I haven’t really ever had a problem with anxiety. At least, never enough that I felt the need to “go talk to someone” as literally anyone would always suggest. But these nicotine withdrawals are making me a snotty, shaky, wet and salty mess at the slightest change of pace.
I don’t constantly feel the urge to smoke; in fact I don’t feel the urge to smoke at all. The idea passes through my thoughts like a dream may slide through a dream catcher. Many times a day, but never staying for very long.
The thing that won’t pass is this feeling of unease.
It’s like making a thick winter coat out of your bad feelings: discomfort, regret, sorrow, anguish, what-have-you, then putting it on, only to discover that you can’t seem to get it off because it’s too tight and you’re tired of struggling.
The feeling that each slight inconvenience is another grain in the anthill, another massive stone to be carried on my back all the way up the mountain.
The ironic part is that the best metaphor I can apply is: The world is a balloon of poison gas, gas that makes the world spin a little faster and a little more haphazardly; while cigarettes are my gas mask, slowing things down and allowing me to think and breathe.
Maybe I’m just overthinking it; like everything else nowadays.