I survived my first night out, drinking gin and tonics, at Mickey's Hang Over in Scottsdale, AZ where one can smoke to their hearts content. I didn't have much urge for lighting up and the smoke didn't seem particularly thick-but I left with an even WORSE headache than what I had come in with from withdrawal.
My withdrawal hurts. A lot. My head hurts so much instead fo being an irritated ex-smoker, I am a gentile, sensitive more laid back ex-smoker b/c I cannot bear the pain of any arguement or conflict in life to add to the pain in my head! God, it hurts so bad, worse than a vice of any kind.
In good news, last night I went to the gym, first time in a while. And I could not believe how GREAT running felt! I ran for almost 35 minutes straight. It felt so relaxing, welcoming, amazing, my lungs kept puffing with air, I saw them pink in my head, clean, not heaving out old coal coloured exhumes of cigarette smoke. I was smiling and bouncing while I jogged.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Letter Writing
I have insomnia so bad. I haven't had insomnia like this in a very long time. I am so used to passing out in bed and waking up quite naturally by 8 or so in the morning, ready to the face the goddamn day.
Now it is almost 1:30. Haven't been drinking. Only had like, juice, and water and some decaf coffee earlier in the day. I have lost my appetite for most things suddenly, when during my flu I thought I had kept a rather good appettite.
I feel pale, shaken, like my early 18 year old self living on oatmeal packets and chips and salsa being too poor and inexperienced at cooking to eat well at all. Oh, and coffee. Living on plenty of coffee.
Being holed by cold weather isn't helping either. I need to run very hard tomorrow. Maybe even twice. Hopefully Patrick can come by and help me fix my flat tire on the bike so I can at least ride around. The more I stay inside the cocoon, the harder it is to want to go outside. A symptom that happens from nicotene. Depression b/c of all the triggers (alcohal and coffee being just some), and ugh weight gain. I tried the whole water, warm tub, good book thing tonight but I feel there are giant fat veiny spiders running up dully up my legs, and ankles, and thights and around my triceps, throat, itching under the skin. I feel irritated, restless, confused, hungry but having no idea what I want to eat. Most of all I want to be TIRED. I WANT TO BE TIRED. And instead I feel WIDE awake and have trouble concentrating.
I will try writing a letter again.
Now it is almost 1:30. Haven't been drinking. Only had like, juice, and water and some decaf coffee earlier in the day. I have lost my appetite for most things suddenly, when during my flu I thought I had kept a rather good appettite.
I feel pale, shaken, like my early 18 year old self living on oatmeal packets and chips and salsa being too poor and inexperienced at cooking to eat well at all. Oh, and coffee. Living on plenty of coffee.
Being holed by cold weather isn't helping either. I need to run very hard tomorrow. Maybe even twice. Hopefully Patrick can come by and help me fix my flat tire on the bike so I can at least ride around. The more I stay inside the cocoon, the harder it is to want to go outside. A symptom that happens from nicotene. Depression b/c of all the triggers (alcohal and coffee being just some), and ugh weight gain. I tried the whole water, warm tub, good book thing tonight but I feel there are giant fat veiny spiders running up dully up my legs, and ankles, and thights and around my triceps, throat, itching under the skin. I feel irritated, restless, confused, hungry but having no idea what I want to eat. Most of all I want to be TIRED. I WANT TO BE TIRED. And instead I feel WIDE awake and have trouble concentrating.
I will try writing a letter again.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Detriot, MI
I have had extreme difficulty going to sleep. At first I thought it was illness, but last night I couldn't fall asleep until like 2 or 3am and finally woke up today at like11:30 (better than noon, I suppose). I turned the light off at midnight, but tossed and turned for hours. I used to just turn the light out and out I would go.
I didn't think until this morning that it must be the nicotine withdrawal that is affecting my sleep. ICH.
Also, I am not so regular-man, i had no idea it would affect THAT. But I supposed any kind of addictve property you stop cold turkey would pull some crazy shit on your body in various functions.
My dreams involved staying at a wealthy home in Cambridge, MA, doing academic work.
Another part involved this guy with very bad hair, crying, discussing how he had moved to Detroit, MI, since he just wanted to see what was out there. And he was having fun.He went tubing with a bunch of buddies, and stumbled upon a dead body. It was identifed as homeless and he cried with his brothers that a city that could be so much fun could bring him a dead body. Pretty long and depressing and gray. But I loved the lake in the dream. And the beautiful trees, the foliage (not foilage, thanks Brian), in MA.
Anywhere, but here, right?
I didn't think until this morning that it must be the nicotine withdrawal that is affecting my sleep. ICH.
Also, I am not so regular-man, i had no idea it would affect THAT. But I supposed any kind of addictve property you stop cold turkey would pull some crazy shit on your body in various functions.
