Smoke and Broken Mirrors

So, I’m going through withdrawal for smoking. I smoked for about six years and while I smoked about a pack every 2-3 days, I was hooked. It was my chaser, for every agreeable and disagreeable task I did. I did something? Have a smoke as a reward. In social interactions and desperately need a break? Go have a smoke.

I’m day 7 without a smoke and even though I’m quitting with medication assistance (Chantix) I am feeling it. I’m feeling the loss of my emotional crutch. My escape. Two unfortunate events that occurred this last week have compounded my inability to cope with life without smoking, and so I’ve been eating everything in sight. Goodbye weight loss progress.

I don’t seem able to live in this world without something. Be it food or cigarettes. Something has to fill the gap where human love and support should be. But then again, I came into this world to force my father into staying in a marriage he wanted to, and eventually did, leave. It would have been better if something like me had never existed.

Chantix isn’t causing these feelings, it’s revealing them. The constant use of nicotine allowed me to push them aside. A “cope” as the incels call it.

I need to do things. I need to mow the yard. I need to walk the dog. But I know what I’m going to do today. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. There are no rewards, no motivation. Can’t reward myself with a smoke. Maybe my husband will yell at me for not doing anything. All he does is come home, pet the dog, and sit at his PC while I struggle in vain to make our house not look like shit. He’s got important things to do, you know. Physically exerting himself is demeaning for a man of his intelligence. Leave it to the workhorse fuck-maid to get things done.

Oh, so nasty. Nasty mean. I don’t care, it’s my reality that never seems to change. Day in, day out, my life runs lower and lower while I try to force myself to do housework that never ends, while my dreams die in my head. It’s the nightmare of every woman. It was even worse when I worked full time, I’d come home and do all this shit on top of a 40 hour week. Asking for any help, you’d think I was some stereotypical nagging wife, pecking away at my poor beleaguered husband.

The only way out, other than the obvious, is to leave my husband, transition to male, and travel the country in a mobile home. Ha, it sounds even crazier on the screen. No, I think slowly alienating my husband to the point of divorce over a painful number of years is the best way to go. Great plan! /s

You know.. It’s a good thing I have this blog to release the venom. Otherwise, I’d release it on actual people. After writing here, I can pretend to be fine a little longer.

 

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