Nicotine, nicotinic receptors, agonists, pleasure centers, dopamine, Chantix, ecchh. I'm sick of it all. For a good two months now, I have had no pleasure, none, from the nasty little weed sticks my body and my mind crave so unrelentingly.
Even though it is warmer and I can take it outside, mister, for every pleasurable bit of the action I used to derive, there is now the famous equal and opposite reaction. A break became an interruption. The yummy taste became ashy. The quiescence that followed a cigarette became shameful. Because I have been smoking less, when I did smoke it gave me a headache.
Yes, my tenses are all mixed up. Past, present, do I, don't I? We'll get to that. Let me say first that it is probably a good thing that I write in both the present and the past about my nicotine habit. The literature indicates this means I am changing. Finally! It's about time. I've been whining about this publicly since last July, dissecting the journey, casting about for topics, impugning science, scientists, brain chemistry, pharmaceutical companies, you name it.
Could it be that the rubber is hitting the road? I hope so.
Many months ago, my sister gave me a couple of boxes of "the patch," a square little thing to slap on the body somewhere that delivers a steady dose of the core drug. The boxes languished in the cabinet, became dusty and lonely. In the meantime, I tried Chantix, gum, cold turkey, cutting down and bumming only. I even tried not trying, hoping that my desire to quit might magically allow me to eschew without the pain of quitting.
Success remained elusive.
Chantix, as you know, made me nuts. The other tactics didn't make me crazy, but they didn't quite work, either. I don't know what made me wake up recently and dig out those boxes, rather than reach for a butt. I'd like to say it was purposeful, goal directed, lofty. It was none of those things.
I had two dosages to choose from, 21 mg or 14 mg. There is program to follow, but since I haven't followed a norm since Pa fell off the bus, I decided simply to put on the stronger patch.
Lo and behold. The day passed and I didn't smoke. In some ways, it was like the early days of Chantix, before it took deep hold of my brain. I forgot about smoking. I didn't look for butts, crave butts, lament lack of butts or have to slap myself upside the head and remind myself I wanted to be a non-smoker. I just. Didn't. Smoke.
Buoyed by this success, and blighted by my own personality, on day two, I chose a 14 mg patch. Enter mild irritation, seductive thoughts of smoking, motor restlessness. But, I still didn't smoke.
Until.
You can insert whatever works for you here. Until ...; the addiction came roaring back, until ...; life intruded. Until ...; the siren call from the pretty mint green package became too hard to ignore. Until ...; whatever. Excuses all.
On day four, I peeled off the patch and waited enough time to believe I wouldn't have a stroke from double dosing nicotine and I smoked. Have I mentioned there was no pleasure?
There was purpose, to be sure. I smoked for three long days, enough to get me through another transition. Round about hour 12 of smoking, I knew I would get back to the patch as soon as I possibly could. I knew that desire was sufficient. There was something gritty about knowing that I was going to put that patch back on, as soon as I was over the hump.
One could argue that I should have just put it on and not waited for the right moment. One could also argue that there are plenty of high bridges around. The knowledge that I was going to put the damn thing back on was sufficient. There was a quality to it that meant business. I knew that there would always be a reason not to put the patch on, a social gathering, a deep crave. But I also knew that I was reaching a point where that was not going to be good enough.
So, last night, during my typical two hours up in the middle of the night, I rooted out the patches once again. I don't smoke during my nightly wakefulness, never have. I figured that putting the patch on would allow me to wake up in the morning and not be faced first thing with a craving.
I take nothing back about what I think and have written about Chantix, let that be said. It remains, in my opinion, imperfect, poorly studied and dangerous enough to be taken off market.
I chose the 21 mg patch. Wish me luck, light, and the courage of my conviction.
It's time to spring clean up dog poop in the South Cemetery! May 10, 8:30 a.m. See you there. suzannedanforth@gmail.com.
