Cold Turkey

People have always told me they were surprised to learn that I smoked.  I’ve never really known what they meant by that.  I guess they expect a smart person to not do something as stupid as that.  I guess that’s why I was a closet smoker at times.  I didn’t want them to judge me.  It took my kids years to figure it out because I hid it well from them for so long.  It wasn’t an example I wanted to set for them, and I certainly was never going to smoke around them and expose them to second hand smoke.

For me, smoking was the thing I did that didn’t make sense or didn’t add up when you consider who I am as a whole person.  It was my crutch.  It was my “go to” when I was sad, angry, frustrated, or bored.  But it was even more routine than that.  It was a part of driving, a part of eating, a part of work, a part of play, a part of practically everything. 

In January, I tried to quit smoking.  I asked my doctor for a prescription (which I’d taken once before for another purpose) with a side effect of smoking cessation.  Apparently, although it wasn’t created for that purpose, it’s used for that purpose quite a bit.  Without effort, I found myself cutting way back on quantity and even frequency, reducing my intake by a third.  But to be honest, I was also pretty much waiting for the medicine to work a miracle all by itself.  I wasn’t giving up easily.  Unfortunately, I quickly remembered why my previous usage of this drug was short term.  For me, it creates a horrid sense of depression and despondency – so much so that after a few days of coming home from work and doing nothing (no laundry, no cleaning, no errands, no exercise, no work for my part-time job, no fun activities with the kids....and folks, there is no other adult in my household), I realized this medicine was changing me and that I had to end it immediately, lest I lose myself completely.  And so I continued to smoke.

Then my pastor did a sermon series on stewardship.  He spoke a lot about letting God into all areas of life, including the area where our hurts and our bad habits reside.  I immediately thought of people who had habits “worse” than mine (as if we can rank our mistakes or sins).  He talked about the distinction between accepting Christ as our Savior and accepting Him as our Lord.  He explained this in a way that really made sense to me for the first time.  I began to think about ALL of the areas in my life, and I challenged myself to think about what it would look like to live in a way that honored God’s will for me, rather than honoring my little plan for myself.  This isn’t a new idea for me.  I have always tried to live in a Godly way and to demonstrate my faith by my actions and words, although I have admittedly failed many times.  I knew, deep down, that if I was honest with myself, living according to God’s plan for me could not include smoking.  There was no excuse that would enable me to do it.

This rested on my heart for a week or two.  Then one day I saw that I had two cigarettes left and thought to myself “okay, I need to stop and get smokes on the way home tonight.”  But then I thought, “or do I?”  It had to come to me in this way.  I never bought that next pack and the end of day 9 is drawing close tonight.  There are absolutely times I still want a cigarette.  There are times I don’t know what to do with myself without one.  I’ve bought healthy snacks, started exercising more, and a coworker surprised me with his decision to quit 3 days ago, so that is helpful as well.  We take walks together now instead of smoke breaks.  Mostly I try – and it’s a behavior I have to learn – to let God in to the place where smoking was…to ask Him to fill the holes that loneliness and boredom make, to let him soothe my nerves and calm my worry and anxiety, to let him mute my temptation and desire down to a manageable level.  I’m not really sure I’m doing anything at all, and when I feel that I am, I’m careful to give the credit to Him instead, so that credit won’t turn to pride.

painkillers

There is aching pain and there is stabbing pain.  A dull ache can go on and on and really weave itself nicely into daily life without causing too much of a disruption.  But that sharp, stabbing pain can't be ignored.  It's the kind of pain that changes who you are.  The good thing is that it can't go on too long - a person couldn't survive that intensity of pain on an ongoing basis for a long period of time.  I was in labor for over 30 hours, but at least there was a brief reprieve between contractions!  Inevitably, time begins to slowly, slowly heal us.  The progress can be barely discernible.

After you bury that pain and cover it up, you can go for long periods of time almost forgetting it is there.  But sooner or later, it sprouts and works its way up through the dark soil.  It springs forth at the most inopportune times, like a perennial on a warm February day when the risk of winter is far from over. 

Today was a day like that.

The question becomes "what is your painkiller"?  Are you turning to things that numb your pain, like your drug of choice (legal or not), alcohol, time at the gym, or even distracting social plans set in place to make you have a rowdy time so as not to think of your pain?  Are you using people as the soil that covers up that deeply buried pain?  Or are you allowing yourself to feel it, to cry, to hurt and flail?  Are you turning to God and asking him to fill the holes in your heart?  Are you surrounding yourself with quality people?  Are you giving to anyone or anything or are you just waiting to receive?

I guarantee that your choice of painkiller will be directly correlated to your healing process.  Some are fast, but temporary.  Some are slow, but long-lasting.  Some are shallow, and some are deep.  We all know the answers in our hearts.  We all know what the best choices are.  We just have to make them.

Good Riddance

Some people have a hard time talking about death - especially their own.  I don't.  I have been thinking about my funeral since I was an adolescent.  I used to help myself drift off to sleep by imagining what people at my funeral might say as they filed past my body.  Is that sick and twisted?  Maybe, but it's a true story!  You see, it matters a great deal to me - what people would say about me, my life, and my impact on others...how I would be memorialized, etc.  I guess you could argue that it doesn't matter and that I'll already be gone, but just humor me and allow me the fantasy of thinking you people are listening to my wishes. :)

I asked my brother a long time ago to sing an acoustic version of Green Day's "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" at my funeral, like Jeannie Boulet did on that episode of "ER".  Not much rattles him, so of course he said yes, but pointed out that he could be in his 80s or 90s and not in great shape himself, maybe even with false teeth and in a wheelchair.  I said I didn't really care because I wouldn't be there to hear it or see it, and to please just do it.

