One of the first posts I wrote was about how I gave up smoking and how proud I was of myself.
And now – two years and one month later, I am ashamed to say that I am back where I started. Smoking.
I am a failure. A big fat failure.
I didn’t want to write about it, because that would mean admitting it to myself – but I decided I had to do it.
It’s been two weeks since I started. It was the night of V’s birthday party. It was just us at home and after too much champagne, I wanted a cigarette. I had three that night.
The next night I had two.
And it has just continued from there.
At first I told myself I would only smoke at night – after V had gone to bed. Then I told myself, ‘Well, it might be day time, but he *is* napping. Isn’t that the same?’
I have been tempted over the last two years, but I have always managed to stop myself. I’ve never *actually* gone through with it and smoked.
It is still disgusting to me. More now that the smell clings to me.
I have never wanted to be the mum who smokes in front of her child (which I haven’t done). If you are that mum, I’m not judging you – I’m just saying that I don’t want to do it. I brush my teeth after each cigarette. I wash my hands with soap and then I use hand sanitiser. But I know it’s not enough. I don’t want V to get used to smelling it on me, or to eventually associate the smell with me.
At night I tell myself, ‘Right – that’s it. No more. That was my last one.’ And then I’ll add, ‘But I’ll just have one more in the morning.’ I find myself making deals with myself.
I don’t want to be a smoker. But I don’t know how to stop.