tragedies mull around in my brain. Can I live with bad memories and current stresses without nicotine?"
September 2nd: "Awake to rain and puppy piddle on the mattress at my feet. No showers in this campground. Remnants of weird, busy dreams. It's so cold. Cravings are frequent and intense--but short-lived. I'm prickly with my friends. Moody. Quiet. Depressed."
September 3rd: "Wake in a more cheery mood. Today I feel better, stronger, more committed. This morning my mouth felt cleaner--the first advantage of non-smoking I've experienced. I wish I wasn't travelling so that I could engage in more exercise and have easier access to healthy snacks. Bought a 4-pound sack of Rockets candies. I don't fit any of the jeans I've packed."
September 4th: "Dark, bottomless emptiness into which 100 sour candies, a steak supper and two pieces of apple pie fall. Coffee and Irish Cream. I'm never sated, never full. I could eat forever. Sugar, caffeine, alcohol. Deep breaths of mountain air, long hikes. Four pounds of Rockets. Half a jug of white wine. 14 hours of sleep. Nothing is ever enough. Nothing fills the emptiness."
September 5th: "Coffee and cream liqueur. Two-hour hike through mountain muskeg. Fall colours, red berries, green moss, blue lakes, quiet. Friends. Hot sun. Slow nagging headache. An afternoon nap turns bad. I can't wake up for supper. Tired. So tired. Tummy stirs. Eyes close. Day 5. Yes. I can do it."
September 6th: "If I knew cigarettes would give me pleasure, I'd fall for the temptation. It's the bane of the addict--the drug always calls..."
Today, 12 September 2009, is my 12th smoke-free day. It has not been easy. It is not getting any easier. I feel like a baby that's lost its soother, a toddler bereft of her teddy bear, a child letting go her mother's hand to step into the classroom on her very first day of school.
Friends, I've been there, done all that, grew through it all and survived. We all know that this time will be no different.
Check out some tobacco trivia at http://www.eileenschuh.com/did-you-know/
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Day #2: Seeking Pleasure
Because one is supposed to go at least 10 days on Champix pills before quitting, I didn't think I'd notice anything the first day. Wrong! Two hours after taking the tablet, I felt light-headed. But much weirder than that, something was dreadfully wrong with my cigarettes. It was as though I was smoking those ultra-light-one-hundred-pinholes-in-the-filter cigarettes. It was like being a kid and sucking on a hollow reed. It was like an emptiness inside me.
For those who have never smoked, let me tell you what you've been missing, and what I'm now missing. Pleasure. Instant pleasure. Now, I would never have thought of the word 'pleasure' to describe why I smoked, but it's a word used in one of my quit-smoking brochures.
Anothe brochure explains it this way: "Within minutes of inhaling, nicotine goes to your brain and gives you a temporary 'high'. Over time, your brain starts to adjust and you may need more smoke to get the same effect. Eventually, your brain adjusts again and the nicotine no longer produces a high. It produces a feeling you think of as normal."
A 'high', 'pleasure', 'normal'... I liken it to the minor contentment one feels after satisfying his/her thirst with a glass of cold water.
Now imagine being very thirsty and drinking a glass of water and still feeling thirsty. And drinking another, and still feeling thirsty. Imagine the rising panic as each succeeding glass produces the same non-effect.
Yesterday and today, cigarette after cigarette, and no burst of subtle pleasure. I had planned activities like crocheting and gum chewing to stave off the desire to do something with my hands and to distract me from my cravings. They weren't designed to give me an instant five-minute normal 'high'. I can't think of anything besides a cigarette that will give me that. So, I light one more.
It does nothing for me. I am cranky. I am empty. I am seeking pleasure.
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
www.eileenschuh.com
For those who have never smoked, let me tell you what you've been missing, and what I'm now missing. Pleasure. Instant pleasure. Now, I would never have thought of the word 'pleasure' to describe why I smoked, but it's a word used in one of my quit-smoking brochures.
