Controlling the Gnawing

It’s been more than difficult.

It’s far too easy, and whimsical, for myself or anyone else to earnestly say “Good for you! I know you can do it!”, without realizing the accompanying throbbing anguish.

Tuesday should have been, but was not, the most trying day. You hear over and over that the first day is when the most panic is felt, and with it comes the likelihood of yielding to the snap judgment decision, despite all sane reasoning, to not even begin the process. Apparently, most who try only last a few hours during the first day. I intentionally forced myself to be busy. Busy I was – an all kinetic busy, mixed with a self-assured, false sense of Zen inner calm wrapped in a bravado attitude which boasted frequently that I’m better than the rest. Then came work where I mercifully could not leave. From there it was directly back to my building’s parking lot, and a quick and determined walk past the 24 hour 7-11 calling to me, into the building and the vertical zip ride to my apartment.

I first felt strong mental longing on Tuesday. My thoughts were a dilute mixture of steely logic while concentrating on the task directly at hand, and the icy juggernaut of thought that prodded and pinpointed my desires toward what I was denying myself.

Wednesday, Thursday and Friday each held their own tumultuous tempest that seemed pre-planned and coldly designed to annihilate any plebeian willpower reserves that I was accumulating which would allow myself the comfort of solid resolve. Each of those three days held its own devastating trebuchet in the guise of a postal letter, a voice mail and an email. It was as if a troika of Trojan Horses had been misguidedly welcomed inside my already timidly fortified gates, and out of their belly came such mean, significant pains and blows to my wavering goal that the combined fireballs felt as if they descended directly from within Pandora herself. Each of those three days saw my willpower insanely buckle and groan, but denying logic, held together.

I did not give way to the inhuman temptation.

Saturday and Sunday have now officially expired, and with them a crestfallen ego that has been scored much too often with the black steel wool of verbal abuse. But, though the vessel I ride is low in the water due to the cruel barrage of maltreatment on many fronts that has coincidentally coincided with the timing of my quest, the lust for my mission has amazingly remained intact.

I marvel at the money still in reserve, untouched by debit card ripples that until recently, had never seen the account so still and smooth.

Somehow, miraculously, thankfully, through a combination of self-denial, brazen luck and pretending that the desire was not there, I have not relented. At the end of each individual twenty-four hour interval, at the rounded-off anniversary hour, I plant another imagined victory flag.

I will not deny that I have held up my adult fingers and deftly imagined them holding one, and I admit that I have almost felt dizzy as I role-played the inhaling and exhaling, but on Monday, well, actually Monday late night into Tuesday early morning at about 12:30 AM, it will be exactly one week since I last smoked a cigarette.