My dreams involved staying at a wealthy home in Cambridge, MA, doing academic work.
Another part involved this guy with very bad hair, crying, discussing how he had moved to Detroit, MI, since he just wanted to see what was out there. And he was having fun.He went tubing with a bunch of buddies, and stumbled upon a dead body. It was identifed as homeless and he cried with his brothers that a city that could be so much fun could bring him a dead body. Pretty long and depressing and gray. But I loved the lake in the dream. And the beautiful trees, the foliage (not foilage, thanks Brian), in MA.
Anywhere, but here, right?
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Music Rehearsal
I am in a room unlike the art studio dreams of my youth at Mercer, and surrounded by assorted hip musicians. They have invited me to participate with them, even though I have no musical background (this also eerily resembles a failed musical colloberatin I did as a teenager with a beautiful blond from Ohio, a desperately unhappy artist son of a wealthy businessman who just wanted to escape to NYC-he was obsessed with Bjork and Basquait, he had me do some vocals on a cheap recorder he had at the dorm in VT and he just couldn't capture the dark, rich smoothness of my voice-few recorders can-only the phone does it especially well). I am listening intently to a song of theirs that is fuzzy, Fugazi-like-but the tempo doesn't change too much. I recommend changing a few arrangements and the room goes silent. One of the guys goes, "Well we normally do that on Sundays-critique. Today is the day for straight up music arrangement." And I feel incredibly embarrassed but realize they invited me on this day. I sit down and not looking at anyone say, "Then why the hell did you invite me down here TODAY? I don't want to criticize you all. I don't have the right. All I can do as a music lover is listen with a fresh ear and give you advice as someone new listening to your music what I would like to hear. It isn't fair to have me come down on the day as you as musicians, then be upset when I say something. Like, I understand. If someone came over and told me my colours were all wrong in a painting, and that the composition is shoddy-well, yeah, I would be fuckin pissed off, you know? BUT if I set some parameters, and they came over asking why I did some texture, colour choice shading, thickness of line, lighting, size-that I would appreciate." I pause in my tirade. A guy with a scruffy beard behind me takes up his hand and goes, "Roooaarrrrr". A helpful cute woman whose name is Emily (might be b/c that is the most popular name now-I read it before bed), says, "Bonnie, relax. Here is a list of musicians to listen to to really get us." I take it gratefully and laugh. "I am really sorry everyone. I just really want a cigarette." And i put my head in my arms and start laughing/crying.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Maybe wine doesn't help?
Barely able to sip at my second glass of Merlot from Camelot (30% off at Sunflower Market!), I find myself wanting to go outside constanting. There are spiders at my wrists, itching, scratching at me to open the door, get the cigarettes and smoke that final cigarette, let it all be over.
But you and I both know that one last cigarette will cause me anxiety. I will finish that pack and not have another pack in the house and I will not be able to bum from anyone in the house (b/c one can't smoke, the other one is very opposed to smoking and allergic)-which is quite the good thing. But that doesn't help the itching I feel in my rib cage, the little bird of addiction that keeps singing me a deadly little song of how just one will not hurt.
My mother needs her cigarettes. She smoke fiercely. She furrows her brows. Her skin is ruddy and pink. Her body shapeless. It is from smoking. She started smoking when she was 18. And she is 54 now but looks older to me. She coughs when she laughs. Her voice is gutteral. She replaced all her teeth with dentures due to gum disease, due to smoking.
Her mother smoked cigarettes. She died of lung cancer.
My father's father smoked cigarettes while watching three television sets tuned to three different channels. He died of a heart attack shortly before I was born. I was in germany anyway, it would not have mattered. Or maybe, it would have. Not sure.
I would hate the way she would be so unreasonable, so angry about nothing, then smoke her cigarette in anger in the backyard and complete mood swing, she would be cheerful as rainbows, puppies, hop, but it was all foam at a car wash, playful, soapy, transparent, trite. Her cigarette changed her mood. Her pack came first.
At a recent vacation, as I was about to sit outside to enjoy my dinner and a beer, she goes to light up a cigarette. I ask her to wait until I am done with my dinner, since I hate anyone who smokes during a meal (it is so fucking gross) and she gets up and says "fuck you" and walks away. I don't care. I am just happy I don't have to breathe in toxic smoke while eating fake chicken.
Later that week, I ride my bike to the end of the island and smoke a cigarette in celebration of riding over 9 miles and will have to ride about 9 more to get back to the house. I am a hypocrite. But I am not gross. I hide my smoking.
I want her to quit. She never will. She is too old and she does NOT WANT to, the mother of all reasons (no pun intended).
