Please welcome today’s #BeReal guest, Fat Bottom Girl.
The load of shame I carry on a daily basis weighs me down.
I wish I could tell you when I picked up this particular baggage, but I cannot. I’ve carried it so long, that it’s become a part of me; melded into my marrow.
My shame stems not only from things I’ve done, but also from things which have been done to me.
Lately, I’ve been feeling especially shameful about one thing–my addiction to cigarettes. You see, I recently started smoking again after having quit almost 5 years ago.
It started out fairly harmless, a puff of a friend’s cigarette here and there when drinking. . .then a few more puffs. . . then half of a cigarette. . .and then whole ones, but still only on the weekends if I was drinking. . .and then here came the stress of my dad needing to have open heart surgery again and the end of my job contract. . .so then it was one or two in the evenings. . . or maybe 3 or 4 if I was having a drink on a weeknight. . .and then it was smoking from Friday at 5 until Sunday at 5.
Hooked. I was hooked again.
Or still. I am still hooked.
Ever since I quit just over 5 years ago, I’ve wanted a cigarette. I’ve never stopped wanting a cigarette. Those fucking coffin nails call to me every time I’m anxious or stressed or nervous. The peace of mind they bring from that first inhalation can’t be found anywhere else–not in alcohol, or sex, or food.
I cried like a bitch when I quit. I felt like I’d lost my best friend and didn’t know how I was to get through anything without them, but I did.
But then I guess I just didn’t care anymore. I gave in. I got tired of the fight. So I bought the cigarettes. Buying the first pack was the hardest.
My son came home to visit at Christmas time and I had to admit to him that I’d been smoking. I was ashamed. I promised him I would quit again.
But I don’t want to quit. At least not right now.
I think it’s disgusting. I hate the smell, and the taste, and the cost.
Most of all, I hate the shame that goes along with doing it.
I don’t need more shame to carry around. That bag is already too heavy.
I got a bad stomach virus a few days ago, and didn’t smoke at all for about 4 days. I thought maybe I wanted one last night, but took a couple puffs and put it out.
Maybe I’ll quit. Or maybe I won’t. I don’t know.
What I do know, is that just like my desire for a cigarette, my shame is always there, whether I acknowledge it or not. It will be a bag I always carry. At some point, I just hope it’s a bit lighter.
Fat Bottom Girl is a 40-something gal, currently in the midst of another mid-life crisis, contemplating what color she’s going to dye her hair next. She’s mom to a teenage son, and zoo keeper to 2 cats and a dog. When not writing bits of bad poetry and nonsensical prose, she enjoys spending time swilling various alcoholic beverages around bodies of water. She still secretly hopes to find her big love, but tries to master home improvement projects alone, in case he never shows up.