My quit story starts with one failed attempt. Three months in and I smoked another cigarette. 2017.
I went to the hospital in 2019, and lo and behold, I found motivation to quit. I feel like the luckiest person in the world because I'm stupid enough for it not to sink in that it could kill me instantly. Like a stroke or clot.
My Dad was the one who got to me. He said a staunch no as I begged him to get me a pack or two like one big, entitled bi***. I cry, brushing it off sometimes how much I love my father and how much I feel like we might be closer. (Heck, I gave him some shampoo and conditioner). I cry also because it's such a big relief to be done with them. I can feel my body making up for the stuff that 'could have been' lost due to the cancer sticks.
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