Reporting to you today, live, from the belly of the beast, I’m Shira and I just quit smoking. Again.

I’m sorry if this shocks some of you in America- my smoking habit was closeted in the land of “ew, smoking is so taboo, it’s so 1999.”  But in Israel, it was full blown, it was well supported and it was glorious.

I have been smoking for more time than I care to recount and this is probably my 4th or 5th attempt at quitting. Each time, I am so sure I’ve really kicked the habit. For months I brag, and preach about my sobriety like those little quirky D-list celebs on Celebrity Rehab after they complete a 7 day drama marathon detox with Dr. Drew (if you missed that metaphor, you don’t watch enough reality TV- get on that). And then I realize that I quit smoking so well and so forever that I’m strong enough to just have one drag. Well, that one drag turns into only one cigarette, only one a day, I don’t buy I just bum and then just one pack, and then, well, months of pure JOY.

That’s right, smoking is joy. It’s fun, it’s cool, it’s awesome, it’s social, it’s relaxing, it’s distracting. Sure, it also smells awful, makes you sick from coughing to cancer, it’s expensive and gross, but we all have flaws.

So today, as I write my blog, my body withdraws regretfully from Nicotine and all the other wonderful chemicals that I have been dumping in my body for the last 3 months (since my last quitting endeavor- I was ’sober’ for nearly 10 months that time). My blood and lungs miss the torture- the abusive relationship my body shares with cigarettes is a love-hate, push-pull kind of marriage. The cigarettes are bad to me- they treat me bad but I love them. I can’t imagine where else that would parallel in my past life…

So now I will take my angry, frustrated, anxious, furious, annoyed withdrawal symptoms and take them out on everyone I see today. And most probably tomorrow. So, for all you goody-goodies always trying to get my to stop smoking: Fuck you! You try it. It’s hard and it’s horrible. I’m probably going to lose all of my friends today- and maybe even one of my jobs- because you thought that I should definitely quit smoking:

“You have to!”, you said.

“Set a date”, you pleaded.

“Stop killing yourself slowly with those cancer sticks”, you teased me annoyingly to no end.

Well, now where the hell are you?! Are you willing to spend the next few days with me? Right, I didn’t think so.

“You’re on your own with this one, dumbass”, I tell myself.

“Well, then, fuck it, I’m going to buy cigarettes!”, I reply to myself.

But I don’t. Because I know I have to quit. I sing in a band, for God’s sakes.  But it’s hard.  I can’t live with it and I can’t live without it.

Maybe the fear of relapsing, as I have already so many times, is what keeps me from being optimistic and seeing past these next few days to a time when I will have clearer skin, clearer lungs, more sensitive tastebuds and whiter teeth. But I don’t see those times ahead. Because right now I am scared of failing and right now I am sad.

I’m mourning. Because cigarettes are like a best friend. They are always there, they always listen, they never answer but you know they feel you. I’m losing that friend today. Nothing fills that void. No amount of gum or licorice or chocolate can fill the place that cigarettes held. But I’ll be damned if I won’t try.

Now I’m gonna eat until the pain of quitting goes away. As Oprah would say, I’m going to eat my feelings. Bring on the lbs, my knees can take it. So instead of dying of lung cancer, I’ll die of one of the many side effects of obesity. At least obesity is socially acceptable in America now. Unlike smoking, which is gross.

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