Putting down the packet David quits smoking for Stoptober

Uncle Google sits me down on his knee and speaks of an old Chinese proverb that goes like this: 'The man who removes a mountain begins by carrying away small stones.”

For this humble hack journo with a hacking cough, the mountain is smoking, and each and every day I don't light up a cigarette, these are my small stones.

Waking from slumber on Thursday, my first official day off the ciggies, I stared up at the roof and whispered the mantra ‘I am a non-smoker' repeatedly in my head.

‘I am a non-smoker, I am a non-smoker…'

An impending sense of doom and loss followed me on my drive to work. Something felt amiss, like there was a hole that only 4000 chemicals and carcinogenic compounds could fill.

I'll admit to feeling just a wee bit silly while stopped at the traffic lights at Elizabeth and Devonport, smooshing my face against the window as I longingly gazed smokers with pitiful puppy dog eyes.

‘I am a non-smoker, I am a non-smoker…'

My daily morning break routine consists of crossing the railway tracks to grab a coffee from Fixation – a roughly two cigarette, 10-15 minute round trip.

Coffee, something I imagined I would struggle with, was startling easy. So much so I actually thought something there was wrong physically wrong with me. Ridiculous.

‘Perhaps I am a non-smoker? Am I a non-smoker?'

Trying to get stories finished was like trying to push a mammoth smoking turd uphill; sitting there blankly attempting to will the words out of my head and onto the computer, desperately praying the phone stayed silent so conversation could be avoided.

‘I am a non-smoker, I am a non-smoker…'

To help get me through the days I've decided to chomp on nicotine gum. I wasn't initially planning on doing so, and it's not that I have an aversion to nicotine replacement therapy, I've just always thought cold turkey was the best method for me.

Yet, I'm glad that I have a stash now (thanks Kym). Figuratively speaking, as long as the wall is painted white who cares what tools you use to get the job done.

‘I can be a non-smoker, I can be a non-smoker…'

That nicotine gum though – Satan's backside after a month-long curry binge is what it is. After chewing it all day my tongue gave me the middle finger, screamed 'what the hell this insipid s***?' packed its things and hitched a ride to Opotiki.

I keep telling myself that the godawful taste is a blessing in disguise because I attribute smoking, and more so nicotine, to all those moments of pleasure, of normality, of day-to-day life…

My brain tells me I love ciggies, and now I'm trying to tell my brain ‘no you don't, dick'.

I love ciggies even though I know I don't love ciggies. Yet my addiction to nicotine and ritual and image and laziness makes me think I adore cigarettes like a pathetic 14-year-old Romeo swooning shitty poetry.

It's dawning on me that I am in the process of rewiring my brain to that of a non-smoker. For nearly two decades nicotine has been a source of pleasure and of joy. The drug duped me – I'm the idiot placed in a circle room and asked to look for a corner.

As I lay in bed last night I thought to myself ‘life would have been much easier without nicotine', but from somewhere a voice replied: ‘No point grumbling 'bout shit you can't change; fix the problem or shut the hell up.'

‘I am a non-smoker! I am a non-smoker!'

One day down, no cigarettes, and a pocket emptied of small stones.