The Omega Moment
Day 1 – a conflation of the beginning and the end. An impossibility of two objects occupying the same space at the same time. Two concepts that for moment combine like oil and water being shaken vigorously in a vessel only to separate and then collect within itself with its respective specific gravity. To each its own.
An anomaly – at least for me, never having had a Day 1 in my life. Not in the context of quitting, and certainly not how Day 1 is defined within the nebulous realm of KTC. This strange, strange communal ethersphere of individuals somehow forming a bond over something as the end an addiction followed by the start of a collective rewiring. This strangeness meshes into a familiarity while by some slow, tedious miracle our synapses are realigned and meticulously re-ordered and re-organized. During this process, wires inevitably get crossed.
All that starts with Day 1. Biblical in a way – this day. “In the beginning.” One could say, Alpha. The moment it began was the same moment it all ended. A minor ripple that changes a person’s course in a major way. That moment was defined by another quitter while in the chat room. Minutes before that, I was planning my funeral.
No shit. I thought I was gonna die at an intersection. The anxiety was like nothing I had felt before. ‘This is a fucking heart attack!” I thought to myself. I press my fingers against my jugular, trying to assess my heart condition, then put my hand to my chest. Cold beads of sweat began to form on my forehead. My hands were far from steady and I focused on deep breathing. Probably the longest fucking red light I had ever been halted by. I did a quick calculation, and figured my wife could survive modestly for about five years after having paid off the house after she collected on my life insurance. Lord, I wish I had gotten more insurance! Probably could have if only I would have not dipped for long enough prior to the underwriter’s exam.
The light turned green, and now I was even more panicked, as I made the turn and meandered my way through the thinning, evening commute. Not only was I gonna fucking die within a minute if not now, but I was gonna keel over in a ol’ Chevy going 45 mph, and prolly wipe out the entire small gathering of protesters that frequently stand out in front of the Planned Parenthood with signs that read, “Abortion is Murder!” with a picture of fetus on there. Just once I wished someone would hold up a sign that read, “Honk if You’re Horny!” outside of that place! But at the time I just wished I had more insurance.
I do indeed make it home to my surprise and relief. Maybe I kissed the wife and hug the kids – I don’t remember. But I’m soon in my bedroom with the door closed, and I log into the chat. (I prolly would done this at the intersection, but I had to concentrate on keeping my heart from dropping dead, and subsequently myself from doing the same.)
I recounted that very incident with occupants of the chat room, and I’m sure they were all riveted and enthralled with my story while they glanced and responded during commercial breaks or in between downs. Maybe blast out an ODAAT or EDD and “POP!” off. Eventually the chat veered to where I describe my quit day, which was maybe three to four weeks prior. One quitter on the chat responded matter-of-factly with,
“that was your Omega moment.”Omega…omega. That was my Omega moment? What the hell did that mean? Omega? It sounded biblical, though. I shoulda paid attention in church. Alpha / Omega, I thought. Hm. And I pondered on this for days and days and days. “Omega.” It was so familiar, but I couldn’t grasp its meaning. Maybe its meaning was adrift in the fog, and I hadn’t quite stumbled my way into yet. What did that have to do with quitting? My Omega moment…? I just didn’t understand it’s meaning, but felt the undercurrent of its significance.
October 8th of 2017 was a Saturday morning. A morning much like this one coincidentally. The leaves are starting to yellow around the edges and squirrels are harvesting acorns on the oak, littering the ground with hulls. The grass is now being speckled with turning leaves, and will soon be a collage of the autumnal hues of magentas, burnt oranges, yellows, and auburn browns. I was up early that morning. Not because I wanted to step out and be the first to breathe in a lungful of crisp fall air like I’m John fucking Denver, but because I had to.
I had to.The day before I had acted bravely, like a liquored up bachelor at a college co-ed party. I had done this countless times the previous twenty or more years. I had mustered up all the phony courage I could possibly muster and tossed a near full tin out the driver’s side window. THAT WAS FUCKING IT! And I left no doubt – well a little doubt – okay, I left some doubt because I tossed a near full can. That meant I was vested. Right? So, no way! I’m sick of it! I’m done! I’m out!... “Oh Shit!”…
…was my first thought the following morning. It was just before 6 AM on the 8th of October, 2017. My addict brain was panicked and pissed, asking me why the
actual fuck I had tossed that tin the evening before. Nag, nag, nag, nag, nag! That addict brain shook me out of bed. Annoyed but with robotic obedience, I rose and shuffled to the closet, slipped on my clothes, and like a ninja stealthily slipped out of the house while everyone was still asleep. I was too tired to argue with my addict brain and frankly didn’t want to. Too beaten down by the bitch to put up much resistance. I drove to the gas station on the corner (not sure why I’d drive there, it’s like 3 blocks away) and bought a tin of Grizzly Straight, and a soda pop.
I hop into my ol’ truck and dig my thumbnail into the paper wrapping and turn the tin with my nail in the crease. I peel the lid off and take a big ol’ pinch and pop in a little extra this time. My lip starts to sting as I squeeze my mouth and cheeks around that lipper, and my mouth is immediately filled with tobaccy juice. Way more than I can gut. I ponder just spitting into my Coke Zero, but instead I take a surreptitious look around like I’m about to tell an off-colored joke, open my door and glop out a spitter of dip juice as thick and as brown as syrup, except slick like oil. It splatters right there on the white parking stripe. I’m disgusted but used to it at this point.
