Archive for category Fear
I’m trying desperately to catch up with all the items I’ve missed, I have been simply incapable of sitting down for even ten minutes and reading anything. I don’t know why.
Antsy, irritable might all begin to describe me, but mostly I just wanted to cut off everything. I lost my phone, it went dead for days at a time. I worked like an automaton and treated people much the same. I came home with only thoughts of hunger, then exhaustion.
I moved one day to the next with checklists in my head, no love or desire for anything.
I would say that under normal circumstances this would be the period when I would slide into the abyss of depression for a bit, go back on the meds, work the steps that pull me back out of it. Like accepting every 8th invitation whether I want to or not, for example, which is the only reason I had any interaction with the Yankee outside of work, pleasant as the experience was to my surprise.
I suppose having a kid is kind of a motivator for me to push away the darkness more strongly than I might otherwise. Considering we only have one another, we talk daily, we discuss everything, it tends to keep me more grounded and tethered to something. I realize this doesn’t work for everyone and I’m certainly not belittling that in any way when family has no effect on your darkness when it comes to call, but my kid is very much my totem.
In moments when I would otherwise not be able to stop it from pulling me under, I have the half-pint who reminds me why I’m not done fighting today. Maybe tomorrow. Or, maybe the day after.
For my G-uno, I was the one who brought the dysfunctional in-laws into my marriage. I never knew what a family could be like until I met my ex’s family. I’m still very connected to them, just as I’m very disconnected from my own. It is extremely painful to not be loved and accepted within your own family and to know that in every subtext of how they speak to you.
To be able to walk away from that, know them to be the poisonous element and still have faith in your own self as being a good person and not seeing yourself through their eyes, takes a strength a person just shouldn’t have to bear with people supposedly under the title of “loved ones.” My made family, the family I built from my teens on, G-uno and BFG very much included, shaped a lot of who I am today, gave me the strength to fight against a very twisted guardian and their brood.
We feel compelled to try to make and fix things. You and I especially like to fix. Maybe it is a Gemini thing.
But I will never be able to fix the person my gran made me out to be to their family, a spoiled and greedy orphan never satisfied with anything received and working poor gran’s fingers to the bone demanding more. This spilled over to my aunt and uncles and poisoned the mind of my cousin and his wife. They will always have that haughty smugness when I spend time with them that I don’t measure up enough to have been “gran’s favorite”.
I already knew that. I spent a great amount of effort trying not to be, repeatedly kicking that fucking pedestal anytime I saw it coming closer. To be in gran’s good graces would mean I was like them. That was the last thing I ever wanted to be.
I had an epiphany recently. I knew I married another version of gran, so I could have the same bullshit fights with different outcomes and I had to do a lot of soul searching to overcome that. But it went further than that. My ex manipulated me to be geographically isolated. Gran, being the manipulation master they were, managed to do it emotionally, mentally. They made sure I had no one in my family who saw me as I was. No one to confide in. No one. Except them.
When this hit me, I kind of wanted to dig gran up and just beat the hell out of them. It hurt, but it was their own selfishness that motivated every diabolical thing they did. They destroyed their own family, caused so much internal fighting and baseless hate that those of us generations later just want nothing to do with any of them, or one another, save for a small few.
So when a person, such as yourself, who has had nothing but selfless goals calls a lost cause a lost cause, why would you feel this in any way your fault? To be able to fix them, you’d have to think like they do, and in turn understand them, and take a risk of turning into that yourself. I couldn’t risk that, I try to carve that ability out of myself much in the way you battle the Kraken.
There is a point when self-preservation has to kick in and you have to give it up and escape. You don’t call it a bad thing if you’re not able to fight a bear with brass knuckles, its a fucking bear. You’re thankful you survived.
She sat there on the edge of the lake with with her feet dangling in the cool dark waters. Her body was present, but her mind drifted off to darker places. Occasionally she was aware of her silent surroundings, but the loudness of her thoughts robbed her of the peacefulness of her surroundings.
She could no more silence the deafening noise of her own thoughts then she could stop the endless flow of the warm tears that streamed down from her cheeks. Her sadness came from years of struggle, and from the realization that most of what she believed to have been the truth in her life was nothing more than a world that only she inhabited.
I’m not sure if the pain of not being able to recognize the fact that she had created the illusion, or the thought that no one around her even noticed its existence was more devastating. Perhaps she lives within a world that only exists within her head, or maybe she is just simply unable to see the world that actually exists.
