Chain-Smoking
I’m smoking more than half a pack a day now. It’s like I never quit. I’m not happy about it–but frankly, I don’t much care.
Picking up a cigarette–immediately–in a time of personal disaster makes me believe I never really quit in the first place.
I got the call about Meg’s death at work. I had a total meltdown (It will be so embarassing to go back–I showed no dignity whatsoever.) at the phone bank and kind coworkers walked me back to a private office where I could make some phone calls. I don’t ever remember shaking that much in my life.
Not getting an answer on Dad’s two phones, I called Jeff and arranged to meet him at home. On my way out to the car, I stopped at a colleague’s desk and bummed a cigarette and lighter. Then I smoked in my car, dumping ashes into my coffee mug because I’d tossed out the ashtray.
I puffed and yelled and cried my way home. On and off, I’ve been doing all three since then.
I do know I can quit.
