The Power Of Emotion Part II
Emotions inspire attitudes and our attitudes fuel our actions. Or stated another way, how we feel about something will determine how we act toward it.
For example; if you love dogs you will embrace mine when you meet it. If you fear dogs you will avoid it at all costs. And if you hate dogs you may harm mine, or at the very least wish that harm (or worse) befall it.
This lesson is about the power of hate and how you might use it to help you quit smoking.
I can’t help approaching it with some reservations as I was taught as a schoolboy that hate was an emotion that was never acceptable and that those who allowed themselves to nurture it would answer to the Almighty for their sin.
Why not just “dislike” someone or something, or maybe “disdain” it? Sorry, not powerful enough; I’m dealing with a mega-enemy when I look at cigarettes and smoking. I’ve come to the conclusion that what differentiates “hate” from “dislike”, “disdain” and the likes is our desire for total elimination of the object of our hate.
I dislike asparagus but I don’t want every single spear to disappear from the face of the earth (my wife loves asparagus and I want her to have all she wants). I disdain poorly behaved children but if all of them were to suddenly disappear I fear the earth would begin rotating so fast that the rest of us would be flung into outer space. But I genuinely hate cigarettes and smoking as well as the whole culture that supports them and I’d love to see them all annihilated. Is that a sin?
I found this verse in the Bible: “Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good.” (Romans 12:9 NIV). I took it as my go-ahead for hating cigarettes and smoking and decided to enlist the awesome power of hate to aid me in my quest to quit smoking once and for all. Following is an edited version of the conversation I had with my final cigarette.
A Candid Conversation With My Last Cigarette
As I stepped from the undramatic lighting of the house onto the front porch I was greeted by a cheery blue sky and warm, welcoming sunshine. In my right hand I held a tattered thermal coffee mug from Einstein Brother’s bagel shop and in my left was a nearly empty soft pack of Marlboro Lights; by “nearly empty” I mean one. It was the last cigarette I would ever smoke.
That was not wishful thinking, by the way. I was nearly giddy with delight knowing to the core of my being that the nearly 40 year nightmare called “smoking” was about to end. But before it did I needed to say goodbye to someone.
I pulled my last cigarette from the rumpled package and held it up to inspect it. I tried to imagine what, other than tobacco, paper and cellulose was contained in that 4” cylinder. What chemicals and additives had the tobacco company added to the tobacco in order assure that I would continue to smoke, continue to be addicted and continue to pad the pockets of the company’s shareholders?
(In April 1994 the five major tobacco companies {including Phillip Morris, Inc., the maker of my preferred poison} submitted a list of 499 chemical additives to the US Department of Health and Human Services. All of these chemical compounds had been approved for the use in food but none of them had ever been tested by burning them; burning changes the properties of chemicals. It was also revealed that over 4,000 chemical compounds were created by burning a cigarette.)
“I hate you mother ****er. I hate you for all the money you’ve cost me over the years–close to $50,000 I’d guess. I hate you for what you may have done to my health. I used to tell myself that it was okay to continue smoking because I ran; time will tell if I get off the hook on that one. I hate you for the way you made me smell. Your stink permeated my clothes; my breath stank and my hair smelled like an ashtray at a fraternity beer bash. And I was so desensitized to your odor that I didn’t even smell it”
I cursed it as I exhaled, then took another drag; this one was as if I’d just recovered from a big-time scare and needed (or so I’d thought) some serious nerve settling before getting on with life. I felt the smoke enter my lungs and envisioned it depositing yet another tiny trace of black goo on my life-sustaining alveoli. I held it there for a moment, becoming slightly light-headed, then exhaled a thick cloud of blue smoke into the heretofore clean summer air–I felt as if I owed God an apology.
“I hate you for what you did to my self esteem, making me feel weak, powerless and unable to resist you. I hate you for enslaving me; I was addicted to nicotine and I was at your mercy to supply it to me.”
I paid close attention, perhaps for the first time in decades, to the way the smoke felt and tasted in my throat. While the sensations did not repulse me I did have to admit that the experiences of pleasant flavor and pleasurable feelings were not reasons why I smoked. “**** you, ***hole,” I said. “You taste like s***!”