Anothe brochure explains it this way: "Within minutes of inhaling, nicotine goes to your brain and gives you a temporary 'high'. Over time, your brain starts to adjust and you may need more smoke to get the same effect. Eventually, your brain adjusts again and the nicotine no longer produces a high. It produces a feeling you think of as normal."
A 'high', 'pleasure', 'normal'... I liken it to the minor contentment one feels after satisfying his/her thirst with a glass of cold water.
Now imagine being very thirsty and drinking a glass of water and still feeling thirsty. And drinking another, and still feeling thirsty. Imagine the rising panic as each succeeding glass produces the same non-effect.
Yesterday and today, cigarette after cigarette, and no burst of subtle pleasure. I had planned activities like crocheting and gum chewing to stave off the desire to do something with my hands and to distract me from my cravings. They weren't designed to give me an instant five-minute normal 'high'. I can't think of anything besides a cigarette that will give me that. So, I light one more.
It does nothing for me. I am cranky. I am empty. I am seeking pleasure.
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
www.eileenschuh.com
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Read a Preview of my novel
Check out the wonderful press release that went out last Friday on my adult crime novel, "Noraebang".
"New York, NY, July 21, 2009 / 24-7PressRelease.com / - Canadian writer Eileen Schuh had no idea that a vacation to Korea in 2006 would lead to the creation of Noraebang, a novel that explores Canadian biker gangs, Stockholm Syndrome and illicit drug smuggling to Korea. And now she’s on the hunt for a literary agent and a publisher. . ."
Visit my website for the full story. Press Release: "Noraebang"
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
"New York, NY, July 21, 2009 / 24-7PressRelease.com / - Canadian writer Eileen Schuh had no idea that a vacation to Korea in 2006 would lead to the creation of Noraebang, a novel that explores Canadian biker gangs, Stockholm Syndrome and illicit drug smuggling to Korea. And now she’s on the hunt for a literary agent and a publisher. . ."
Visit my website for the full story. Press Release: "Noraebang"
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
http://www.eileenschuh.com/
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Weak heroines--an endangered species
Little Red Riding Hood was seduced by a wolf and saved by a burly woodcutter. She wouldn't make it into print these days. I'm not sure why. Is it because we think weak females don't really exist? Is it because we believe nothing of importance ever happens to them? Is it because we don't want to hear their stories? Do we think we're canonizing them by giving them words for their pain?
Perhaps we are afraid that if we give them ink, an entire generation of females will be seduced into becoming like them.
Our impatience with weak fictional females is undoubtedly a reflection of our view of the real-life kind. It's too bad. We oughtn't trod on the down-trodden.
Women trapped in abusive relationships can attest to the stigma they bear. They aren't eager to share their stories. We're not eager to hear them. So, the story remains untold.
In my adult crime novel, 'Noraebang', I explore a strong woman's descent into subservience. It sometimes takes a lot more strength and courage than we realize for a woman to put her soul on hold in order to survive. And, perhaps even more courage, to gain it back. "Noraebang"--the story of a weak heroine's courage. A story that ought to be heard.
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
www.eileenschuh.com
Perhaps we are afraid that if we give them ink, an entire generation of females will be seduced into becoming like them.
Our impatience with weak fictional females is undoubtedly a reflection of our view of the real-life kind. It's too bad. We oughtn't trod on the down-trodden.
Women trapped in abusive relationships can attest to the stigma they bear. They aren't eager to share their stories. We're not eager to hear them. So, the story remains untold.
In my adult crime novel, 'Noraebang', I explore a strong woman's descent into subservience. It sometimes takes a lot more strength and courage than we realize for a woman to put her soul on hold in order to survive. And, perhaps even more courage, to gain it back. "Noraebang"--the story of a weak heroine's courage. A story that ought to be heard.
Eileen Schuh,
Canadian writer
www.eileenschuh.com
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