12 Dec 2011

I quit cold turkey.  It wasn’t an easy choice, screwing that cap back on and stuffing the bottle deep into my duffel, sandwiched between the bag of dirty laundry and my well-worn sneakers, out of sight and out of mind.  But it was the only way.  Three days had turned into three weeks and according to the warning label, I was in serious trouble.  So I did it, making a solemn vow to not turn to that bottle under any circumstances.  Even the one which had me living out of a dated Hilton in New Jersey for weeks on end.

There was a price to pay, of course.  The withdrawal symptoms crept in within hours, bringing about restless, sleepless nights and distracted days.  And I was sorely tempted on the flight home to Seattle to break my vow, the discomfort rising with each vertical foot, the pressure to alleviate my troubles pushing down upon me like 4th and goal on the one yard line and that name stenciled on the back of my jersey doesn’t rhyme with Dodgers or trees.  But I had promised myself for my own health to give it up, to walk away, to acknowledge my problem and move on.

And in the end, I did it.  Not a drop was taken.  Now, a few days later, as I unpack and unwind from those long two weeks, I am breathing easier, all the better for my resolute choice.  So I say to you, little bottle of addictive nose spray now tucked away into the dark recesses of the bathroom cabinet with the dust bunnies and sticky old cough drops, your time in the spotlight is through.  Gobble gobble.