So last night almost turned into a gang fight at the group home. One guy tried to fight me and actually broke a door down in the chaos. Another guy—someone I’ve been more afraid of, honestly—followed me outside while I was having a smoke. He’s the type who could either stab you or hug you, depending on the mood and the moon. But strangely enough, we ended up talking about God.
Now, I’ve always identified as an atheist, but the truth is more complicated. With these cancer tests looming, I find myself quietly reconsidering what I believe. Maybe I’m not as faithless as I thought. Maybe uncertainty is the most honest kind of faith. We had a good, surprisingly deep conversation and ended up walking to 7-Eleven for Starbucks drinks. Caffeine and contemplation—great combo for insomnia. I pulled an all-nighter, smoking one cigarette per hour like some sort of nicotine monk observing a sacred ritual.
The next day, though? Not so great.
My 7-Eleven buddy came home looking tense and shut-down. Another housemate was refusing to speak to me entirely, and someone else was screaming in the other room. Classic group home soundtrack: the Greatest Hits of Dysfunction, Vol. 9. And I felt responsible. Like my mood, my irritation, my existence had rippled through the walls and soured everyone’s day. I thought maybe I’d triggered something. Maybe my irate behavior had poisoned the vibe.
So I sat down, lit another cigarette (of course), and suddenly—I had an epiphany.
There’s a 99% chance that none of this has anything to do with me.
Seriously. Most people are too wrapped up in their own drama to care about mine. My mistakes, my moods, my mental gymnastics? Background noise to their own internal chaos. And weirdly… that realization comforted me. It freed me up. I didn’t have to carry the weight of everyone else’s reactions. I could just sit with my own, and let them sit with theirs.
And that helped with the cravings. Sort of.
I realized cutting back was just dragging the process out. Teasing myself with a cigarette every hour only made things worse—it made me count the minutes and obsess over the next puff. So today, I’m changing it up. Cold turkey. Yeah, it’s bold. Maybe it’s a trial run, maybe it sticks. But I want to feel the withdrawal, the ache, the full-body scream of quitting—and get it over with.
Because even if 99% of the people I know don’t give a damn about my little smoker’s journey, I do.
I care. I want to be a nonsmoker. I want to heal my body and calm my spirit. That’s enough.
Today’s progress: I’m nauseous. No sleep, too much caffeine, and a dozen smokes later, my stomach is in open rebellion. So I’m taking the rest of the day off from trying to fix everything. I’ll take a hot shower. Maybe nap with some meditation music playing in the background. Let the tension pass like a storm cloud that doesn’t have my name on it.
I can do this.
I am worth the effort.
Even if no one else sees it—I do.
More tomorrow.
—Dan
by Dan and Bonkers
