Yes, I should be in bed right now. I'm scared of the dark and quiet, so this is unusual for me. It is 1:24 am, and while Relay for Life is in full swing, I'm up alone in my living room. There's something that I want to say before I go to bed tonight.
I've actually thought to write this a hundred times before, but I just never have...tonight, I'm getting it over with. I guess that going to the Relay for Life event for the first time brought finality, but the confidence I've gained from writing again--without excuse and with support--cannot be denied.
I quit. That's it. I quit something I started years and years ago...close to twenty probably. I won't say who I was with or in whose basement we ventured, but I couldn't have been more than twelve....my son will be twelve in five more years. Do I need a better reason?
I'm such a realist. I'm such an idealist. Such a hypocrite too, I suppose. In reality, I have never been 'a smoker.' Well, maybe for a few summer months at a time in college, but even then my routine was limited to evening hours. It's such a casual thing. That's my realism. Ha. I only do it in casual settings...late nights on the deck, after dinner, after stress (that's STRESS). Never more than a few. A pack a month max. Three months out of the year. I can go a year without one. Ridiculous really.
No. I never smoked when I was pregnant. I built a wall around myself. I didn't smoke when I was nursing either.
I love cloves. The smell, the sweetness. Yes. I know how unappealing that is to someone who can't understand. I feel the same way about beer and liquor. Gross. I know. One of my girls, (you know who you are and I know you'll read this and I'm doing this in part because I want to be strong for you right now--do you hear me? I want to show you that we are in this together, okay?) who is braver than I'll ever be and winning her own war as I write this, she said just a few weeks ago, "I don't know why anyone ever starts unless they do so choosing to become a smoker..." or something to that effect. I heard you. I was listening, but I didn't reply.
I didn't reply because I had to have time to think about that. One of my earliest memories of my dear Uncle Joey--and I do mean dear, I love that man like sunshine--is of his hair falling out from chemotherapy. He had lung cancer and was given about six months to live. He lived to be ninety four (and I miss him every day now). My mom's aunt used oxygen in the last years of her life. I remember my mom coming home one day after school and my sister was smoking a cigarette. I could very well have been too, but I wasn't at the time. My mom, of course upset, said that if we could have seen her aunt that way we'd never want to do something so nasty. Nasty. That's always the word she uses. She uses the same word for tattoos, but that is another post...My Aunt Helen ( I love you, and I hope that you won't be mad that I write this) lost part of one of her lungs and bravely quit a few years ago. My husband quit days before his dad's traumatic motorcycle accident. We both smoked through the stress of a quiet and unforgiving ride to UVA. Jason quit again when Aubreigh was born.
I however, never needed to quit. A clove here, a bummed cigarette there. Casual. A stressful day at school, a deserving, relaxing, break...a cigarette break, hidden from anyone who might be alarmed, children, parents, myself? Ugh. Carrie. Reality. I'm too old for this. Excuses are fine when you are sixteen and plan to live forever. I want to live forever now; have you met my children? My son would scold me blue in the face if he caught me smoking. My mama wouldn't speak to me for a week. I don't want to disappoint them over something so stupid. So, I won't.
I do understand why people start smoking, at least people of my generation anyway. We started years ago in basements and behind bleachers. On tailgates and roofs. We started out of boredom and curiosity. We started out of rebelliousness and a desire to be cool....we grew up in a time when cigarette ads really did still appeal to us and leap from billboards, magazine ads, and movie screens. And, we just assumed that it was no big deal....we'd just stop, you know, whenever. Whatever.
It doesn't matter that I don't buy cigarettes or that I only have one or two. It matters that I'm thirty two and have to put this in writing in order to bring it into fruition. But alas, Carrie Cotter Campbell, while alliterative in oh so many ways, simply is not perfect. Flaw number one revealed and obliterated. With this, I quit.
PS...feel free to spy on me. I want you to keep me to my word, and I appreciate your concern. No, I'd rather if you didn't tell my parents or my children, but I suppose I can't stop you. If you know me, you know that this is all I need to make this a reality. Once I give my word, it is so. But still, if you happen by my house on a late summer evening and see smoke, I don't mind if you stop in to check....I think you'll be please to find that it is just the Tiki torches.
