lover|mother

This week, I decided to quit smoking, for a third time. I’m currently on day four. I have been irritable and extremely sensitive, ready to cry at the drop of a hat. It’s been like bipolar day on fast forward, going thru mania and adrenaline rushes to quick and, often, unprovoked fits of terrible sorrow and cry. I feel restricted and angry because I want to smoke, and can’t. I also feel extremely guilty because I honestly shouldn’t be smoking. Obviously. No one should, and I want to make everyone who has given me flack for killing myself, voluntarily, proud of my attempt to better my chances of survival. It’s not me that I’m quitting for, to be quite honest. If I was going to live my life the way I am most comfortable, I would continue to smoke. I feel so anxious. I don’t like to be idle. Time is hardly ticking past. Each hour that passes makes my chest ache, and my head feel heavier. I’m almost lost. I live so much of my life with a cigarette in my mouth. Anytime I step outside, it’s like a reflex to grab my pack.
Chicago should keep me busy, we leave tonight at 7:30. I’m wearing a patch right now that itches so fucking much…
I’m out of words.