Two days of success followed by five of failure. I’m still smoking. Ugh.
I’ve started really thinking about what my triggers are though, and stress really isn’t one of them.
Frustration is a trigger. Like the frustration that comes from living with young adults who need reminding to wipe up spills and slops. Trying to cook nice meals and having to spend 1/2 hour tidying up the kitchen enough to mess it up again is a huge trigger. Having to wait for the dishwasher to finally be unloaded or bitch to get the garbage taken out is a huge trigger. It’s frustrating having to clean all of that up before I can do the things I want to do. The things I enjoy doing. Or wanting to do a recipe post and needing to spend a half hour scraping the burnt crud off of the stove first because hey, why would you wipe that shit up before it gets burned on.
Procrastination is another trigger. If I need to do something I don’t want to do, I’ll convince myself to have a smoke first. I’ll take more breaks to have a smoke too. The list of things that need doing that I don’t want to do is very long. Things like fold another load of laundry. Things like tidy up the kitchen – again. Or put away the dishes or take out the garbage. Or edit photos for a blog post.
Fatigue is a trigger. I hadn’t realized just how often I will have another cigarette just to keep myself going. One more cigarette while I read this last blog post. One more cigarette while I check my Pinterest feed. Another one to check my Facebook feed one more time before I go to bed. It goes on like that for most of the evening.
My son’s dog is a trigger, and I’m a little ashamed to say that. He’s a good dog, really he is. But he’s a smart dog, one who gets bored often. One who craves the center of any activity. And since I’m the person in the house who actually does more than play video games, he finds me endlessly fascinating and interesting. If I’m digging around in a cupboard to find something, he’s got his head right in there seeing what it’s all about. If I’m trying to find my shoes, he follows me around because I might be going someplace interesting. If I look up from my work I might be willing to play so he nudges my arm or lays his front half on my lap, or brings me a squeaky toy. When he’s bored he paces, he clicks his nails on the floor, he jingles his collar. Such small things really, but they irritate me.
All of it makes me want to hide in my bedroom and smoke my brains out. I need to find better ways to cope, because this nasty habit has to go.