Either way she is lost within the darkness of the waters. She dangles between two worlds wondering which one holds the truth, unable to discern how to cross over to a world not designed by her own perceptions. Then she wonders if everyone resides in a world of their own design, their own illusions. If she steps into the dark waters will she swim, or simply become a part of them.
I think I’ve already gone over how the VP in our department thinks I’m a fucking idiot, something even the Yankee picked up on even though my boss tries her best to play the diplomatic card as much as possible. My boss rocks as they are not the type to get into drama and will get pissed at the issue, not the person. They also have a tendency to try to see the best in others and want to explain bad behavior under a more rational light. Sometimes a bitch is just a bitch. Also, like I told my boss… I have to value the opinion to give a shit what it is.
The VP has more than once told me I scare her. I’m starting to wonder if she isn’t kidding.
The owners decided they wanted to see more training since our financial situation (i.e. people finally started paying their fucking bills and we got bitchier about getting them paid) started getting better. My stress level once this occurred plummeted. Up until that point, the VP wanted to send me to a class on communication skills, which in a meeting with one of the owners and the VP present, I pointed out “There’s only so many ways you can communicate ‘we can’t pay you because we’re not getting paid.'” The owner readily agreed, the VP stfu about it, but it was still on the to-do that we should have training of some sort.
Yankee and I both saw an advanced Excel class we thought might be interesting, so we requested that. VP is not so skilled in Excel, in fact usually asking for Yankee’s help and marveling at the skills, even when its a minor thing. VP and I don’t really interact much work-wise, so it became apparent she had no clue of my skill level when she suggested it would be too much for me, and I just said “I highly doubt it considering I’ve already taken the advanced certification courses. This would be little more than a refresher unless they’re getting into the actual VB coding or in-depth macros without the step-through recorder.”
I lost her somewhere in the first ten words, I could see it in her face. She backpedaled a bit, and it wasn’t long before she had signed up for the same course but before ours.
She came back afterwards and said she learned a couple small things but they didn’t go over anything she didn’t already know. Before I could stop myself I said “well that’s disappointing, I thought it was supposed to be an advanced class.”
The Yankee coughed to hide their snort, but we were rather concerned that we wouldn’t be getting much out of this. It looked like the only classes that were more of our cup of tea were a minimum of two days and about five times the cost. We were told point blank we were not allowed to be gone over one day.
Either way, we finagled it so our project cohort, the Hippy, is also scheduled for this same class (at the Yankee’s house, Hippy mentioned they had no clue how to even request training and they too used spreadsheets a lot, so I put a bug in the VP’s ear. Sometimes, she is useful).
So we get out from having to deal with the VP for at least one day. For that alone, I guess I don’t really mind if I don’t take a lot away from this class, though I’ve never walked away not learning at least something, even if its small. I’m also curious as to whether the VP just didn’t understand a lot of what was being said and filtered it out. Will be interesting to find out. At least the company will be worth it anyway.
Yes, I’m still doing the food insanity, somewhere around week 4 and a half it’d become such a habit I forgot to log my food. By the time I realized I hadn’t done it, it’d been almost a week.
I’m an organized soul, let me unclutter your life. (don’t, really… you’ll never forgive me.)
In the first 3 weeks, I dropped about 20 pounds and six inches out of my midsection, but I kept forgetting to check after that. Apparently, nothing else has moved from my midsection another 5? 6? weeks later, but I’ve noticed other stuff or I’d be insanely depressed. My last check had be averaging about 727 calories/day.
In the past couple weeks, I have been able to navigate stores without the assistance of a cart. For me this has been big. The pain started first and the weight followed, one exacerbating the other. It was three years before diabetes showed up. Walking around a store was hell and not just because I detest shopping. If you’ve ever seen the first steps of the TinMan after Dorothy gave him an oiling (that’s what he said) or someone trying to move their body in spite of paralysis, this is roughly how I managed to get around. No amount of pain pills could touch it.
I decided we were going to get up at buttass’o’ clock one Saturday and pick blueberries. We were out there until we filled 2 buckets, which took Spawn and I a little over an hour. It was disgustingly hot even at 7am, but we survived and physically, I was fine. I haven’t been fine in years.
Spawn asked their best friend if they wanted to join us, which they did but they had their six year old cousin visiting so they had to join us as well.
We already had plans to hit our favorite Saturday breakfast spot when we were done (they have about six or more omelets I can totally eat and still stay within range).
