Back in November, I decided that after several years and botched attempts, it was time to quit smoking for good. The fact I'd been hiding that I was a smoker from most people I knew was surely the biggest sign that I wasn't particularly proud of the habit. Married with the general health thing, well, it made no sense to keep going and it was time to lose the lighter from the jeans pocket once and for all.
History had proven it's point that my willpower for ditching certain vices isn't really my strongest point. The longest I'd gone without coffee was about a week and my record for going without a cigarette stood at a month. So I did the right, thing, I consulted my doctor and simultaneously swore off the idea of patches and inhalers as I'd done with the whole cold turkey thing.
It doesn't take a big man to admit that they made a stupid decision, so when I agreed on medicating my impulses with the nicely notorious Champix, sans any research (or warning from my doctor, I might add), to aid the quitting process, I'd bitten of more than I could chew.
After about a month with no real side effects (vivid dreams, mostly), two weeks of which were smoke-free, life began to turn a paler shade of shit. Anxiety levels went through the roof, my heart went for random sprints, sleeping patterns were thrown askew, concentration was shot and appetite all over the place. I'd wake up at 4am every morning with the feeling that I'd been dumped. I didn't want to be alone but I didn't want to speak to anyone. My self-esteem was an all time low (which is unusual, because normally I'm pretty awesome…) and as the days passed by at the pace of a cloud, I began loathing the idea of going to bed, knowing how much of that would be spent wired, staring at the clock.
Most of all, I'd put a strain on my relationship with my fiancee and several close friends, taking for granted their support without any real consideration of effect I was having on their day-to-day lives. I'd turned into a monster and something needed to break. At the advice of a friend one night, when I was at my wick's end and highly strung, I jumped on my bike.
I'd purchased my first real freedom machine, fondly known as the "street sweeper" back in July, as a means for getting to and from the office as well as something to enjoy from time to time, and it was love at first ride. Granted, I'm not a bike nut, you won't catch me dead in lycra, but there's a chance if you saw me on my bike, I'd either be grinning or running into a pedestrian. Lets go with the former.
It was mid-December; my heart was beating out of my chest and I was at breaking point. Summer was starting to establish it's presence and at 8.40pm, I was on Street Sweeper and I had no real direction except, well, suburbia. The sun was setting and the wind was as warm as air from a tyre. The tape-hiss from the trees swarmed around me as I wove my way through the quiet leafy streets, passing the houses that played dream-homes for generation after generation, riding over crests and through shards of light streaming through the trees. With no-one else on the road, for the first time in weeks, I'd been consumed by a moment of absolute peace. I rode until it was dark, came home and poured myself a G&T. That night I slept how I imagine dead people feel.
I hadn't cured my anxieties, but I'd kept them at bay. I'd never quite achieved that exact feeling since, but any attempt is still better than nothing and my love affair with hunting down my own personal zen on wheels, during a drug-induced dark-patch, is pretty damn magical. And it's to that feeling that I dedicate this piece the charm of 8.40pm to.
To those whose friendships I've strained, and the company I've kept amidst being a downer, I'm truly sorry. And to all those people I lied to about being a smoker, I owe you a drink. To Champix, it's manufacturers and doctors that prescribe medication with little warning, thanks for helping me improve my lungs, but screw you for what you've put me through...
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