The Lighter

The early fall air is cool against my skin. It’s the perfect temperature to be sitting outside at night. A steaming cup of herbal tea sits at my elbow. A warm blanket rests atop my legs, heavy where my old cotton sleep shirt is light. A book sits loosely between my fingers, but my eyes glaze over the same sentence again and again and again. A siren’s cry grows and fades into the beyond of the night, disappearing into the neighborhood.

My phone flashes the time briefly at me, 8:16pm, before changing to a picture me and my mother took on vacation when I was six. In the photo, she gives me a piggyback ride. My head is close to her ear. Our smiles almost touch. For a brief moment, I debate not picking up, not engaging in conversation, not putting my exhausted brain through more demands, more day, but then the act of debating itself becomes too much, and I slide to answer just to make it stop.

“Hey mom.”

“Tillie? Is that you?”

I hold back the automatic sarcastic response, and try to steer my brain towards a productive and positive response before it can formulate another. My mother moves on, thankfully.

“What’s this about you being out of town in two weeks? When were you going to tell me? Did you know I was planning a trip to see you?”

My eyes roll upward, and I search the sky for the extra patience and energy my mother deserves. She has done nothing to deserve a sarcastic and snippy version of her daughter. I can do it. Besides, it’s not her fault I’m so tired.

“Amanda told me about your trip,” I say to the sky. She is on speakerphone. Amanda had texted a few days ago in all caps. MOM IS GOING TO SEE YOU. It sounded like a threat. “You know, this is the kind of thing you can put in our family group chat, mom. That’s why I texted you about being out of town. It’s for work. I don’t want you to come while I’m not here.”

I’ve technically answered all of her questions. I hope in vain that it is enough.

“What’s wrong? Why do you sound so tired?”

She noticed. Not that I was trying to hide my exhaustion that’s probably coming out to her as exasperation. I turn the truth of why I’m tired over in my head. Examine it from all angles and wonder if today is the day, I tell my mom about the dozens of lifetimes I live every day. If this phone call on a random night is when I come clean about how hard I fight against myself at every moment, against whatever unregulated, uninterrogated lizard brain motivations I have that drive me to make bad decisions.

Should I tell her about how I made myself cook for three hours straight yesterday so that I could have pre-made, pre-portioned, healthy lunches to bring to work. How this is so I don’t end up spending money on the pizza place near work that I love with the deal on two slices and wings. Do I mention that this small win, being able to simply slip a tupperware container into my work bag, opened the door for bigger demons. Bigger demons in the form of a small lighter.

The lighter leads to cigarettes. It had been two months since I had decided to quit, and everyday since I have dreamt of it. In fact, while I stood in the kitchen for three hours, sauteeing vegetables with less oil and less salt than I wanted, and cooking an ungodly amount of chicken breasts, I imagined myself taking my healthy lunch in the park. I imagined getting out of the office to touch grass, to be outside, to light up a sweet sweet cancer stick, and take five minutes to literally breathe. A treat for having done so well on my meal prep. I imagined this possibility so much that the fantasy began to overtake reason. What was two months smoke free? Who cared that this was the healthiest I had ever been? The sly little lighter tempted me just with its mere existence on my counter.

Do I tell my mom I had a face off with this lighter for a full five minutes? Five minutes of picking it up, putting it down, walking to the door, walking back. Five minutes where I lived that imagined life of smoking during my lunch break, of feeling the drug hit my brain, of feeling how well the cigarette rests between my fingers, of seeing the smoke puff away above my head.

And then I had to keep imagining, I had to push that version of my life forward past the first cigarette. I needed to imagine this life through the rest of the day, where I smoke after work for a job well done, and then again after happy hour drinks with colleagues. And then I keep going past the drunk cigarettes to the next morning cigarettes that I smoke because the pack is just there, already in my bag. And even though that early morning cigarette pairs so well with coffee and the quiet sunlit city, I need to focus on imagining the tight feeling in my chest, the hoarseness of my throat, and the shameful smell of cigarettes staining my fingers. There, imagine this life lived. See this version of Tillie who feels bad, who regrets smoking, who is constantly washing her hands and using hand sanitizer to get rid of the scent that starts to choke her, who struggles through her afternoon run, or maybe doesn’t run at all, who chooses to let herself down by bringing this sly little lighter sitting atop the counter which leads to her buying a pack of cigarettes.

