Earlier this week I announced that I was thinking about stopping my depraved sucking of the tar-sticks. 20 years or so of having been in the thrall of ciggies is quite embarrassing, not to mention having recently developed a cough that should live in a much older body. So thinking quickly turned into doing - I took the bull by the horns and chucked out my last pack of Marlboro Lights.
I can confidently announce that so far, all of two days and a bit in, I bitterly regret such tomfoolery. Whatever made me think such madness? And why the Hell did I act on it?
It's official. Giving up smoking really, really sucks.
Apart from the physical symptoms, which are not pleasant, the psychological nagging is hard to bear. Imagine a small malevolent beast living in your ear, constantly whispering in a nastly smug little voice: oooh go on, just have one. Just light up. Think about how yummy it will be, hmmm. Anyway, you don't really want to give up do you? I know how much you like it, especially that lovely first one of the day which makes your head go all tingly. Anyway, you owe us, you can't live without us - we've been with you through thick and thin, we have, from when you were a teenager learning to smoke with the French exchange student... we consoled you when you split up with boyfriends, helped you through the nerves of exams and job interviews, made all those parties go with a swing, we even came back to you after you rejected us during your two pregnancies... we've been with you for ever! And this is how you think to repay us?? You'll see, you'll get really fat and you'll be boring without your friends the ciggies. What makes you think you'll be able to give up anyway? You'll come back! You'll come crawling back! You'll be begging forgiveness! You'll never get aaaawwwwwaaayyyyy!
And what's worse is that I have turned into an impossible raging cowbag. Alpha hates me after having to listen to me go on and on about how he doesn't understand my pain and how my giving up smoking is much worse than when he gave up because he used anti-smoking drugs which I'm allergic to and so I can't enjoy taking the same soft and easy option blah blah blah de blah. Firstborn went to school this morning looking profoundly depressed after a particularly vitriolic outburst on my part and the Small(er) One keeps patting me while saying things like: "You'll feel better soon Mummy, you're just cross 'cos you're giving up the smoking, you'll be a nice mummy again soon".
It's the rage, you see, that's the real problem. It wells up whenever I get stressed (the point at which I would usually reach for the ciggies) and I can't seem to control it. I hope it goes soon because at this rate I am going to end up all alone in a dark room with nobody to talk to except the malevolent monster, and he isn't exactly a brilliant conversationalist.