On A Cloud Of Smoke

I started smoking about the same time I started taking Rivotril, and that’s two and a half years ago. I never thought I’d get hooked to nicotine. The same philosopy as with most addicts. I thought I could stop anytime. Well, I was dead wrong. I had a love hate relationship with Marlboro. I hated it too much to despise myself for clinging to it. The classic symptom of a battered soul. 

The thing was, I could never outsmoke the pain. The empty holes don’t get filled up that way. I was self destructing. Just another way to self harm when the razors and the pills are taken out of my reach. I’m already marked as a “Swatch”. I felt I had to live up to the expectation somehow. 

I’m still a doctor though, and the years I’ve spent healing people is also a hard habit to break. So, I’d often catch myself berating a hypertensive patient who smokes. And I’d welcome the sneer of that little voice inside my head. I’m playing a role, and damn I’m good.

There is something about addiction and self loathing that goes hand in hand. The desperate way I cling on to life and yet too afraid to allow myself a hold to sanity. A scourging that continued on, long after the last stone had been thrown. Hating emptiness and so the holes are filled up with anything that’s available at the moment. Anything that shakes the numbness away, even temporarily. 


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