Pain In The Ass aka the 6 year old, only likes waffles. Plain waffles.
Our favorite spot only has french toast.
I got to hear about two hours worth of shit PITA doesn’t like, but also has never tried.
I know in my logical brain Spawn also went through this phase, but this child has never heard the word “no.” Ever.
Spawn’s BFF exemplified a patience I’ve only seen in the most kindest of souls. I kind of felt sorry that they had to play parent to just a PITA…but then, they could have left it at home too.
PITA and I butted heads only twice. The first happened when they had picked blueberries for about fifteen minutes and determined themselves bored and demanding we leave. My response was they were told beforehand that I wanted two buckets for us before we left, and if they were done they could either help make that go faster or find something to enjoy about the place until we were done.
The second, PITA dozed off on the way to breakfast choice number two (we checked the menu to make sure plain waffles were on it). When we got there Spawn’s BFF couldn’t get it out of the car. I poked my head in on the other side and said “You knew were coming here, so get out of my car please.” It did.
Spawn asked if I yelled at them, I told them I didn’t have to, I’m terrifying enough without volume.
In spite of it all, I still had a pretty lovely but insanely hot day with three kids, a good breakfast (spinach crepe with chicken) which I forgot included potatoes pancakes. Thankfully, they were small, and I managed to mangle them a bit and eat about 2 tiny bites so I could call them touched without being devoured, while small enough I didn’t feel bad about leaving it.
The blueberries though were a bit on the small side. I’m sure part of it was the season started earlier this year and I didn’t realize it until later, combined with the need to hurry so I didn’t hear “I’m bored, when are we leaving?” before I throttled someone’s kid and buried it under one of the bushes.
But fuck yeah, I picked mah own muthafuckin blueberries, bitches!
My doctor’s visit was yesterday and that’s what they said after I got done with my long diatribe.
Spawn got their vaccine(s) and was given the final verdict that they were “disgustingly healthy.” We thought they were only getting one shot, but it ended up being 2 shots and a fingerstick hemoglobin test. I’m sure because my iron is still low, I’m also at fault for that one. My kid ended up with two Daffy Duck and one Tasmanian Devil band-aids, so overall I think it was a win.
My bloodwork in March determined that my A1C was down to 6.3 from 7.3 in January. I brought it down a full point in 3 months and this is before the insanity diet started.
I also dropped 20 lbs since I came in last. That was more reassuring than I thought it would be. Sure, you always hope for more no matter what amount, but when you have a ton to lose, you don’t see it until its a massive amount. It kind of felt like justification that what I was doing was a good idea.
The only measurement I’ve done at home, and only after I’d been doing this for a week, was measuring my midsection. That too has lost 4 inches in a week.
I was excited by this and felt the need share the good news with diet buddy. I don’t think they took it too well though. I have a feeling I might have to stage an intervention at some point so they don’t get disappointed and start using more excuses to end it. Their kids are going overseas for a few weeks this summer, so their excuses will be gone too.
With that said, I, like the planner I’m not, forgot to print out all the crap I was going to bring in hand for my doctor to review. I had to give the reader’s digest super-condensed version of what I read, what the study’s goals were and what I was trying to emulate. I at least had my app out and let my doc peruse the information I did have logged and how I was tracking my nutrition as well.
My doctor countered with starvation mode and the vices of that. I countered that I was only intending on doing this for 8 weeks, not forever and would be gradually increasing to a more reasonable level after. The goal being to shock the system into burning its own fat, especially in the pancreas. I told them about my carb goals, and how that had been working out. I told them I had cake on my birthday, so I added an extra day. They said “you can have cake on your birthday.”
They asked questions about how I’d been feeling, if I’d added any exercise and how my digestive system had been doing. I told my doc fine, no and actually pretty good. I said I had only had issues when I hadn’t had enough water, and I got a headache once from not enough salt, but otherwise I’d been feeling pretty good.
I also said that regardless of how well I did on this, I still wanted surgery if I ever got the option because I simply didn’t want to deal with this ever again. Doc said they’d write the referral as soon as I had the coverage.
Sometimes it just nice to know 1, you’re doing ok, and 2. you got someone in your corner.
Dealing with the family members of dying clients is like walking a circus tightrope. One has to be very careful with their choice of wording. Families are under extreme pressure trying to maintain their daily lives while dealing with a dying loved one. Yesterday was Betty Davis’s 6 month evaluation with Hospice. Her daughter came home from work early to be there with mom.
