GA and Quitting Smoking

Okay--the quitting smoking story...get comfortable...grab a cup of coffee or tea and here we go.

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I started drinking, swearing, and smoking grass after I was raped the summer of 1968. It's a strange thing how being beaten and raped by total strangers and then treated like it was your own fault, even by the police, can truly bottom out what little self-esteem you may have had. I believed I was worthless damaged goods and had somehow brought this upon myself and deserved it.

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There is a funny part...at least to me. I learned to smoke grass that summer, but decided that sitting around giggling and feeling a bit zombie-ish just wasn't for me. That fall I started at the Junior College and discovered that they had a cigarette machine right down by the cafeteria. They assumed everybody was 18, but I was only 17 (had been a year ahead). So I could buy cigarettes any time I wanted! I might be wrong, but seems to me they were 35 cents a pack.

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Anyways, I bought a pack...thinking it would make me look older and cool...go to smoke one...and I automatically toked it! Held my breath and almost choked to death!! So funny! I had to be taught how to smoke a cigarette vs. toking a joint. (Don't I sound street wise for a suburban Minnesota girl?!) The occasional experimenting with drugs lasted off and on for a couple of years, but the cigarettes stayed faithfully with me for 21 years. Alcohol returned about a dozen years later. Quit that, too, shortly after the cigarettes.

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Over those 21 years I had tried to quit many times--cold turkey, One-Step-At-A-Time filters--(this was before the nicotine patches)--even acupuncture. I had never been able to do it. I couldn't think straight, got shaky & nauseous, and even snappy to people. Finally I'd be in tears...and lighting up.

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I had gotten an inflamed ribcage one winter. (I know--who ever heard of such a thing?) Viral. Hurt to breathe. Couldn't lift the coffee pot. Had to sleep sitting up in a chair. Took about 4 months to run its course. But I still smoked, of course.

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It came back another winter...and another. The doctor told me that once I had this I was just susceptible to getting it again--kind of like how some people get pneumonia easily. The only thing that could probably help is if I quit smoking, of course.

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The pain always started at the bottom of my ribcage on one side or the other. The winter of 1989 Dagan and I were living on the farm with Roger. (Didn't farm--rented the land out.) Roger was a produce merchandiser and was on the road usually three weeks out of the month and home on weekends. Dagan was upstairs sleeping. Roger was gone for the week. I was sitting writing a letter at the kitchen table. The pain had been there...again...on my left side. I had been hoping it would go away...that it was something else...a muscle strain or something...but that night I knew it was back. Not again!

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That would make 4 out of 5 winters! I remember I got up and started to pace the floor...feeling like I was going to scream! Or cry!

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No amount of mental wrestling with it could help me. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. I remember feeling totally defeated and so very angry as I threw myself into bed. Tossed and turned--thinking about the whys and my soul's bumpy path and what a failure I was...

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And I got to, shall we say, discussing this with GA (my laughing, butt-kicking, God's-representative guardian angel). I was soooo angry. I was angry that it would be another horrible winter of pain. I was angry that I couldn't quit smoking. That I was soooo pathetically weak. I was angry that my relationship with Roger was on the decline and that I couldn't succeed in love, either. That I tried so hard to be a good person and to improve my soul but never seemed to get anywhere. Maybe I was a lost cause...

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This "conversation" went on and on. Totally one-sided. No response from GA. But I was too angry to listen, anyways. I wondered aloud about my worthlessness. I had such faith in God being there for anyone else. Whenever a person or animal was in distress--if I asked to be used as a conduit to calm their fears--He was there for them--always--no doubts. Yes--I was grateful for that--but what about me? (Self-pity is an ugly thing.)

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I probably would never find that soul mate--never be loved. I wondered if I was a good enough mother. I still had no clue as to what my life's purpose was. I might have to start my life all over again. (Roger and I did split up the following spring.) I was looking at another long winter of being sick. And I couldn't even quit smoking. I could not do it. I had tried and tried and tried--but I was too pathetic and weak. I never asked for help for me--knew I didn't deserve any--but I dared GA--cried out in the darkness. "If you are really there--if I matter at all to you--prove it to me! Prove it to me!!"

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I expected to hear something--loud and clear. Nothing. Silence. I cried myself to sleep.

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When I woke up the next morning I didn't even notice at first that I wasn't smoking. I hadn't grabbed my pack and lighter first thing. I had no cravings. No dizziness, nausea, and I felt perfectly content. Had absolutely no desire to smoke!

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Haven't smoked since.

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I feel like it would be an insult to God if I ever did.

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So when I tell people I quit smoking I always add that I had help. Divine intervention. I wasn't able to do it on my own.

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Being important enough to GA/God to be personally answered and blessed (despite the petulant, whiny, nasty manner of asking for help)--well, it is still sinking in. But it started me thinking that maybe I wasn't worthless after all. :)

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Oh--and the pain in my ribs was gone that morning, too, BTW.