So I must quit. Again. I succeeded once before, around when I was 21-23. I did crossword puzzles instead. And walked everywhere. And went to the gym. And was surrounded by non-smokers. I began again at UMB. It was an easy way to meet people I would want to meet rather quickly and school mounted before me larger and scarier and more fun than it had before.
But still my wrists hurt, like a skeleton from Creepshow with wispy long white hair and yellow eyes wants me outside with the little leaves littering the sidewalk outside our condo, and just lighituplightituplightitup.
But you and I both know that one last cigarette will cause me anxiety. I will finish that pack and not have another pack in the house and I will not be able to bum from anyone in the house (b/c one can't smoke, the other one is very opposed to smoking and allergic)-which is quite the good thing. But that doesn't help the itching I feel in my rib cage, the little bird of addiction that keeps singing me a deadly little song of how just one will not hurt.
My mother needs her cigarettes. She smoke fiercely. She furrows her brows. Her skin is ruddy and pink. Her body shapeless. It is from smoking. She started smoking when she was 18. And she is 54 now but looks older to me. She coughs when she laughs. Her voice is gutteral. She replaced all her teeth with dentures due to gum disease, due to smoking.
Her mother smoked cigarettes. She died of lung cancer.
My father's father smoked cigarettes while watching three television sets tuned to three different channels. He died of a heart attack shortly before I was born. I was in germany anyway, it would not have mattered. Or maybe, it would have. Not sure.
I would hate the way she would be so unreasonable, so angry about nothing, then smoke her cigarette in anger in the backyard and complete mood swing, she would be cheerful as rainbows, puppies, hop, but it was all foam at a car wash, playful, soapy, transparent, trite. Her cigarette changed her mood. Her pack came first.
At a recent vacation, as I was about to sit outside to enjoy my dinner and a beer, she goes to light up a cigarette. I ask her to wait until I am done with my dinner, since I hate anyone who smokes during a meal (it is so fucking gross) and she gets up and says "fuck you" and walks away. I don't care. I am just happy I don't have to breathe in toxic smoke while eating fake chicken.
Later that week, I ride my bike to the end of the island and smoke a cigarette in celebration of riding over 9 miles and will have to ride about 9 more to get back to the house. I am a hypocrite. But I am not gross. I hide my smoking.
I want her to quit. She never will. She is too old and she does NOT WANT to, the mother of all reasons (no pun intended).
So I must quit. Again. I succeeded once before, around when I was 21-23. I did crossword puzzles instead. And walked everywhere. And went to the gym. And was surrounded by non-smokers. I began again at UMB. It was an easy way to meet people I would want to meet rather quickly and school mounted before me larger and scarier and more fun than it had before.
But still my wrists hurt, like a skeleton from Creepshow with wispy long white hair and yellow eyes wants me outside with the little leaves littering the sidewalk outside our condo, and just lighituplightituplightitup.
A week...almost
I had a dream this morning.
I was jogging. Then I was running. Running far and fast, I was laughing I couldn't keep myself from sprinting even when I meant to just keep a jogging pace. It was no where exotic, only among the usual routes in my neighborhood in Tempe, and this one area was highlighted. Where the sidewalk curves dramatically to the right and there is a street intersection the sidwalk one was just traveling on becomes only a week sprouted meridian where cars can whiz into, and it curves back to a fence where there is no "developement", just dirt, dust. Arizona is an ugly state, but I am awe of the beauty I am finding in its ugliness. I ran the fastest...in the dream...in this part of the neighborhood. I am not sure why.
I want to see this dream realized.
Last Sunday, not the most recent...well, I guess tomorrow is Sunday since today is Saturday (as logic follows), so it is the most recent Sunday after all. I had spent the day with a poorly folded Tempe bike map, gliding around the neighborhoods, enraptured by somehow ending up parallel to a canal or enfolded in these spine-shaped softly curved mesh/metal cords around a golf course, delighted at not knowing the landscape, not knowing where I would end up. At one point I came across horses. i rode up slowly to them, I felt them, they felt so lovely...I mean, I didn't physically touch them. I felt them looking at me, and I was sorry they were caged up.
After the bike ride, I decided to go for a jog. I knew gasping in the air into my lungs might make me more sick (and it was true, it did. the day after I woke, my feet and hands and legs and face were different temperatures), but I had to. I had figured out my cell phone could act as a timer. Up to this point, I had been using a song to measure out how long I was able to run until I was allowed to walk.
I mananged to run for almost 20 minutes straight. I felt each lung had cancerous swirls, psychiatrist black inky spots of cream in coffee, spilling over my pink cells, each sack wheezing in sadness at being asked to blow a balloon that couldn't possibly fill with air. I imagined the lungs exhibited at the Body World show, one that shows the gray, moth bitten lungs of a smoker. I wanted candy coated pink lungs, pepto-bismal, I don't want gray in me. I had to walk around the 6 minute mark, and I pushed myself. I made myself run to the end. I almost started crying at around 16 minutes.