Betty’s daughter is like a blonde Liza Minnelli in appearance so we will call her Liza. I don’t deal with her very often in person. We mostly communicate through notes to each other. She is usually at work when I arrive so I meet every morning with her husband. This is Liza’s third marriage (her husband’s too), but they have been married now for 13 years. I’m not sure who the drinker is in this house, but based on the amount of Captain Morgan on hand I’m guessing both.
Both Betty, and Liza were worried that Betty would be removed from Hospice’s care. They were both equally anxious about the possibility. I tried to reassure them both that this would not be the case as gently as possible, but Liza persisted until I had to explain in the most honest way I could. The problem here is that the truth is quite brutal, and I don’t know Liza well enough to know the best way to deal with her. So I began with “Mom’s condition continues to decline, and Hospice will view this as reason enough to keep Mom under their care.”
Liza snapped back “What do you mean? Mom is not declining, have you noticed a decline since you started working here?” Now in my line of work every alarm in my head is sounding off “DANGER G-uno Danger!” So I pulled out two bar stools motioning for us both to sit (somehow sitting seems less harsh) then I softly say “Yes Liza Mom is declining.” She is still on defense mode, and says “How do you know this, why are you saying this?” So I softly say ” There are physical signs that begin to occur when someone with Mom’s illness begins to decline.”
At this point I am silently begging “The Universe” to let this be enough for Liza to let this subject rest, and of course no such luck. Liza grabs my hand, and pleads with me to just tell her what I see. Then I could feel the tears welling in my eyes, and I’m pretty sure she could hear the sound of my heart cracking. I place my other hand on top of her’s, and I say “Mom’s breathing is becoming increasingly more labored. I ask her if she noticed that Mom’s hands were changing in any ways that she may have noticed.” She said “No!” ( I want to kick “The Universe”in the balls now!) So I softly say Mom’s hands are darkening now because her lungs & heart are having a more difficult time delivering oxygen to them.”
I can see at this point that she is breakable. I hug Liza, and I tell her that she is an amazing daughter. I tell her that I am overwhelmed by her love for Mom. She began to cry she is bothered by the fact that her Mom tells me more regarding her thoughts, and health concerns. She wants to share this with her mother. She feels like my bond with her mother is becoming stronger than theirs.
I am in agony at this point, but then I know what needs to be said (Sorry “Universe” lost my faith there for a moment) so I place both hands on the sides of Liza’s face. Then looking her directly in the eyes I tell her “Your Mom is still your Mom, and she will try to protect you no matter what. She does not share these things with me out of love, I am her caregiver. She is not concerned about my feelings in this capacity. You are her world! She loves you more than life itself, and this is momma bear’s way of shielding the one she does love, and trust more than anyone else in the world.”
I saw both heartbreak, and relief in Liza’s eyes. Sometimes the truth is the only way to go. 😉
I’m not sure anymore how much detail I’ve gone into, I’m too lazy to go look at any prior posts of mine about health. I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, just like Grand. Unlike Grand though, I don’t hide twinkies and say I bought them “for the kids” or a 10 lb bag of oranges and eat them over a few days because I’m too lazy to cook for one.
I do however, have an intense love of chocolate and had (my meds make me crave meat now, go figure) a sweet tooth so fierce I’d make myself sick. I could never understand why, but my doc said that since I’d always ran a low sugar until now, I would of course crave it. I used to have a blood sugar of about 74 shortly after eating. I know only because I had a type 1 boss who would stick you anytime you alluded to not feeling perfect.
I’m on a pill twice a day. I’m thankful I don’t have to use insulin, for now. I’m also glad I’m not having to stick myself, for now. My numbers have been getting better minisculely, not rapid enough for the instant gratification loving person than I am. I know that this is a process, but the process, to me should be faster than 10 lbs in three months.
Walking… hurts right now. But I do as much as I can. I would love to swim, but have no access to such in a reasonable time frame or distance. If I tried to do yoga, I’d fall and hurt myself. My body is not fully under my control right now.
I’ve always berated myself for being a food-addicted by-product of bad genes and a worse upbringing, but I don’t think that is the whole story.
I distinctly remember crying over a plate of food because I couldn’t eat anymore and I thought I would be in trouble. Grand always fixed our plates for a 300 lb grown man and then demanded that we eat everything. My mom tossed the plate I was crying over in the trash and spent the next hour trying to de-program a short lifetime of conditioning.
