Farewell to Hell Week

Today is Day Seven without a cigarette.

No person has been harmed in the making of this smoke-free life.

I am stunned.

Really.

Monday, when I wondered why in the world I was still suffering so much withdrawal, I did internet research, confirming the nicotine detox takes roughly three days and learning the physical, emotional, and mental withdrawal can last up to two weeks.  The first week was defined as “Hell Week”, the second as “Heck Week”.  The definitions were clear.

I about died.

Two days ago, I was honestly wondering how I was going to make it through the next MINUTE without a smoke.  The mere thought of another week and a half of the misery I felt was enough to make me cry.

Literally.

The day after I put out my last cigarette, I experienced a sensation of things crawling under my skin, creeping to break free and swarm me in a cloud of enticing smoke.  That was, to put it mildly, a freak-show and a half.

I expected headaches from the detox.  Didn’t get a single one.

I expected anger and constant roiling irritation at everyone and everything.  That didn’t happen either.

Instead, I got a horror movie tremor under my skin and the incessant need to cry.  I had expected neither of those.

Thankfully, the creepy crawly feeling only lasted that one day.

The crying thing, however, didn’t ease up until today, the last day of Hell Week, the first day of Heck Week.  Thank you sweet baby Jesus!!

This is the irony…I would rather walk around stopping myself from slaying people with nasty words and verbal slices than cry.

Given a choice, I would choose b*tch over cry baby.  Is that wrong?

My previous attempts to quit always defaulted into b*tch mode.  I made it a point to warn people I was quitting so they’d stay away and protect themselves from the mighty little terror that is “Hilary Without Cigarettes”.  I did the same this time and yet, the b*tch never appeared.

I admit, I’m a little disappointed…

When fools cut me off in traffic, vile epitaphs remained caged in the dark recesses of my mind.  Finger gestures were never even considered.  Instead, my eyes produced liquid at the mere thought that others can’t drive, accompanied by a sharply in drawn gasp meant to stem the tide of pathetic weeping.

Sitting at my desk at the day job was enough to bring more dampness to my cheeks.  The same with filling my water-glass or eating lunch.

Frequent crying does not instill confidence in one’s co-workers, in case you were wondering.

Odd looks and general avoidance by others were common this past week.  With moist eyes, I implored…

Have pity on me.

I quit smoking.

Thank you to everyone for your support.  I still have a long road to go, but I’m starting to see the light at the end of the smoke-free tunnel.

The withdrawal really is better today.  It seems to have eased off enough that I actually feel productive, but not quite creative.