But in my dream...I could run so well.
I became disasterously sick these last two weeks. I woke up Monday morning, very sick. I had two temp appointments, gone, vanished.
Even now my nostirls are crusty, thick, my throat pushes out gutteral coughs from my bony chest, I hack up large yellow balls of saliva, sometimes with dark maroon blood encased within the snot. I make myself sometimes catch the results in my palm, force myself to feel the weight of this addiction.
Sunday night, against my better judgment, I went out for beers. I did not bring cigarettes or buy a new pack, but I did smoke quite a few when out. When I woke up Monday, my nose, my lungs, everything hurt. So dry, I feel there is no skin or cartlidge in my nose, only bone, dry dark bone that smoke lingers cindery and gray and blackened by the desert night.
It has been since Sunday night that I have smoked.
I have in my green bag, a pack of American Spirits, one cigarette left. One lighter enclosed in the pack.
I just had a glass of wine (I just needed a desperate break from mango nectar, water, smoothies, green tea), and I had the urge to grab that cigarette and run outside and smoke it.
This morning when I felt there weren't concrete snakes writhing in my sinus tracts, I felt like I could smoke!
I don't want to smoke anymore. I really don't. I don't want the baby rattling in my ribs and lungs and throat of air trying, trying hard.
I was jogging. Then I was running. Running far and fast, I was laughing I couldn't keep myself from sprinting even when I meant to just keep a jogging pace. It was no where exotic, only among the usual routes in my neighborhood in Tempe, and this one area was highlighted. Where the sidewalk curves dramatically to the right and there is a street intersection the sidwalk one was just traveling on becomes only a week sprouted meridian where cars can whiz into, and it curves back to a fence where there is no "developement", just dirt, dust. Arizona is an ugly state, but I am awe of the beauty I am finding in its ugliness. I ran the fastest...in the dream...in this part of the neighborhood. I am not sure why.
I want to see this dream realized.
Last Sunday, not the most recent...well, I guess tomorrow is Sunday since today is Saturday (as logic follows), so it is the most recent Sunday after all. I had spent the day with a poorly folded Tempe bike map, gliding around the neighborhoods, enraptured by somehow ending up parallel to a canal or enfolded in these spine-shaped softly curved mesh/metal cords around a golf course, delighted at not knowing the landscape, not knowing where I would end up. At one point I came across horses. i rode up slowly to them, I felt them, they felt so lovely...I mean, I didn't physically touch them. I felt them looking at me, and I was sorry they were caged up.
After the bike ride, I decided to go for a jog. I knew gasping in the air into my lungs might make me more sick (and it was true, it did. the day after I woke, my feet and hands and legs and face were different temperatures), but I had to. I had figured out my cell phone could act as a timer. Up to this point, I had been using a song to measure out how long I was able to run until I was allowed to walk.
I mananged to run for almost 20 minutes straight. I felt each lung had cancerous swirls, psychiatrist black inky spots of cream in coffee, spilling over my pink cells, each sack wheezing in sadness at being asked to blow a balloon that couldn't possibly fill with air. I imagined the lungs exhibited at the Body World show, one that shows the gray, moth bitten lungs of a smoker. I wanted candy coated pink lungs, pepto-bismal, I don't want gray in me. I had to walk around the 6 minute mark, and I pushed myself. I made myself run to the end. I almost started crying at around 16 minutes.
But in my dream...I could run so well.
I became disasterously sick these last two weeks. I woke up Monday morning, very sick. I had two temp appointments, gone, vanished.
Even now my nostirls are crusty, thick, my throat pushes out gutteral coughs from my bony chest, I hack up large yellow balls of saliva, sometimes with dark maroon blood encased within the snot. I make myself sometimes catch the results in my palm, force myself to feel the weight of this addiction.
Sunday night, against my better judgment, I went out for beers. I did not bring cigarettes or buy a new pack, but I did smoke quite a few when out. When I woke up Monday, my nose, my lungs, everything hurt. So dry, I feel there is no skin or cartlidge in my nose, only bone, dry dark bone that smoke lingers cindery and gray and blackened by the desert night.
It has been since Sunday night that I have smoked.
I have in my green bag, a pack of American Spirits, one cigarette left. One lighter enclosed in the pack.
I just had a glass of wine (I just needed a desperate break from mango nectar, water, smoothies, green tea), and I had the urge to grab that cigarette and run outside and smoke it.
This morning when I felt there weren't concrete snakes writhing in my sinus tracts, I felt like I could smoke!
I don't want to smoke anymore. I really don't. I don't want the baby rattling in my ribs and lungs and throat of air trying, trying hard.
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