Feeling Human Again
"All I want is harmony, like some outmoded sixties throwback. I don’t feel no destiny, you make your own luck if you want it. Now I don’t regret a single day."
Ten days since resolutions, three until Jennifer. I crested the wave yesterday, and I've felt comfortable ever since. I'm not free of cigarettes, not by any means, but I'm definitely not feeling that awful physical pull anymore, that need. I've also stopped having to chew gum every hour of the day, and I am free from the tyranny of jaw-ache. Seriously, in ten days I got through exactly 108 pieces of Wrigley's Extra.
So stage one - the staying home, lying in bed chewing and moaning stage, is over. Stage two - the going cycling every day, exercising in the evening, and just generally being HEALTH MAN stage, began yesterday. It will not last forever. I am not built that way. But it'll last until I feel human again.
You know, I do feel different. Sure, quitting smoking and staying off the booze for a reasonable period of time has given me a little jump-start, but that's not all of it. I've been trying to find a way to put this into words that don't read like something from one of those self-help manuals, and I'm not sure I'm going to be able to do it, but I feel very calm. Ever since my twenty-fifth birthday, I've had this sense of impending doom, this feeling that I was in a rut only my writing could get me out of. I didn't want a secure job or the attentions of my family and friends, and I certainly didn't want a girlfriend. I wanted to be left alone to write.
And drink, and smoke.
My motivations for that are a little confusing, even to me. On the one hand, I enjoy my own company and I do need a little Michael-time for my writing. But on the other, I can be my own worst enemy. Left to my own devices, I'll eventually get to thinking too much and feeling too much and needing something to ease the pain a little, usually my old pals Mr. Marlboro and Mr. Jack. And the more time I spend by myself, the worse it tends to get. Between you guys and me, I was getting through 3-4 bottles of bourbon and something like 200 cigarettes a week after I quit my job at the carvery. Not the deepest trough of alcohol, nicotine, and frustration there's ever been, but not a Darkened Room full of joy either.
I found it near impossible to quit before because I didn't have any real reason to. I'm not what you'd call a suicide case, but I have a problem summoning up the necessary energy to care sometimes. So I never really gave a shit about the state of my body or the possibility of cancer, which, as I've mentioned, is not uncommon down one side of my family.
The slap to the face wasn't communicating with Jennifer and getting to know her, nor was it flying halfway across the world to meet her. No, the slap came a couple of weeks after I got back. I was lying on my bed, listening to my music as I often do. I think I was daydreaming about Jenn anyway, though I don't really remember. What I do recall is being very suddenly struck by possibility, by the sheer size of that one word. It was almost like realising there was another person I could be, another path I could take. Life's always about choices and about making your own way, but up until that point, I'd never come up against such a black-and-white decision. There was another future besides the one I'd been so content to brood on in my smoke-filled bedroom. This one would involve some work and some sacrifices, but at the end of the journey, I might actually have something to show for it other than bitter recrimination and words I write because I need to, because I can't not write them.
I'm not talking about destinies and happy endings. I'm both a realist and a terminal cynic, and I don't have time for 'life is what you make it'. That's bullshit. But I do believe that I can be who I choose to be, and I think I'll remember 2005 as the year I decided to be somebody else, somebody who, when confronted with living and dying, made a decisive choice instead of sitting around and waiting to see which happened first.
That's why I'm so confident that I won't be going to back to cigarettes and that I'll never sit in this room and drink by myself again. I'm aiming at something, and these are just the first few steps on what might be a long road. I don't intend to stumble, certainly not when I've barely started, and that perspective makes the whole issue of bringing change to my life seem all the easier. I can do this. I'm doing this.
And for that, for possibility, there's something I need to say.
Thank you, Jennifer.
Ten days since resolutions, three until Jennifer. I crested the wave yesterday, and I've felt comfortable ever since. I'm not free of cigarettes, not by any means, but I'm definitely not feeling that awful physical pull anymore, that need. I've also stopped having to chew gum every hour of the day, and I am free from the tyranny of jaw-ache. Seriously, in ten days I got through exactly 108 pieces of Wrigley's Extra.
So stage one - the staying home, lying in bed chewing and moaning stage, is over. Stage two - the going cycling every day, exercising in the evening, and just generally being HEALTH MAN stage, began yesterday. It will not last forever. I am not built that way. But it'll last until I feel human again.
You know, I do feel different. Sure, quitting smoking and staying off the booze for a reasonable period of time has given me a little jump-start, but that's not all of it. I've been trying to find a way to put this into words that don't read like something from one of those self-help manuals, and I'm not sure I'm going to be able to do it, but I feel very calm. Ever since my twenty-fifth birthday, I've had this sense of impending doom, this feeling that I was in a rut only my writing could get me out of. I didn't want a secure job or the attentions of my family and friends, and I certainly didn't want a girlfriend. I wanted to be left alone to write.
And drink, and smoke.
My motivations for that are a little confusing, even to me. On the one hand, I enjoy my own company and I do need a little Michael-time for my writing. But on the other, I can be my own worst enemy. Left to my own devices, I'll eventually get to thinking too much and feeling too much and needing something to ease the pain a little, usually my old pals Mr. Marlboro and Mr. Jack. And the more time I spend by myself, the worse it tends to get. Between you guys and me, I was getting through 3-4 bottles of bourbon and something like 200 cigarettes a week after I quit my job at the carvery. Not the deepest trough of alcohol, nicotine, and frustration there's ever been, but not a Darkened Room full of joy either.
I found it near impossible to quit before because I didn't have any real reason to. I'm not what you'd call a suicide case, but I have a problem summoning up the necessary energy to care sometimes. So I never really gave a shit about the state of my body or the possibility of cancer, which, as I've mentioned, is not uncommon down one side of my family.
The slap to the face wasn't communicating with Jennifer and getting to know her, nor was it flying halfway across the world to meet her. No, the slap came a couple of weeks after I got back. I was lying on my bed, listening to my music as I often do. I think I was daydreaming about Jenn anyway, though I don't really remember. What I do recall is being very suddenly struck by possibility, by the sheer size of that one word. It was almost like realising there was another person I could be, another path I could take. Life's always about choices and about making your own way, but up until that point, I'd never come up against such a black-and-white decision. There was another future besides the one I'd been so content to brood on in my smoke-filled bedroom. This one would involve some work and some sacrifices, but at the end of the journey, I might actually have something to show for it other than bitter recrimination and words I write because I need to, because I can't not write them.
I'm not talking about destinies and happy endings. I'm both a realist and a terminal cynic, and I don't have time for 'life is what you make it'. That's bullshit. But I do believe that I can be who I choose to be, and I think I'll remember 2005 as the year I decided to be somebody else, somebody who, when confronted with living and dying, made a decisive choice instead of sitting around and waiting to see which happened first.
That's why I'm so confident that I won't be going to back to cigarettes and that I'll never sit in this room and drink by myself again. I'm aiming at something, and these are just the first few steps on what might be a long road. I don't intend to stumble, certainly not when I've barely started, and that perspective makes the whole issue of bringing change to my life seem all the easier. I can do this. I'm doing this.
And for that, for possibility, there's something I need to say.
Thank you, Jennifer.
posted by Michael at 9:47 PM
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