One. More. Time.

I can't do this anymore.  I have picked myself up, dusted myself off, and hopped back on the horse/wagon/firetruck more times than I care to admit.  Even to myself.

I'm tired.

I'll be a year smoke-free in 10 days.  I read that and I can't even believe it.  I have a friend from high school who is quitting and uses Facebook as a source of support.  I read her posts and cringe.  I remember those feelings.  Depression, grief (yes, grief), anger, hostility, hopelessness.  It's awful.  I remember it like it was just a couple of weeks ago.  So how has a year managed to go by?

I'm so proud of my quit.  If it were an actual, physical thing, it would be tattered and wet from all the love I would bestow upon it. 

But. 

Why is there a "but"?  I don't even know.  I just feel like there's a huge gaping hole.  I won't fill it with smoking, but I sure as heck have been trying to fill it with just about anything else.  I feel like a vacuum- both the machine (hello chips!  hello hamburger!  nice to see you again, wine!) and the scientific term for the absence of matter.

Poignant.  I am the absence of matter.

Oh well.  Here's to dusting off and picking up.  one.  more.  time.