I make my way home as slowly as I could, taking extra time at the one stop sign that separates my house from the gas station. I don’t feel so shitty when I dip all by my lonesome; and it was early, and I didn’t want to feel shitty. But I was going to anyways because I always do, I realize – and lonely, insecure, and empty, but mostly shitty. I continue past my house and drive on a bit. It’s still dark and everyone’s asleep. I mosey around the neighborhood for a short while, prolly just thinking of stuff – more likely thinking about how much I hated dipping and how loathsome I felt because I always did.
I make my way home just at first light, and park beneath this big ol’ maple tree. I get out and look up like I always do and look up at the canopy of leaves and know that it's about time to start raking. It looks like a cauldron stirring with bats against the dark purple sky on this breezy morning. Some of them break loose and fall silently, spinning clumsily during their decent to the lawn. The breeze swells to a gust and the leaves crinkle and scuff as they blow across each other, and the trees let out a loud sigh as the wind exhales through the branches and leaves. I make a mental count on how many lawns bags I need to go buy to stuff all their dead in – prolly 35 of ‘em, like previous years. I only hope the catalpas release their leaves before the snow falls.
The back door opens, and I level my gaze to see my wife standing there.
Where did you go this morning? Out,
I reply. What should I have told her? The truth? Fuck that. She knew anyways. She closes the door without a word and disappears into the house.
At that moment, I begin to feel this crumbling inside, but not because of or for her. Something in there was breaking. My heart had become too hard, too cold and was beginning to crack. I tried quitting for her earlier that year, but only stopped for 160 days. She was not a good enough reason to quit, not even if she was 8-1/2 months pregnant at the time I did.
In spite of the breeze, the tiny world around me became still and soundless while in my soul was a cacophony of guilt, shame, and sorrow - a stream of broken glass and debris being poured onto a tinny, metal slide.
I was sick. I was tired. I could no longer do this anymore. I had weathered the storm for 30 years since I was a just a curious lad. I could bear the weight of it no more. The constant feeling of the struggle of failure was too exhausting. My shoulders slumped, my head down, my feet heavy like bricks. With that, I walked behind my detached garage and ripped off the lid as I walked past the garbage can. I thought the act of dumping my final can would be more emphatic and symbolically binding if I dumped it into the ditch. Just before I turned my wrist over I paused.
Just one more, she whispered, one last time. She was convincing. So I pinched out a fatty and stuffed it into my face, and unceremoniously dumped the fresh, hours’ old dip into the ditch. Some of the shreds of tobacco clumped on some of the wild plants and weeds, and I kicked at 'em so I could scatter it to mitigate the temptation of running back there after an hour to find enough nuggets of chew to make a satisfying lipper.
I walked back around the garage and stood under that big ol’ maple, staring up at all the leaves of that and the other trees. That cacophony began to rattle again – louder this time. The breaking and shattering resumed, and when it all stopped after having stood there for about 10 minutes I felt something that I don’t know that I had felt before. It was the void the devil suddenly left behind - sorrow. Distilled, raw, exposed. I had tossed dozens and dozens of cans over the years, and cigarettes, too. Why would this time be any different? I sure as fuck didn’t feel brave, strong, or determined. And yet in that moment I finally discovered my reason to quit - me.
I knew what I had to do. I scooped out that final fat lip turd and flung it amongst the fallen leaves on the grass and walked inside the house as mindlessly as I had gotten dressed that morning. I went to the computer, and reset my KTC password. After logging on and fumbling through the forums a bit, I found where I thought was the place to post, the January 2018 group. And I posted, “Rob W. – Day 1.”
That was it. One moment I was dipping, and the next moment I was quit. Just like that, in an unremarkable moment, I turned and walked away; and knowing what was back there, I never turned back.
Day 1 – the day where the end rams head first in to the backside of the beginning. And those two moments, seamless links on a circle, begin to separate, for they cannot exist at the same time in the space. Alpha and Omega – the beginning and the end. At that moment it had ended for me. One year ago, on a crisp autumn morning, coincidentally like today.
With nicotine addiction, it is not a fast break away or a clean cut. But rather a slow tear that leaves raw, tender edges that give way to anxiety, melancholy, infinite guilt, lethargy, seething anger, and wounds to heal both mentally and physically. It’s blindly navigating the labyrinth of that special kinda foggy hell we all must pass through to be quit. It’s constant mind-fuckery by the ever present nic bitch. It’s the fog. It’s the suck. At times it’s like clinging to the rungs of the Jacob’s ladder that pulses and buzzes throughout our bodies and minds. It’s ever present and the change is gradual – almost imperceptible, and certainly a test of resilience. Time and distance from that final dip can only change all that. You will heal, and you will change.
One thing that won’t change, though, is that I will always be an addict. I will never be cured. And I’m ok with that because I am quit for today. I am quit today like I was on Day 1. My only hope is that I am quit when that final breath wheezes out my lungs, my heart stops, and my conscience fades to black. The living cannot occupy the same space and time as the dead – nor the quitter and the bitch. When my soul and body separate, maybe then and only then will my addiction end. Maybe that will truly be my Omega Moment.
(Thx to all you BAQ’s. IQWYT. ODAAT. BMC -365)
