Well, I started smoking this week—after 14 months tabacco free. You can imagine how proud I am…no, really, there’s no need for applause, I don’t need pats on the back. I know what an amazing thing I’ve accomplished by my regression!
This stupid song I heard in my childhood keeps going through my head (probably some of my parts are deliberately taunting me with it, they can really lay a guilt trip on me for just about anything.) The lyrics go:
Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette,
puff, puff, puff it til you puff yourself to death.
Tell St. Peter at the golden gate
you just hate to make him wait,
but you just gotta have another cigarette!
Pretty awful, huh? I’m not even sure why I started this nasty habit all over again. Could be because I’ve been dealing with DID issues on a much more regular basis than I have since I was diagnosed 3 years ago. Could also be my aunt’s death a couple of months ago, which I haven’t even begun to process, due to my tunnel vision with the aforementioned issues. Geez, could I be focusing on DID so much because I’m too cowardly–or just not ready yet–to deal with her death? The other possibility (and I’m aware that it could be all these reasons rolled into one) is my dread of coming out to some more family members in a couple of days…
I’m not sure the reason even matters….I just know I’m deeply disappointed in myself, but all this talking about smoking reminds me I haven’t had one in an hour, so see ya…gotta go light up.