Sixtieth Quit

I have about three days left until my sixty days are up.

I thought I wasn't going to need them. About three weeks ago, I stopped smoking. I even got my tatoo.

And then I didn't. Stop. Or I did, for a couple of weeks.

I was doing great. Not a problem. I felt good. And then I went out for a friend's birthday. It was one of those rare nights out in the city, where you can almost pretend there isn't a husband and child waiting for you at home; where almost everyone there is single and childless. And all of them, old smoking buddies. And you drink. And then somehow you wind up with a cigarette in your hand.

It's not an excuse. My retardation is my excuse. Except it isn't an excuse.

I don't think any time I try to quit is going to "be different". I don't think there's any way I can mark whether an attempt is going to be for real. I must be the only person with a tatoo of a non-smoking symbol on their body who dares to light up. So what will stop me? What on earth will stop me, ever?

Only me. I know that. Nothing will "hold me to it". That's something I have to do for myself. Day by day.

And I feel incredibly disappointed with myself; very demoralised. It's amazing what your mind will trick you into to get that fix. The things you will tell yourself about one not hurting etc. etc.

I mustn't listen.

But for now, I need to beat away that fear and get the courage up again. Soon.

I promised myself I would be a non-smoker in sixty days.