The Struggle Continues

Several months ago I had been asked by a neighbor to help her with her mother until they could find permanent help. Millie had recently had her second stroke as a result of her 40 year smoking habit. Her heart and lungs had been taxed to their limit, and she paid the price of allowing her dependency to break her. I spent several weeks helping her bathe, eat, and dress. Millie can no longer talk. Her brain limits her vocabulary to about 10 words, and that is the extent of her communication. She is only about 10 years older than myself.

One night after spending an evening with her, I came home in tears. I was blubbering almost hysterically, desperately trying to come to grips with watching this young woman deteriorate before my eyes. I remember saying over and over to BabyMan, "Help me. I can't do this alone. I’m so scared. I don't want to wind up like her." I knew that's where I was headed. I was exhausted all the time, and I knew I had to do something, because I was in physical trouble. I could barely climb a simple flight of stairs, and had stopped going to the gym months ago. I had tried several times to quit smoking over the years, and found that the addiction was so strong, I felt powerless against it. BabyMan understood about addiction. It's a powerful force that can separate the closest of couples, and if he was going to take an active disciplinarian role in this, he would run the risk of causing resentment or even hatred stemming from my own chemical withdrawal.

BabyMan promised to help me. He started with limiting my cigarettes during the day, and then stopping smoking after 5:00 pm. I became irritable, antagonistic and agitated easily. I had my victories and my failures. I was paddled several times over the next few weeks for the smell of smoke in the house, leaving to grab a smoke in the yard after BabyMan went to sleep, lying, sneaking around, etc. I had lost my ability to reason. My integrity and credibility were shot as I rationalized and made excuses to myself for my lack of control. I worked hard to consume as much nicotine as I could get away with, and BabyMan was on to me most of the time.

Finally after several weeks of playing cat and mouse, I was told to pick a date where I would stop completely. I bought a box of nicotine lozenges, and picked January 1st as my quit date. But my behavior had to change. I must commit to total honesty, and confess whenever I failed. Through a painful wrestling with my conscience, I kept my word.

So far, there have only been two punishments since January 1st. My confessions came many days after the fact, and after having struggled with the fear of punishment. This wouldn't be an average paddling. This would be a painful, agonizing, burning that would render me unable to sit for hours, maybe even days. I would be spanked for smoking, and then again for lying by omission. In the end, I took it. He lectured me hard with every strike of the paddle. "So you decided to risk stroke (WHAP!) cancer (WHAP!) emphasima (WHAP!) ... did you give any thought to me, or the others who love you? (WHAP!) Did it occur to you that you'd leave me to grieve If I had to bury you because you were too selfish to stop killing yourself? (WHAP!) You want me to trust you and you lie to me (WHAP!) You think this is a game? This is your life, Dammit! (WHAP!)...

He was right. I had acted selfishly, and the scolding alone was enough to break my heart. I sobbed gut wrenchingly to his words of disappointment, as well as screamed in agony to the pain of the leather paddle on my bare behind.

So here it is, 3 months later, and I am breathing easier. I began going back to the gym 3 days a week at first, and have progressed to five days a week. My workouts are more rigorous as my lungs have begun the healing process. Thirty years of smoking had taken it's toll on my health, but I almost feel normal again, and my husband is so proud of me. After trying almost everything to quit over the years, I had consented to submitting to physical punishment as a deterrent, and oddly enough, it is the only thing that has worked so far.

The struggle continues today with intermittent nicotine fits. I've been told that the chemical completely leaves your body after only about ten days, but it doesn't feel that way. I see people on the street with cigarettes, and seriously consider offering them a dollar or two for just one to kill the craving. I fight these thoughts one day at a time, and each day I emerge victorious only to face the same challenge the next day.

Recently, on our trip to Jamaica, BabyMan discovered that his belt has another use other than holding up his pants. He had never used the belt on me before, and that first time in Jamaica caused severe bruising, and a pain that I NEVER want to experience again. My punishments for smoking paled in comparison. I had gotten almost used to our trusty leather paddle, and I believe that subconsciously I have come to the conclusion that the occasional cigarette in times of extreme withdrawal or stress would actually be worth the punishment. I can take the paddle if I have to. It's painful, but I can live through it without experiencing post traumatic stress syndrome. The belt is another story. It can't, in all fairness, be described as a spanking. It is a whipping, pure and simple. I handled it once, and I never want to go there again.

Of all the infractions that earn me a spanking, BabyMan and I  both consider smoking to be the most egregious, the most deplorable. This isn't a game. This is a mission to save my life, and I believe that he would not hesitate to reach for the belt the next time I falter.  And I wouldn't blame him.  The problem is that in times of great stress, I am weak. 

And knowing this, with my daily struggle to stay on my path… will I have to courage to confess next time?