mad world.

The fight to quit smoking has begun. Even I'm asking myself why, and I'm the one who started this.

Here's why. 

It's time to save my own life. Again. 

And isn't it sad that every so often, I need to remind myself that I deserve it? That's what kind of person an alcoholic father, mostly absent mother, and really career minded step-mother raises. I'm the kind of person that had my ass handed to me every goddamn day that I went to school, and I'm the kind of person that didn't rat people out, or ask the teachers for help. And that kind of person becomes very sad sometimes, and puts up an angry fight to summons the feeling that yes, I deserve better than cancer. Better than emphysema. I fucking deserve to breathe.

So maybe this is withdrawal talking, or maybe it's something that I've been able to avoid by making a smoke screen so thick that I wouldn't have to think about it. I knew that I was an emotional smoker. I just didn't know how very attached to the cigarettes I'd become. And I didn't know that a tiny little dig, or what appears to be a tiny little dig might make it so much harder to keep on quitting.

Tiny little things, like the fact that my childhood home doesn't belong to my family anymore, make me realize that actually my childhood isn't something I can remember very fondly, even if I wanted to. And that my adult life has often enough been more of the same. I remember feeling this isolated, this lost, and this lonely. Even so, I found the strength to keep going (obviously).

Today, I'm picking myself up by the bootstraps to find not only the will to keep going, but to finally convince myself once and for all that I'm worth all of this trouble. That in spite of my failures in the past, I can stop killing myself with these nasty coffin nails they call cigarettes. I don't need them anymore. Because as of today, I'm calling it. The punishment has far exceeded the crime.