Poetry & Blindfolds

I’ve been loathe to write yet another blog about stopping smoking, but am going to anyway.  Over the last three weeks of being on Chantix, I have routinely searched for blogs involving other peoples’ experiences on the drug, as the official website is too rah-rah with asterisks leading to legal disclaimers and lists of side effects.  The blogs I have found are pretty horrific, not because of their content but because they rip open mental wounds I am doing my best to suppress or ignore.  Vivid dreams, depression, anxiety, loss of mental focus… all great to hear about, mind you, but really horrible when those are the exact same things I am struggling with.  I am not unsympathetic; I’m just having trouble being empathetic.

 

Still, I’ll write about my experiences a bit just in case it helps someone, somewhere.

 

The upside:

 

At present, my last full cigarette was on Tuesday and I have gradually stopped counting the hours – and more importantly, I have giving people updates (“24 hours!”).  I am feeling a lot more like a non-smoker who used to smoke and less like a smoker who is just not smoking at the moment.  It has taken three weeks to get here, and on that score alone, I am pleasantly surprised and happy.

 

I’m also taking three or four flights of stairs every morning and not feeling at all winded.  I like that, too.

 

The downside:

 

Depression, irritability, restlessness.  On their own, these three words seem harmless enough, especially compared with the two “upside” paragraphs.  But lemme tell ya, they are not harmless.  As can be determined by the distance between blog posts, my inclination towards writing – or indeed, any kind of creativity – has dropped off almost completely.  My sexual energy has evaporated.  My desire to do theater and all the things that go along with it – giving actors a good experience, giving audiences a great experience – ehhh, don’t care really.  My attempts to re-work ‘Touching Base’ and ‘Lilac’ are like noticing a pretty car driving down the street: momentary interest and then resignation that it’ll be gone in a few seconds.

 

I am sad at random.  My worst moment, and one that seems to crystallize my whole present, is after work when I am on the train platform going home.  And I see people with spirit in their stride, spark in their eyes and friends nearby.  I have none of these.  So I sit and gradually feel myself get smaller.  To counter this, I leave work early or late.  But that’s only marginally successful.

 

Home is no better.  I feel bad for Jennifer, my girlfriend, and completely understand why she doesn’t engage me.  I wouldn’t engage me.  This week, with two or three exceptions, everything that one person has said to the other to get a response has been me asking her something.  She doesn’t really talk to me at all.  Which sucks, as I talk to about four people for a week (my boss, a secretary, Jen and our therapist), so not talking to Jennifer knocks my sphere down by 25% out of the gate.  And it’s not like I talk to my boss or the secretary that much anyway (one person says ‘can you do this’ and the other says ‘yes’).  The therapist is good for spirited discussion, for 50 minutes, and as long as I’m paid up.

 

Mind you, it’s quite possible she does talk to me – I may be just distracted by the chatter in my brain - but I just don’t remember.

 

And when I’m not feeling isolated or sad or depressed?  I’m borderline high.  You know that first level of high?  When you are planning to get high (either by drugs or drink) and you reach that pre-buzz level when you’re out of sync with everything?  That’s me, straight.

 

Now I *know* my life isn’t bad.  I am generally a fringe-y guy anyway; I prefer to watch the world and put it into my plays, etc. than be in it (like a journalist, in a way).  However, these three weeks can only be depicted with the rather dead-to-the-world description I make above.  Again, my life isn’t bad; it just feels really bad.

 

I don’t know why I didn’t stop smoking sooner.

 

That’s a joke.

 

I’m trying…