by Jill Wimmer

Created on: July 31, 2008

I often wonder about the status of my mind if my body could consistently sleep for eight hours a day. I feel lucky if I can reach four hours without experiencing the awful pull of withdrawal tapping at my brain. The nausea is overwhelming until I steady myself through the fog. My searching fingers seem like an involuntary motion such as a heartbeat or another labored breath. I twist in the sheets and accidentally kick my dog. I experience the shame of uncontrolled behavior every time they reach out for the relief of a cigarette.

I have had a couple of drinks and am questioning my ability to drive. My doses are low. I decide to walk despite the freezing temperature and the dangers of the night time activity in my neighborhood. The outside air kicks me in the face as I open the door. I start to cough. I want to shut the door and retreat, but my legs start moving in the other direction. They understand the consequences of my depleting stash. I allow them to take over and lead me despite the warnings in my tired mind. The addiction leaves my deteriorating body in control every time. Frustration sets in as I walk the dark street. I avoid faces and voices. The headlights are too close. I think about the insanity. I think about will power. I think about the life that I could have without this tiresome habit..

I wonder if the people around me can smell the stench on my breath as well as I can taste it in my mouth. I imagine my clothes saturates it as well. I have created a zone of space around me in defense. I cringe when someone tries to hug me. My body has become use to the lack of closeness. I leave good company and conversation to succumb to the fate of relentless craving. I cannot leave my house before taking the inventory- cigarettes, lighter, gum, and body spray. Again, my mind is too tired to grasp the insanity.

To quit is like conquering a total rebellion of my own body. It feels as if every cell of every organ is screaming in unison for the fix. My blood becomes itchy and causes me to shake. Preoccupation turns into anger. Anger turns into depression and back to anger. The circle can last for five minutes at a time only to start again in what seems like moments later. I have lived in those circles for years. Guilt sets in after every failed attempt. The failure has become so common that it is expected. I am a prisoner in my own body.

I am an athlete. I keep this statement in present tense only because of my accomplishments in this area. I keep dreaming that I will compete again on some level. The rush of competition is my remaining inspiration to rid my body of this poison. I want to run instead of straining for breath when I walk. There has to be an answer that has been masked. I have to care about something more than loading myself with nicotine. I have to care about myself more than the discomfort. I hope I learn in time.

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