I was suicidal by age seven, depression came on pretty hard when the hormones did in my preteens, and so did about 10 or so extra pounds. At that point, I didn’t have any major body issues, I figured my next growth spurt would probably iron it all out, as I was still a kid.
That is, of course, until I sent to my Aunt from Hell’s house for the summer. She promptly slapped me on the Atkin’s diet, droned on about “ketosis” and fed me shitty unsweetened yogurt and unripe blueberries. It would be twenty years before I would ever willingly taste another blueberry.
I had one friend I made that summer and was thrilled when they invited me over for a sleepover. Anything to get out of that bitch’s house. Their dad made homemade vanilla ice cream, a treat I’d never had in my life. I ate one small scoop, since I was trying to keep to the Fuhrer’s strict rules.
I was subsequently screamed at for an hour when they found out.
Years later, when same aunt was giving me advice about the “delicate psyche” of children before Spawn was born, I brought up this small page in our history. I also told her I used to find her terrifying.
her:”…………….I’m….. I’m so sorry”
me:”kind of fucking late to regret now, isn’t it?”
I think that was the only time I ever heard that woman apologise for anything. She is Grand’s twin in many ways.
My twenties, I ended up with the marital fluff that comes from too much indifference and entirely too much meat and potato-based meals. When we split, I’d put on 30 or so lbs. I lost any taste for soft drinks and spent the first month or so gorging on as many raw vegetables as I could get my hands on. Not because I was dieting, but because I craved them. I didn’t count anything, didn’t weigh anything, I ate what I was in the mood for, including a 3 scoop variety bowl of ice cream with all the crap on it. I took up yoga, I loved it. I felt centered for the first time in my life.
I did weigh myself though. I had a mental number I wanted to reach and when I was within five pounds of it, I decided to take up a judo class. The first month, I instead gained five pounds but had dropped a pant size. It was my first epiphany in how little numbers mean.
The second was with a friend of mine who also had the desire to lean down, while we were at a pub crawl (I did mention I gave up nothing, right?). We were on bar three and moving to bar four. It was probably just a couple blocks to the next one and my friend and I were chatting and laughing and outpacing everyone. We passed two individuals who represented everything we were trying to achieve, size-wise. As we passed, we heard one complain about being exhausted and their feet hurting. The other responded in agreement. My friend and I looked at one another and I simply said “maybe we need to rethink our priorities…,” they simply responded “indeed.”
When Spawn was known but in the works, I ended up taking care of Grand, a noncompliant diabetic. I never understood what Grand thought they were accomplishing by not checking their sugar and lying about what they ate. They lost their eyesight and their independance, and its by sheer miracle they didn’t lose an appendage or have to go on dialysis.
While they were under my care, they dropped about 9 sizes. I cleaned out all the garbage and started cooking my normal jive. Grand was a shopping junkie, so I took them grocery shopping about three times a week. It seems excessive but I refused to keep any mass quantities of fruit (their main addiction) and Grand always had to walk down every aisle each visit.
Let me repeat that…. they had to walk down every aisle each and every time. Even if nothing had changed, nothing moved, nothing.
I played a game of trying to find the biggest grocery stores I could that still kept only within the food range. Wal-Mart was off-limits except for only special trips (moments I wouldn’t go postal spending days in a store). With Grand’s macular degeneration, they would obsessively grab shit and put it in their cart and I would pull it out of the other side and put it back. I tried to keep the splurge tab in the 10-15 range so the high could be obtained without the expenditure. Grand was a junkie when it came to shopping, folks. I would bribe anyone of you to do my shopping for me.
Grand:”I could have sworn I got more than this…”
Me:”hmmm, nope… you were a bit picky today.”
With Grand getting exercise on these trips, so I enforced the rule of only 2-3 pieces of fruit and each had to be a different color (probably the only thing they could see anyway) under the agreement we would come back when they ran out. When I refused to allow them the 10 lb bag of oranges, I got a call from one of her children about how I wasn’t feeding Grand. The 9 pant sizes and the elimination of two of their medications for sugar (there were four) seemed to support this. I did mention I was the evil black sheep of the family right? I fed Grand how I liked to eat, they had 3 squares and 2 snacks a day, and it worked.
