The first day is always the hardest.

I’ve finished my last pack.
I’ve tried quitting before,
Tried escaping,
But this time is different.
This time is my final attempt at freedom.
My addiction won’t get in the way of my happiness.
I have a future, and nothing can take that away from me.
I want to be free.
I want to be free from the nicotine chains which bind my soul, dragging me into a burning, black, smoke-filled hell.
Flashbacks from a time when I was not constricted taunt me.
They tell me I can’t go back.
They tell me my freedom is gone.
They tell me to give up, but I won’t listen.
It’s not the tar in my lungs which makes it hard to breathe.
It is the weight of an entire lifetime gone to waste.
Despite that, I use this weight to empower myself,
Building up the strength I once relinquished in order to overcome this burden which I have put upon myself.
And as I delve into slumber, the cold sweats set in, my head pounding.
I crave more.
I need it again.
It calls my name, but before I can let myself answer, I’m already asleep.

The second day is always the hardest.
Waking up in the middle of the night, over and over again,
Arousing me from my sleep, it mocks my weakness.
I will not give in.
I am sick,
Sick of letting go,
Sick of letting it take me away from my problems, yet only causing more.
It is not a coping mechanism.
It is a distraction.
It is an encumbrance.
It is an addiction,
And I am stronger than it.
Though I have not the energy, nor the patience, to make it through the day,
I have the will, the determination, to push forward.
I will not be beaten by the invader which I so graciously welcomed into myself.
And it begs me to let it in once again.
The thought of ending all my suffering is tantalizing,
But I know better than to listen to the siren song which beckons me,
Desperate to send me into the clutches of the raging ocean
Where the stormy waters will never again release me.

The third day is always the hardest.
Nausea after every meal,
Splitting headaches like battering rams that try to weaken and destroy my resolve.
Just one.
Just one cigarette could ease this pain,
But no.
It wants me to go back.
It wants me to feel desperate.
I desire it, yes, but I do not need it.
It needs me.
I am the one who is allowing this habit to live on, to overpower me.
Its unending torture sends me spiraling.
Anger,
Sadness,
Emptiness.
The emotions building, crashing into me.
It will not stop.
It will not give up, and neither will I.
The last day is always the hardest.
The day I quit.
The day that I quit trying.
It was too hard.
The withdrawal, it was too strong.
I needed to escape the pain.
Back into its grasp.
I do not desire to bring myself this pain that it desires to inflict upon me.
Each breath, a lash of the whip.
Each cigarette, a weight around my ankles.
Each pack, a nail in the coffin.
I am long gone now, far beyond repair,
But that does not mean I cannot try again to salvage what is left of my future.

The first day is always the hardest
For it.
The first day the chains were broken.
The first day I was unbound.
The first day of the end.
Struggle after struggle, failure followed me for years.
Each attempt fruitless, only breaking me apart.
My life beginning anew,
I stumbled through the smoke,
Blinding,
Suffocating,
Killing me.
Once I destroyed the chains which held me down,
I found that my freedom,
My escape,
Was just outside of my fogged vision,
Where the black, tarry smoke blocked the sight of the brightness I now bask in.