I’d found that trying to sleep with a patch on wasn’t conducive to quality rest. So when I woke yesterday, I wasn’t wearing one, and I decided to see how long I could go without it.

It turns out the answer was: Tentatively, forever.

There were twenty or thirty times of a Saturday that my body was just screaming for a dose of nicotine.

Mostly I just chomped down harder on a tea tree stick.

Twice, I lit one of the cheap nasty sticks. Here’s how that game works. No sitting to smoke, because that’s when it gets automatic and dangerous. I’m allowed, after lighting, two puffs. Then I take it to a faucet, wet it clean through, and throw it in the trash.

But listen, this is yuge, in terms of not just ‘quitting’, but actually breaking the physical dependency and addiction.

If I can handle one day like that, the next has to be at least a little easier–it’s science, yeah?

It’s not that I’ve won yet. Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday were fully patched, treated with the oxygen, non-stop social interaction and communication (my single major stressor), and I still felt very much like an addict.

On Friday suddenly I was home, alone, and face to face with the demon. I did alright. With the patch. Touch and go.

But that yesterday. No patch, NO Patch, I still can’t believe it. All through a hammering headache that was doubtless a true withdrawal.

This morning I woke to a pretty clean taste in my mouth. I woke to no pain in my lungs. I fed the cat and made the coffee and sat with it … been an hour since I got out of bed and … no patch.

No serious craving, no game puffs.

The beast ain’t dead, but I got a square satisfying blow in on its spine; mighta broke it even.

Eris Discordia hear my prayer.