and dr. phil love
Right now I’m watching Dr. Phil on Oprah. I love Dr. Phil Tuesdays so much. Dr. Phil just gets so annoyed with everyone’s problems and then he snaps at them and Oprah sasses around and the woman with the problem is always furious with Dr. Phil for not telling the husband that he has the problem. I love running around the house talking like Dr. Phil.
“Here’s the problem, y’all. The problem is y’all are married, and you’re thinking that being married means y’all are going to be happy! The problem is y’all are staying married, and as long as y’all are married, y’all are going to be miserable. It’s as simple as that.”
“No. Look. You can’t just order a glass of water and expect to get drunk. You know? If you keep talking and he keeps ignoring you then you’re gonna shout yourself deaf and he’s gonna end up in a sewing circle! Y’all need to just take some time, agree to disagree, leave each other alone and live together without each other.”
“Look. Y’all think that love is gonna fix this. It isn’t. Y’all don’t love each other. Y’all might like each other, but you don’t love each other, or y’all would never treat each other this way. Y’all think about that, raise your kids and leave each other alone.”
“Did I just loan you my squirrel? You’re certainly acting like it.”
So, I knew yesterday was going to be bad. I should have known when I was about to leave for my morning coffee and Cal took one look at me and then projectile vomited off the television set. Have you ever seen a cat puke from four feet in the air? You’re never really the same person afterwards.
I think I cried seventeen times yesterday. I went reading through song lyrics. I moped. I curled into a ball and sighed. I tried watching Oprah. I watched television and pouted. I made phone calls. I spent money. I didn’t get all of my work done. I snapped at people.
Bad bad day.
That’s what I get for trying to quit smoking.
Here’s the thing. I don’t want to be all, “I’m quitting. It’s over.” That way if I start smoking again I’m not letting any of you down. But that’s the big thing that’s going on this week. I’m not smoking. I hate it. I hate myself. I love nicotine and the way it makes me feel. I like not being hungry. I like smoking while I drink coffee or talk on the phone. I like smoking while going through mail or reading a magazine. I like smoking after a meal. I like smoking. I like it. I love it. I miss it.
I am not well, people. I’m sick. I have a cough. I’m sniffly. I cry at the drop of a hat. I’m restless, jittery and irritable. I have an incredible amount of anxiety. I can’t stop getting upset over things. I hate this. I don’t want to live this way. But if I ever plan on quitting smoking, and I do want to quit, then I have to go through this eventually. I might as well do it now. I don’t want to relive yesterday again, though. I hated myself so much. I understood why anyone would ever hate me. I felt terrible for every person I’d ever hurt. I felt like any pain anyone has ever caused me was most deserved. I thought about slapping people. I don’t hit people. I really wanted to smash someone’s face in yesterday. That’s my parents’ phrase, right there. “Smash your face in.” I don’t want to do that to someone. Yesterday I did. Yesterday I was outraged at basically strangers. I hated being inside my own skin. I itched. I just wanted to be sitting on my porch with a big coffee and a cigarette, laughing and having a great time. Instead I was crying inside a car on Sunset Boulevard. I didn’t even have a real reason for all of the sadness. I just kept creating drama. I’d decide not to be upset anymore and then I’d get upset about the fact that I had to decide not to be upset anymore.
It was like my body was trying to create emotions inside myself to replace the rush of nicotine. Since I didn’t have that drug rush, my body would flood with happy and then sad feelings. I’d go way up and then crash. It was like getting four periods at once.
So, why would I start smoking again? Day one is over. I don’t have to do that ever again as long as I don’t start smoking again.
Ugh, but it’s so hard. This is so hard. For real. I just get depressed that I can’t have a cigarette. I miss the feeling of the drug. I never thought I’d be a smoker. All growing up, I never thought this would be me. I don’t even like the way I look when I smoke. I don’t think I look like a smoker. Smokers look cool. I do not look cool when I smoke.
I just like the way it makes me feel.
I need Dr. Phil to yell at me until I smoke a pack of cigarettes in front of him out of spite.