This really isn’t fair. I announced a little earlier that the pack of ciggies will likely run out by tomorrow morning, and was horrified at the response.
“You’d better get yourself another pack, then.”
“Yer wot?”
“Get yourself another pack. You’ve been a helluva lot happier, so keep it down to the same level for a while and see how it goes.”
That is almost precisely the opposite of what I’d expected. And, honestly, the opposite of what I’d wanted.
The sad fact is that it’s true. I do feel happier, and fitter. My left leg which has been grossly swollen for months now was reduced almost to normal when I woke this morning and has stayed more or less the same, or better, all day. I was able to put my own shoes on when we went shopping and by the time we got back I was still hopping along merrily, my foot free of pain and hardly swollen at all.
It’s pointless trying to determine whether I feel better psychologically. Of course I do. It’s a pesky psychoactive drug, like it or not. But I shall be suspicious of my motives if I persuade myself to think I’m better off smoking than not.
I’ve been popping out to stand in the garden at irregular intervals throughout the day, taking a jolly good toke on another of the silly suicide tubes, and coming back inside until the next urge, generally about 50-90 minutes apart.
Each time I feel a little better for it. Sometimes I feel really better for it.
I know perfectly well that the effect on my lungs will begin to tell once more if I don’t stop. If past experience is to be trusted I know perfectly well that I have sufficient will-power to stop instantly, when I wish, as I wish.
For the moment, though, it feels good.
Hey ho. Pillow consultation time is not too far away. Dinner will come first, though, and I have the satisfaction of knowing that a ciggie after dinner will feel so good it’ll bring tears to my eyes.
Like I say, this really isn’t fair.