2:05. Goodnight.
I've actually thought to write this a hundred times before, but I just never have...tonight, I'm getting it over with. I guess that going to the Relay for Life event for the first time brought finality, but the confidence I've gained from writing again--without excuse and with support--cannot be denied.
I quit. That's it. I quit something I started years and years ago...close to twenty probably. I won't say who I was with or in whose basement we ventured, but I couldn't have been more than twelve....my son will be twelve in five more years. Do I need a better reason?
I'm such a realist. I'm such an idealist. Such a hypocrite too, I suppose. In reality, I have never been 'a smoker.' Well, maybe for a few summer months at a time in college, but even then my routine was limited to evening hours. It's such a casual thing. That's my realism. Ha. I only do it in casual settings...late nights on the deck, after dinner, after stress (that's STRESS). Never more than a few. A pack a month max. Three months out of the year. I can go a year without one. Ridiculous really.
No. I never smoked when I was pregnant. I built a wall around myself. I didn't smoke when I was nursing either.
I love cloves. The smell, the sweetness. Yes. I know how unappealing that is to someone who can't understand. I feel the same way about beer and liquor. Gross. I know. One of my girls, (you know who you are and I know you'll read this and I'm doing this in part because I want to be strong for you right now--do you hear me? I want to show you that we are in this together, okay?) who is braver than I'll ever be and winning her own war as I write this, she said just a few weeks ago, "I don't know why anyone ever starts unless they do so choosing to become a smoker..." or something to that effect. I heard you. I was listening, but I didn't reply.
I didn't reply because I had to have time to think about that. One of my earliest memories of my dear Uncle Joey--and I do mean dear, I love that man like sunshine--is of his hair falling out from chemotherapy. He had lung cancer and was given about six months to live. He lived to be ninety four (and I miss him every day now). My mom's aunt used oxygen in the last years of her life. I remember my mom coming home one day after school and my sister was smoking a cigarette. I could very well have been too, but I wasn't at the time. My mom, of course upset, said that if we could have seen her aunt that way we'd never want to do something so nasty. Nasty. That's always the word she uses. She uses the same word for tattoos, but that is another post...My Aunt Helen ( I love you, and I hope that you won't be mad that I write this) lost part of one of her lungs and bravely quit a few years ago. My husband quit days before his dad's traumatic motorcycle accident. We both smoked through the stress of a quiet and unforgiving ride to UVA. Jason quit again when Aubreigh was born.
I however, never needed to quit. A clove here, a bummed cigarette there. Casual. A stressful day at school, a deserving, relaxing, break...a cigarette break, hidden from anyone who might be alarmed, children, parents, myself? Ugh. Carrie. Reality. I'm too old for this. Excuses are fine when you are sixteen and plan to live forever. I want to live forever now; have you met my children? My son would scold me blue in the face if he caught me smoking. My mama wouldn't speak to me for a week. I don't want to disappoint them over something so stupid. So, I won't.
I do understand why people start smoking, at least people of my generation anyway. We started years ago in basements and behind bleachers. On tailgates and roofs. We started out of boredom and curiosity. We started out of rebelliousness and a desire to be cool....we grew up in a time when cigarette ads really did still appeal to us and leap from billboards, magazine ads, and movie screens. And, we just assumed that it was no big deal....we'd just stop, you know, whenever. Whatever.
It doesn't matter that I don't buy cigarettes or that I only have one or two. It matters that I'm thirty two and have to put this in writing in order to bring it into fruition. But alas, Carrie Cotter Campbell, while alliterative in oh so many ways, simply is not perfect. Flaw number one revealed and obliterated. With this, I quit.
PS...feel free to spy on me. I want you to keep me to my word, and I appreciate your concern. No, I'd rather if you didn't tell my parents or my children, but I suppose I can't stop you. If you know me, you know that this is all I need to make this a reality. Once I give my word, it is so. But still, if you happen by my house on a late summer evening and see smoke, I don't mind if you stop in to check....I think you'll be please to find that it is just the Tiki torches.
2:05. Goodnight.
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