My thirties, the weight crawled on while taking care of Spawn. Getting 2-3 hours of sleep a night with absolutely no break, full-time work and a kid who would scream if they had to consume anything besides chicken nuggets and french fries all summed up to a good 80 or more lbs. I responded the way I had in the past but with prepackaged salads, cooking mass quantities of meals and shoving them in the freezer (the first time around I had more than me to cook for with friends, roommates and my mom around all the time).
I tried to involve Spawn in my yoga. It didn’t go well and I wasn’t able to focus on it like I had when I could do it by myself, so I scheduled it when they were asleep. The weight also wasn’t budging either, even reviving the old habits. But this was a decade later.
I started counting calories for the first time. I hated it. I was hungry all the time and it felt like a full time job. I tried several calculations and set an amount that would hit a 2 lb weight loss a week, and it still didn’t budge much. I would knock off another 100 calories until I started losing again, but I was so damn hungry.
I started walking every other day. I found out one of my blocks was about 2 miles around, the other almost 3, so I walked both each time. BFG bought me some walking sticks because we had read it could help with strength training and your posture so you could walk faster. I didn’t even care if I looked stupid. I read so much material on nutrition and weight and exercise that, just like parental advice, it began to contradict each other.
I managed to knock off about half the weight. I’d had to give up caffeine due to an ulcer, and my last vice was smoking. When my cholesterol came back elevated, that went too. I was ok about it when I gained 12 lbs from quitting. I thought it’d be more. But I still had 30+ lbs left to go and it refused to budge.
Then I came home one day and my legs ached when I walked, my arms ached, I couldn’t get a full breathe, my brain ached. I was so mentally drained I felt like I’d been trying to do calculus without paper. I felt like I’d run a marathon and every bit of liquid I’d had in my body was focused completely around my legs like a pair of saline pants I couldn’t remove. I moved like Grand at 80, the 50 yards to the bed felt like Mount Saint Helen, so I crashed on the couch most of the time.
I slept at least a dozen hours every time I could, more on the weekend. It was insanely difficult to get up in the morning. I was always stiff, always tired, always hurting. I had donned a gorilla costume the Halloween before and chased Spawn for hours while they knocked on door after door and now I had no chance in hell of standing at a stove for thirty minutes to cook anything. I couldn’t stand five minutes without whimpering.
My doc tried upping my anti-depressants, my cholesterol problem magically disappeared but my blood pressure was elevated, no that’s no longer a problem but your triglycerides are weird, nope, now its your thyroid. No wait…. DIABETES!
It stayed like that for almost six years now, and over 100 lbs this time. On a scale of 1 to 10, I was sitting at 11 in misery. Of course, over those 6 years I felt like cooking very little, drive-throughs often providing our only major meals. This pleased Spawn, but not me. Crap makes you feel like crap, but I wanted hot meals and had no desire to make anything. I could stare at a full fridge and could not come up with a single thing to make. I felt like I was dead.
I still pretty much feel dead, maybe a zombie walker? My last visit we talked while I was getting checked out for a sinus infection (before the nurse told me to bend over). Cooking at home is now outweighing how much we grab. “Grabbing” dinner involves salads and lean meals at least half the time when I can find places that serve good food. I’m beginning to feel like I am at 8, sometimes 7 on good days. I’d lost 10 lbs… but in 3 months. It only took 6 months for that 100+ lbs to slam itself on and at that point, I was sleeping more than I was doing anything else. I even slowly weaned myself off the anti-depressant to see if maybe I wasn’t having some weird reaction to them.
So I’m at the point where I’m considering gastric bypass. I feel like I will continue to lose this battle with my own body unless I do something drastic. I have no intention of losing the war. I just need better artillery and the older I get, the harder this battle is getting.
I have read something about transfer addiction, and I used to think I had an addictive personality, but when I’ve set my mind to toss something out, I don’t go back. Chantix starts you out with 3 months, I quit in one, I kept another week of the pills to help with situations of temptation and donated the rest to a fellow smoker looking to quit. I’ve never looked back. I felt pretty smug sitting at an outdoor table with a pack of chain smokers with no desire to join them. I knew then I was done for good.
If I get my emotional brain to shut up, my logical brain tells me “remember that time you refused to drop the calculus class with the Russian professor you could never understand? It’s like that and it’s time to ask for help.”
Have you guys ever considered or done anything this drastic? I know I’m tired of just existing and now that Spawn is older, this is not at all the way I want them to remember me. I want to go on trips now, to experience now, to live NOW. Six years was too much already.