I want it to be loud, with LOTS of music.  Lots of Tori Amos and Prince, because they were the two musicians who moved me the most.  And my love for country music doesn't appear to be a passing phase, like gangsta rap was in college, so include lots of country.  TONS of pictures, from my childhood days to high school (could we please skip the awkward age 10 - 16 period?), college, young adulthood, becoming a mother, etc.  Capture some of the amazing people I knew and loved, as well as some of the amazing things I got to be a part of.  Go ahead and play episodes of Three's Company in the background too.

And please....LAUGH!!!  I want there to be a never-ending line of friends walking to the front of the church, sharing stories of things we laughed at together.  I want my parents to tell the Raisin Thief story.  I want Rodney to tell The Poopie Ball story and share how much we loved movies like Boomerang, Pee Wee's Big Adventure, and Christmas Vacation!  I want my Skyline coworkers to share stories from our incentive trips to Cancun (Canadians don't burn), Jamaica (no we did NOT kiss), and the Dominican Republic (what does a gal have to do to get a drink around here?).  I want Jen to reminisce about our time in undergrad together and at Buckeye tailgates through the years.  I want my family in Virginia to make fun of me as the only city girl in the family, and talk about my experiences with go-carts, moonshine, four-wheelers, rifles, and yes, frog egg necklaces.  I want them to call me Little Doris again.  I want Guy & Dale to talk about our vacations to Gatlinburg and to WV.  You get the idea.

But mostly, I want whomever is in my life at that time to be exuberantly joyful about where I've gone.  I want them to celebrate me home.  Hopefully they will realize that all of my burdens have been lifted, my pain has been erased, my doubts have been silenced, my energy has been replenished, and my wounds have been healed.  For all the times I might have said "Doing the right thing doesn't pay off!" they will realize that it did, in fact, pay off.  Now, make no mistake - I feel I have a lot of business left to do here on earth, namely raising my two children into the most successful, decent, ethical, and compassionate adults they can be. But when my time comes, I want those who knew and loved me to celebrate.  I know I will be.

Green Day, "Good Riddance

Something Better in Store

We all thought he was a great guy and that she had finally found "the one" who deserved her.  They were engaged, and we couldn't have been happier about it.  I saw the way he was with my kids and thought to myself how lucky she was to have found a good man like that.

They were enjoying a weekend away from the hustle and bustle of life when he became careless with more than his indiscretions.  She found herself in the ER waiting room, holding his wallet and phone.  Phones have a way of sharing secrets that people won't.  To be sure, she dialed the number of the name that was disguised as a fake man's name.  She heard the ringback tone - a song about infidelity, from the perspective of "the other woman" - and her fears began to materialize into the horrible truth that was eventually confirmed.

Another woman found out her husband had fabricated lies to create a non-existent tragedy that would allow him to make decisions with which she would never agree.  He allowed her to grieve, "consoled" her, all while perpetuating a cowardly lie.  She also learned that he was professing his so-called love to, not one, but two other women all while attempting to portray himself as a loving, devoted husband. 

Learning of these situations chilled me to the core.  I mean they really rattled me.  They made me afraid to trust and love.  If you knew those involved, your jaw would have dropped as well.  You couldn't fathom this sort of behavior from these doting men that everyone applauded and admired. 

In both cases, after going through a time of bone-chilling shock and grief, these women found men (in some odd ways, let me tell you!) who were infinitely better suited to love them than the ones they had promised themselves to.  While their "crashes" were disarming to witness and digest, their ultimate path in life was really something to behold. 

People wonder why God allows bad things to happen to good people.  I don't like to think He lets it happen, as in being "on board" with it, but that He gives us freewill on how we will behave and how we will treat one another.  The men described above bought themselves a one-way ticket to their current realities, which are a bit underwhelming, as I understand.  I also like to think that these experiences are good reminders to “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).  We don't always understand why bad things happen to us, why people deceive us and cause us pain when we believe we know them so well.  These stories are reminders that sometimes God has something better in store for us down the road.

The One That Got Away

Some girlfriends of mine were talking recently about the “what if” guy (aka “the one that got away”).  I had one of those once.  I’m not sure I can convey just how much I thought about what it might have been like if we had ever “had our chance.”  Mentally, it was my go-to place when I was in a struggling relationship as I imagined what it was I really wanted for myself deep down.  The time was never right for one or the other of us.  I was interested and he wasn’t, or he was available and I wasn’t. 

Well there came a certain moment in time where the window was open.  No obstacles, no excuses.  And do you know what happened?  Nothing.  It went nowhere.  If I were to list the great romances of my life, he wouldn’t be mentioned.  The amazing thing was my level of shock at the absence of substance that was there.  I had dreamt about this guy for quite some time, had pictured us together, and had even measured other men against my image of him and what kind of partner he would be.  Yet it turned out he was the farthest thing from north on my compass.

I wonder how many of our unfulfilled dreams are like that?  Do we just romanticize and idealize to the point of being irrational?  Do we need a target around which to organize and anchor our fantasies, even if it is completely irrational and unsubstantiated?

There is no re-do button.  There is no possible way to return to a previous time.  The moment is gone.  We are who we are now, which is not the same as we were then.  Our reality has shifted.  Whatever choice you make at each juncture determines your path and the next intersection you’ll reach.   In my case, the one that got away was nothing to pine after, regret, or second guess.  Once I had my chance, I could see that he got away for a reason, and that he never belonged in my future.