It’s another day without smoking and the strange thing is… I feel steady. Not euphoric. Not crawling the walls. Just steady. Like a tightrope walker who suddenly realizes the wind has died down.
Instead of pacing around thinking about cigarettes, I’m painting watercolor portraits of outsider artists. There’s something poetic about that. Artists who lived outside the mainstream, outside the lines, sometimes outside the rules entirely. Bold colors. Unapologetic shapes. Minds that didn’t fit in tidy boxes. Painting them feels like a quiet act of solidarity. It also keeps my hands busy and my brain lit up in technicolor instead of Marlboro red.
The projector hums. The Sharpie outlines. The water blooms across the paper like controlled chaos. It’s hard to obsess over a cigarette when you’re trying to balance ultramarine against cadmium orange without turning the whole thing into mud.
And then there’s Whiskey Kitty.
She is my small, tuxedo-clad therapist with whiskers. 🐾 If I run low on encouragement, she materializes. If I sit too long, she nudges. If my thoughts drift into darker corners, she simply parks herself beside me and purrs like a tiny engine of reassurance. Love doesn’t always arrive in grand gestures. Sometimes it arrives with paws and an opinion about dinner.
I’m trying everything this time. Not just one philosophy, not just one method. I’ve pulled tools from 12 step programs, blended them with harm reduction ideas, and added in what I’ve learned from SMART Recovery. I’m less interested in being doctrinal and more interested in being smoke-free. If something works, it stays in the toolbox. If it doesn’t, it goes back on the shelf.
Followers of this blog have also stepped up. Some offer solid strategy. Some just send encouragement. And honestly, sometimes a simple “atta boy” is enough to keep the match unlit. Progress doesn’t always need fireworks. Sometimes it just needs witnesses.
Meanwhile, WonderCon is looming at the end of the month. 🎨 There are errors in my online exhibitor profile that need fixing. Of course there are. Nothing in the art world ever assembles itself neatly. It’s always a little IKEA. You think you’ve built the chair and then you discover three mysterious screws and a diagram that looks like modern art.
But I’ve got two or three weeks. That’s manageable. Fix the profile. Keep breathing. Don’t smoke.
And then there’s the biggest news of all.
Mom got the restraining order dropped.
That sentence carries more weight than a carton of cigarettes ever did. It means I can live here legally. It means no looking over my shoulder. No fear of being hauled off again. No courtroom suspense hanging over breakfast. Stability is underrated. Stability is oxygen.
For someone trying to quit smoking, that kind of relief matters. Anxiety loves nicotine. Fear feeds it. Chaos invites it in like an old drinking buddy. But peace? Peace starves it.
So here I am. Painting outsider artists. Preparing for WonderCon. Living legally at home. Sitting beside a purring tuxedo kitten. Not smoking.
Not even really thinking about it most of the time.
Once again, I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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