That lasted a good while, and there are still moments I crave a cigarette, or two, or three, a whole carton, especially during high-stress moments. Going out is problematic because my hands are so empty now and I’m not sure what to do with them, and compensating it with drinking isn’t helpful at all because that just makes me want to smoke again.
Oh god, and then the weight gain despite the 6 days a week sport regiment.. it’s awful. Let’s leave it at that. Quitting also killed a bit of my inspiration and motivation to write. I used to come up with the best scenes whilst smoking and staring at the nothing in particular (I was banished to the garden/shed, a fair comprimise with a non-smoking partner). I miss those moments...
Still, smoke-free for nine months, yay! I’m so proud of myself, and my savings account is as well. No more coughing like a COPD patient, smelling like an ashtray.
And the perpetual bad mood that even made me dislike myself, is reduced to a bit of crankiness now and then, mostly in the mornings. A bit like this:
But hey, it’s worth it! Now to convince G. that it’ll get better soon, my poor baby.