Transcript
Michelle Jalowski (0:02)
Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Michelle Jalowski. It may be a new year, but I've got pretty much the same resolutions. I'm going to start reading a book every week. I'm going to take more walks. I'm finally going to find a way to keep that Trader Joe's orchid alive for more than a month. Check back with me in March to see how I did. But sometimes the best thing you can do isn't to start something new. It's to think about your old habits that you don't love the things and ideas that aren't serving you and decide to leave them behind. On this episode, we've got two stories about the good that can sometimes come from quitting. First up is Ian Stewart, who told this at a mock story slam in Portland. Here's Ian live at the Mop.
Ian Stewart (0:47)
I remember my first cigarette almost as well as I remember my last. My first one. It was all love and honey. It tasted good. It felt good on my lips. It melted my brain like chocolate under a hot marshmallow. Last one, not so much. It was one of those random summertime hailstorms and I was huddled underneath this little overhang, smoking it with abandon. Desperate need. I smoked it all the way down to the filter, flicked it into this little flower pot. That poor little thing never saw anything beautiful. And I felt so frustrated in myself, so ashamed. I'd tried to quit plenty of times before and there I was again. I felt like I was letting myself down. Felt like I was breaking a promise, which I was. I went back inside and I went into my bedroom where I've got this big whiteboard. It was my quit board and it was huge. And I only had like 60 little tallies in a corner. And when I got the thing, I was very sure I was going to fill this up, no sweat. I was gonna maybe just keep on going and turn it into one of those dungeons that has little tallies all over the walls. And as I'm sitting there looking at it, I see 60 something tallies representing around two and a half months. It's pretty good. And I remember it being so. I was so frustrated to look at that, look at all that effort in between. Each of those lines represented an entire day of fighting cravings. Cravings that they were like a parasite, man. They would dictate everything I did throughout the day. Every single one of those tallies represented an entire day that I went. I woke up, didn't smoke. I didn't smoke during my first cup of coffee or my Second, I didn't smoke after breakfast. I didn't smoke before work. On, on and on and on. I'm wet, I'm cold. I'm so frustrated. Just so much self pity. I take my hand and I just swipe all those tallies away. Quit board goes back down to zero days without a cigarette again, that frustration, it was. I was mad. I could feel myself just writhing in it. And ironically, in those moments, the thing you really want is a cigarette. I go back out to the kitchen where I left the pack and there's one left rattling around in there. It's like the last match, my little lifeline before the darkness of no more smokes. And on my hand below the pack, I could see this blue smear. It was the smear of 60 something little lines and 60 something little times where I said I went this entire day without a cigarette. In that moment I didn't see that necessarily as a failure. That was a collection of successes, a lot of successes. Over 20 a day for 60. Some days felt pretty damn good. I put that pack back down and the next day around the same time, I drew my first line on the clipboard. Well, again my first line. Again. The next day I did it again. 2 became 4, 4 became 20. Before I knew it, I had a long yet gradually easier year of tallies behind me. Right on. Appreciate that. I still, I still get cravings on my hardest days. I still have a little bit of envy when I'm at the bar and I smell smoke. It still smells good to me. I know it's weird. I don't tally anymore. That got kind of weird. Like the dungeon look, not as cool as you might think. But to this day, to this day, tucked away inside of my nightstand, it's all crusty and just a shell of a thing now. I still have that last smoke. Thank you.
