We aren’t a match. Other than the fact we’re both still smokers, we have little in common. He’d drive me crazy over any extended period of time if for no other reason than his deplorable use of the English language. “She don’t” and “ain’t no”. Not to mention the uncontrolled and unexcused releases of “vapors”, the bigotry and prejudices, the swearing, the macho man bravado. Yet…….tonight I’m tempted to run over there and throw myself shamelessly into his arms….or maybe even his bed! Why? Because he likes me, and I like him. He smiles at me. He does simple, nice, little things for me, like killing the weeds in my yard without letting me know. Like buying a special cushioned seat for the Harley so my bony butt is more comfy on our rides. Like picking up a huge bottle of Aleve at Costco for me because it costs less there. However, the thought of throwing myself at him is insanity. That’s why I’m safely tucked into my own home, sitting behind this keyboard expecting the exercise of writing to somehow soothe my aching heart. Of course I’ll feel better for it, and the desire to simply be hugged, held, accepted, protected, …. well, it’ll subside. It always does. Which brings me to the point of writing, learning to be my own best friend. It is an ongoing and often repeated exercise. Most recently, it was my beautiful 24 year old, non-smoking daughter who unleashed with a barrage of verbal attacks centered around my smoking habit.
Somewhere along the way, early on, I got the message that no matter what I did, said, chose, wanted, desired, accomplished, it simply wasn’t going to measure up. Not “it”. ME. I didn’t measure up. I wasn’t right, I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t up to the set standards. The message was delivered in subtle to dramatic ways, although perhaps unintentionally. Doesn’t matter what the intention was right now. What matters is recognizing repeated patterns I’ve adopted for survival in my struggle to simply be accepted, maybe even loved, just the way I am, imperfect and flawed. And in some oddly twisted way, beyond the addiction, my continued smoking is part of my need to be recognized and accepted for who I am!
Born the second of three daughters to Irish Catholic parents who survived the Great Depression. Crap. That just about explains it all. Everything. Seemingly quite simple. Always compared to my older sister’s exemplary behavior, the role model. Told at age 3 to “sit down and be quiet” when imitating her antics, which minutes before had brought laughter and applause. Told at age 7, in preparation for my first confession and holy communion, that I’m a sinner. It’s really pathetic and ironic that I went to my first confession and LIED! There’s just something wrong with that lesson. Being physically booted across the laundry room at age 15 by my smoking father for smoking!!! Being denied design school for an elementary education degree at a Catholic college. I knew very early that I was an artist. No, I couldn’t have articulated those words at the time, but I knew. It’s why I came to the planet. It’s all I’ve ever considered myself. An artist. Not a school teacher. No wonder I ended up weighing 82 pounds with a severe case of ulcerative colitis. It wasn’t my appendix, which they mistakenly took out first. It was a severe case of imposed self-denial! Falling in love with the brother of the guy who got the saintly older sister pregnant was, of course, totally unacceptable. My first love, denied. I suppose, if I have one regret in life it’s that I didn’t sleep with the guy! He was hit by lightening and killed instantly at the tender age of 22. The pain was overwhelming and shortly after that I left for parts of the world unknown. Got on a jet and literally flew to the furthest geographical location from my home town! And I’ve never gone back other than to visit.
Throughout my journey, no matter what the up or down of the day, the cigarettes were there. Always. It didn’t matter whether it was pleasure or pain, celebration or grief, fun and games or sadness and sorrow, they were always there. Still are. Through 4 marriages and divorces, through single parenting, through self-employment as a freelance artist/illustrator, they were there. One constant in my life I could rely on. God knows I learned early in my life you can’t rely on people! They find fault, judge, criticize, manipulate and try to control. Cigarettes don’t. They have been my partner in this incredible and often difficult trip, neither detracting nor enhancing, but simply being part of it. An unwavering, non-judgmental, non-critical constant.
Last year I had a minor heart attack. Spent 2 days in the hospital and got a stint put in. Sure the doctor wants me to quit smoking. He says my x-ray shows the evidence of emphysema. Dah! After 50 years of smoking, that would hardly be a surprise. Here’s the thing, though. I don’t want to quit smoking. I simply don’t. Although it makes no sense logically, hanging on to the habit is my way of stamping my little girl feet and screaming “just love me the way I am”! It’s a defiant act. I know that. It is a nasty habit that’s incredibly expensive now and shortening my life. And still I don’t want to quit. I understand why non-smokers don’t get it; they simply don’t/can’t understand why we smokers (at least this one) continue to smoke. And I’m not talking about the actual physical addiction to whatever chemicals my body craves now. It’s a powerful psychological connection I have with the habit. It says very loud and clear “I’m gonna do it my way. I don’t care what you think or what you want. You don’t like me anyway. What the hell is the difference to you?!” It is deeply, deeply ingrained. It is part of my struggle to be recognized. It is part of my self-image. I honestly have no concept of being a non-smoker and fear that if I give them up, somehow my very autonomy will disappear.
Perhaps with these new awarenesses and insights, I can change things. Perhaps I can come to a place of self-acceptance and grasp I don’t need the crutch any longer. Hell, I have a redneck neighbor who likes me just as I am! That is a start. And… for now, I remain inside my home, safely tucked away with my smokes and keyboard. Maybe tomorrow morning I just won’t light up that first one. Yeah, right! I’m pretty certain, though, that as grateful as I am for his friendship, tomorrow morning my redneck friend won’t look nearly as attractive as he did earlier this evening. Thank heavens for the therapeutic catharsis of writing!