Kick Butts

It’s been 3 days, 6 hours, and 46 minutes since my last cigarette.
While I celebrate that I am living much healthier, I also miss my friend, Newport 100.  I realize that I was putting poison in my body with each puff, however I had my smokes when I was mad, happy, in labor (don’t judge), and any other major milestone in my life.
My past attempts to quit lasted all of a day.  I think the longest stretch was possibly three days.  I didn’t understand mindfulness, how cigarettes were harming me, that I had to chunk it down to one day at a time, possibly even one hour, one minute at a time. I tried to take on this monumental challenge on my own.
This time around, I really prepared.  I’m using NRT or Nicotine Replacement Therapy in the form of Nicorette Gum and joined a smoking cessation support group.  The Gum isn’t bad, and my cheering section via Facebook and Twitter is helping me keep on track.  The support group also helps because one of my biggest fears is relapsing and becoming a smoker again.  One website calls it “recovery”.  That is much more positive and easier to wrap my mind around than the thought that I will never smoke again.
The main reason for not quitting in the past  was my fear of gaining weight.  I joke about being a part of #teamchunk, and accept that I’ll never be stick thin.  Growing up as “the fat twin” did a number on my self esteem, and being told I had a “cute face” was just as bad.  Watching The Teen and The Boy struggle with body image and loving themselves has given me a different perspective on loving myself.  The Teen is #teamchunk, but rather than wallow in misery, she highlights her attributes.  The Boy recently joined the track team, and loves to showcase his six pack and guns.  I’ve accepted myself, somewhat, but put more emphasis on health rather than size.  At least I try to.
Despite the fear that I’ll replace cigs with food, I set a quit date and as I smoked my last cigarette, used imagery of the poison entering my body and how yucky the cigarette actually tasted.  That helps a bit, but truth be told, I didn’t quit to be healthy. I quit because my vanity didn’t want me to be a Little Old Lady Smoker.  You’ve seen them: sitting hunched over on a park bench their, lips in a permanent pucker, wrinkled as a raisin, puffing away, sometimes talking with the cigarette stuck in the corner of their mouth, the lit end dancing up and down while they talk.
I know the withdrawal symptoms are tough, but the moodiness that goes with it sucks big time.  Couple that with PMS and various posts about Trayvon Martin I’m a big ball of emotions.
I feel so helpless.  When the cravings come on, it’s difficult not to feel resentful that I can’t satisfy that urge.  If I never see another sunflower seed again, I’ll be just fine. The irritability and the insomnia, the lack of appetite, and then the binge eating, the Katie Kaboom-ness of it all…I don’t like.  I feel out of control, and definitely not myself.
On the positive, I’m not as winded when I work out.  My hair doesn’t hold the smell of smoke, there isn’t that early morning who cares how I look stumble to the back deck to have my morning hit.  Food taste much better, and my productivity in most everything has increased..
Only time will tell.
Kicking butts one day at a time…