“Because of you I’ve avoided family and friends who I believed looked down on me for being a smoker so that I could feed my addiction. I’ve huddled like a vagrant in the rain and snow in order to suck your poison into my lungs, much like a junkie plunging a needle into a raised vein.”
“I hate the industry that manufactures you and spends millions of dollars each year in order to convince people that smoking will somehow benefit them. They promised me cool and sophisticated, rugged and rebellious. That worked for a while but now I just feel weak-willed and pathetic.”
“I’ve inhaled your smoke over a million times and other than the first few never even paid attention to the way you tasted; it didn’t matter though, because I needed my fix and taste was irrelevant. Now I know though–you taste horrible. I think I’d rather smoke old rope or dog poop. “
“As I suck you deep into my lungs I’m imagining the tar molecules clinging to my tongue, throat and the tiny air sacs that allow oxygen to get into my bloodstream. I’m imagining those molecules fighting for their lives and integrity, each one making a valiant effort to keep from distorting and turning into the cancer that may well end my life. My father died of lung cancer, by the way. It’s an ugly, undignified way to go and the death of tens of thousands of smokers from lung cancer each year is directly attributable to you and the money-hungry liars that produce you.”
“I’ve stolen for you. I’ve lied for you. I’ve begged from strangers so that I could have you. I’ve picked your remnants out of ashtrays and I’ve picked your butts off the street and smoked them, casting aside any concern I might have for what I might contract from the lips that touched you before mine.”
I continued my diatribe as the tiny fire at the end of my final cigarette drew nearer to the filter.
With each inhalation I cursed another aspect of smoking that I detested.
I spoke to the cigarette as I might speak to a man I’d duct-taped to a chair prior to killing him for sodomizing my daughter. I am no stranger to profanity but the words that flowed from my mouth surprised even me.
“Well, it’s almost over between you and me. I’ve enjoyed watching you burn, by the way. I’ve been badly burned and I know how painful it is–yes, I think burning is an appropriate end for you. And speaking of Hell, if there is one I’m sure the likes of you and the liars who market you to children will be well represented.”
“We’re done now. I want you to know that we will never, ever, under any circumstances meet this way again. I will not miss you, pine for you or feel in any way that I’m giving something up by ending our relationship. I reserve that for loved ones; departed family, friends and good dogs. I am gaining immeasurably by bidding you adieu and I will begin celebrating those gains as soon as I say my last goodbye to you. And that time has come.
I threw my last cigarette to the sidewalk and ground it violently with the sole of my shoe.
“Die, Mother ***er!”
********************************
That day I thought of cigarettes at least 300 times.This didn’t surprise me as I’d thought of cigarettes 3,000 times a day for the last 38 years or so. But that day there was a big difference; I thought of cigarettes but I didn’t want to smoke one.
The next day I thought about cigarettes 290 times–but thinking about and wanting are not the same things. I was pleasantly surprised, in fact, that I had no desire whatsoever to smoke. This went on for a week. Every day I thought about cigarettes less and every day I was amazed by the fact that I didn’t want to smoke, not even a little bit. In fact, on my one week anniversary I told my wife, “You know, it just occurred to me that not only did I quit smoking a week ago, I did it cold turkey!”
If you’d have asked me a week before stopping if I thought I could quit cold turkey I’d have probably fallen to the ground, assumed the fetal position and began weeping.
But now here I was, seven days into a quit, marvelling at how easy it had been. No drama, no foul moods, no crying, no insomnia; none of those things that I’ve heard quitters complain of. To the contrary, I was so happy at being a non-smoker that my mood was much better than usual.
Hating that last cigarette was powerful.
Any doubt I had as to whether I could or should quit smoking was obliterated by the power of the “dark side.” Because of the hate I recognized and expressed to my last cigarette I was propelled past the point of no return; I knew I would never return to smoking again.
My only regret was that I hadn’t expressed my hate for cigarettes earlier. So let me suggest to you that you begin admitting your hate for cigarettes and the industry that supports them right now. Beginning with your next smoke, tell it how you feel; “I hate you!” By the time you reach the end of this course you’ll hardly be able to wait to crush your last smoke and feel the freedom of being a non-smoker.
“Woo Hoo! I’m a non-smoker!”
