I Used to be a Smoker

I wasn’t obliged, I didn’t feel inclined to stop. I loved the flavor of tobacco, the smoke rolling over my tongue the smell of burning chemicals. When I started, it was a matter of relieving stress when yoga and exercising didn’t work. I’d walk to the park and sit under the tree on the far side of the lake and look in the water.

What made me feel numb in this time where I struggled with what the good Lord was giving me, was doing anything to get away. If I could just focus on something else for a moment when all the writing and guitar playing wouldn’t save me. How ironic is it that I’d choose such harmful outlet?

In between smoking and not eating I spent time working. And when I wasn’t working I was madly scribbling away in my journal. I swore there was something wrong with me. Why do I like hurting myself when I don’t know how to regain control?

I guess part of the answer to the question is that I wasn’t built for the kinds of things being thrown my way. At least, I didn’t think I was and I’ve never been one to cope well with large emotional burden. I didn’t like not being able to manage on my own—it made me feel weak and vulnerable so I stopped. I stopped forcing myself to be perfect, I stopped worrying about the things I couldn’t change and I learned that if something was out of my control it was just that. I guess sometimes the hardest thing to learn to do is to let go.

 

© Kyanna K.

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