Sirius

Read an article where the author (who was recently quitting) referred to the feeling as electrified concrete. Aside from the opinion that this would make an awesome band name...* forget where I'm going with this; carry on.

Article is over here The author tends to use colorful adjectives so if listening to a drill sergeant on a coffee break is disturbing you may wish to pass on this.

KarenLou, About all I can advise is don't be alone. Loneliness and addiction are a devastating combination. Hang out with your non-smoking friends. If you have ex-smoker friends, all the better. Being alone means listening to the voices in your head. Your friends will keep you grounded and give you a reality check. This board is a good start and is a bit more forgiving then, say, five finger fillet.

The contents of my last ashtray went into a jar that I half-filled with water. I keep it screwed tightly shut for obvious reasons. A couple of times when I have had "cravings" for a smoke that tested my resolution, I unscrewed the lid and took a good long sniff of what I've been missing. That subtle and complex bouquet of fragrance that I might otherwise refer to as Satan's kimchi. This is the "ROMANCE" of smoking.

My parents divorced when I was young. The last time I saw my father I was thirteen. Tried finding him on occasion but his was a common name and with the intervening time and distance I wasn't really certain what we could say to each other. I started smoking at the age of nineteen. At the age of fifty I found my father's obituary online. I watched the tribute video of him that was posted on youtube. I discovered that he had remarried and had a new family. Scattered amongst the photos was a picture of me. My father smoked and the final pictures of him showed what appeared to be symptoms of advanced COPD. The weight loss, the wheelchair, the supplemental oxygen. I remembered a long ago conversation I had with him about cigarettes and smoking. He said, "I would prefer you never start smoking." The video with it's cascade of pictures ended. I did not cry for there was no grief. Days and weeks went by and I felt...dissatisfied. My father was dead and there was no meaning to the event. I did not miss him and this bothered me. A day came when I set aside smoking. When I craved a cigarette my thoughts would turn to him. Perhaps the withdrawal pains became a substitute for the loss I never felt for my father. He died, but in his death I was spared from following in his footsteps. His death did have meaning and I still, occasionally, think of him.