At about 3pm yesterday (Sunday) I smoked my *last* cigarette. Around 8pm today (Monday) I smoked what I guess was my *first* cigarette. The internal debate went on for hours and involved a lot of bargaining. With myself. I will not regret my decision. Allen has control of them now. This will end in tears. As it began. I cried, no, I sobbed, for almost a solid two hours, mourning my cigarettes as though my best friend in the world had just died. I also realized I was feeling homesick for the old apartment. "I want to go home!" I wailed. This has been a common exclamation throughout my life. I'm always looking to go "home", wherever that is. But I'm sure it exists somewhere and I will know it when I get there.
I wish I had the same interest in keeping up with this blog as I used to have. I just. Do. Not.
It's 8:40pm. I already want to smoke again.
I am too hard on myself. People actually say this to me. If I was so hard on myself I wouldn't be slowly destroying myself. I'd be cutting this shit out. If I actually believed in self-preservation as much as I think I do I wouldn't be drinking and smoking and sedentary-ing myself straight to dementia and death. I am a curious mix of my mother and father. Or listening to fucking Pitchfork's Top 100 Adult Contemporary Hits of 2011.
But do you want to know the main reason I'm trying to quit smoking -- right now, that is -- ??? Because I'm going to New York this weekend and I'm afraid I won't be able to smoke in Mayor Micro-manager's town. Swear to Jesus that's what's been going on in my head about this. A friend of mine is presenting at HOPE Number Nine. And I'm going because I want to stick out like a sore thumb or something.
Fuck. What have I done? I'm still exhausted from Sob-Fest 2012. I have no concentration, not enough time in the day for the things I want to do.
I have 4 projects I need to work on but have only ever so slightly started working on two of them. And so it goes.
There is just something in my head that blocks me. I already felt better (physically) after 26 hours of not smoking. I feel better, good, even, during the day when I haven't drank the night before. But something in me tells me that I don't deserve that feeling. I'd rather be fuzzy and cloudy and sluggish, just unclear, rather than feel "good". There's a lot of "I don't deserve _________" that goes on in my head.
Fucking therapy. It's wrecking me. I'm waiting until tomorrow to call my therapist to tell her I can't make my Thursday appointment in hopes that she won't be able to fit me in on Wednesday. Last week was brutal. I just... I don't even remember what exactly she asked me that made me start crying but it happened. And I was like, "I don't even have a reason to be crying right now." And she goes, "Obviously you do." Which of course made it worse. And she keeps asking about my parents like I don't tell her the same thing every god damn week. Does she not remember or is she fucking with me? Cos she remembers other things.
No, it wasn't my father. It was my mother. It was always my mother. And my sisters. They gave me these labels. The men in my family always loved me. This is complicated. It explains everything. It really does.
Yet she's strangely been affecting my self-esteem. By telling me that my drinking (her main focus) is greatly reducing my self-esteem she's somehow increasing it. I don't know. She's crafty.
This one's dedicated to Schulze. Damn her.
I wish I had the same interest in keeping up with this blog as I used to have. I just. Do. Not.
It's 8:40pm. I already want to smoke again.
I am too hard on myself. People actually say this to me. If I was so hard on myself I wouldn't be slowly destroying myself. I'd be cutting this shit out. If I actually believed in self-preservation as much as I think I do I wouldn't be drinking and smoking and sedentary-ing myself straight to dementia and death. I am a curious mix of my mother and father. Or listening to fucking Pitchfork's Top 100 Adult Contemporary Hits of 2011.
But do you want to know the main reason I'm trying to quit smoking -- right now, that is -- ??? Because I'm going to New York this weekend and I'm afraid I won't be able to smoke in Mayor Micro-manager's town. Swear to Jesus that's what's been going on in my head about this. A friend of mine is presenting at HOPE Number Nine. And I'm going because I want to stick out like a sore thumb or something.
Fuck. What have I done? I'm still exhausted from Sob-Fest 2012. I have no concentration, not enough time in the day for the things I want to do.
I have 4 projects I need to work on but have only ever so slightly started working on two of them. And so it goes.
There is just something in my head that blocks me. I already felt better (physically) after 26 hours of not smoking. I feel better, good, even, during the day when I haven't drank the night before. But something in me tells me that I don't deserve that feeling. I'd rather be fuzzy and cloudy and sluggish, just unclear, rather than feel "good". There's a lot of "I don't deserve _________" that goes on in my head.
Fucking therapy. It's wrecking me. I'm waiting until tomorrow to call my therapist to tell her I can't make my Thursday appointment in hopes that she won't be able to fit me in on Wednesday. Last week was brutal. I just... I don't even remember what exactly she asked me that made me start crying but it happened. And I was like, "I don't even have a reason to be crying right now." And she goes, "Obviously you do." Which of course made it worse. And she keeps asking about my parents like I don't tell her the same thing every god damn week. Does she not remember or is she fucking with me? Cos she remembers other things.
No, it wasn't my father. It was my mother. It was always my mother. And my sisters. They gave me these labels. The men in my family always loved me. This is complicated. It explains everything. It really does.
Yet she's strangely been affecting my self-esteem. By telling me that my drinking (her main focus) is greatly reducing my self-esteem she's somehow increasing it. I don't know. She's crafty.
This one's dedicated to Schulze. Damn her.
