It’s been a difficult day, preceded by a difficult night.
As I laid in bed, arms splayed above my head, face in my pillow, I felt a hollowness in my chest and stomach—the physical symptoms of anxiety, but with no obvious proximate cause.
It’s the grasping fingers of addiction, which cloud my brain and try to trip me up.
You can end this. You’re making yourself feel this way.
And I am, but for a purpose. One cigarette very well might make me feel better, but I can’t have one cigarette. If I could, I wouldn’t be in this position.
So I will chew gum, both nicotine’d and not, and I will breathe deeply, hold it for four seconds and then exhale. And I will know that each day brings me closer to the time when I won’t lie in bed at night having a silent argument with myself.