The lighter stays on the counter, at home. I live the version of Tillie who continues her two-month non-smoking streak, the one who will feel great because she replaced smoking with running.

But I don't say any of that because that would entail telling my mother that I used to smoke at all.

“It’s just work, mom,” I say instead, “we’re gearing up for a big launch.”

My mother is silent on the line for a little while. I knew she wouldn’t know what to do with what I said. She doesn’t understand the work I do, customer lifecycle marketing for a SaaS company. “But what are you selling?” she has asked. A phrase like “big launch” sounds vague and important enough for her to know things are capital S, serious. And it’s not a lie. My company is preparing for a big launch; it’s just not the part of my day that’s exhausting.

“Are you eating well?”

Oh. She found the part of my day that’s exhausting. Of course she did.

All my life, I had always been a “skinny fat person.” The type of person who looked lighter than they were. I carried myself confidently but avoided all situations where I would need to be picked up, where I would need to squeeze between two objects, where there was even a possibility my mid-section would be revealed. Growing up I often heard “You can fit a medium!” when my size was actually an XL. Or “What? No way?” when I did reveal how much I weighed. A yearly check up eventually scared me into action to lose weight, and the internet told me to start by making changes to my environment. So I proceeded to make my life miserable by making it impossible for me to reach for a candy bar, cookie, or a glass of wine within the confines of my apartment. Instead, my fridge is stocked with fresh veggies that I must eat before they begin to spoil, my cabinets are filled with protein bars, and my giant one gallon water bottle is always the first thing I reach for when my belly begins to rumble.

No fried foods. No greasy foods. No processed foods. No alcohol. Portion control. Protein tracking. Calorie counting. Repeatedly telling myself, “I have had enough food today. I am not hungry. I have had enough food today. I am not hungry.”

“Yeah, I am, mom” I reply to her, waiting for the conversation to be over but too tired to end it myself.

Throughout the day, I measure the crossed paths of possible lives. Here’s one where I don’t eat well, and I smoke. Here’s one where I eat well, but I smoke. Here’s one where I don’t smoke, and I eat well, but I go to bed with an uncomfortable rumble in my belly and a fierce craving for carbs or nicotine–who can tell. Here’s one where I allowed myself a small cookie, and then punished myself with a long run to burn the calories. Here’s one where I smoked, and had a cookie, and then punished myself with a long run, feeling the weight in my chest from the smoke, and the jiggle of my belly against my shorts as motivating factors to just keep going.

I listen to my mother’s silence on the line, wondering if she believes me. She’s seen me pull all-nighters since I was 15 and taking more AP classes than any sophomore in high school should. There’s a small shuffle. I imagine her shifting her phone from one ear to the other.

“You have to take care of yourself, okay, Tillie?”

A breeze comes through and ruffles the pages of the book in my lap. I turn my gaze from the sky to gaze at the street beyond my balcony. There’s a person pacing, his feet drawing lines back and forth in front of the corner store. Is he living multiple lives too? I imagine my victory this morning over the lighter, and my daily, hourly, secondly fight against the part of my brain that autopilots me to the store to buy a pack of cigarettes or to devour a whole box of mac and cheese by myself.

The man makes another approach to the store, and then stills. I will him to turn around. I ball my fists. Don’t do it! Be strong! He pivots and returns down the block at double the speed. I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and cheer for him. You can do it. I can do it.

This is me taking care of myself. Despite how tired I am every single day from battling myself, every day that I choose to live this life of not smoking, of eating well, of picking up phone calls from my mother, I prove to myself that I am stronger than I think I am.

“I am, mom. I’m better than ever.”