The Cravings Never Really End

Nicotine Is Insidious.

I just spent five stupid minutes going full tornado, ripping through my desk like I was searching for state secrets. Lifting papers, opening drawers, rifling like a woman possessed.

Looking for my fucking cigarettes.

My cigarettes.

I quit smoking two years and five weeks ago.  

There is no nicotine in this house.  

There has not been for a long damn time.

And yet my brain still tried to run the old script:  

"Quick! Check under that pile of junk mail! Maybe Past You stashed a pack for Future You, like some deranged nicotine Easter Bunny!"

D'OH.

Nicotine is a sneaky little bastard. It shows up at the weirdest moments, taps you on the shoulder, and whispers, "Hey... remember how good we were together?" 

And I swear, for about ten seconds, or ten minutes depending on how stressed I am, I would absolutely throw hands for a smoke.

But here is the thing:  

I am not losing this fight.  

Not today, not ever.
Never fucking EVER!

Cigarettes are banned from this house like cursed artifacts. My brother, who still smokes, has to keep his pack in the car and trek a hundred feet to the designated exile chair. That is the rule. That is the boundary. That is how I keep myself safe.

I am stealing a line from my friend and webqueen, Maggie:  

I am not an ex smoker.  

I am a smoker in recovery.

And recovery is a permanent condition, but so is my stubbornness.

Nicotine can try me, but it is not getting back in. Fuck that.