In My Head
I began smoking cigarettes when I was fifteen. I was working during the summer at a Hallmark card store. There was another girl who worked with me who was a year or two older than I. Her name was Danette. We got friendly and started hanging out occasionally.
One night after we closed the store, Danette’s friends and I were hanging out at a park in Newtown Square. They were all smokers and they asked me if I wanted a cigarette.
I hesitated. My mother had just ended a twenty-five year smoking habit herself earlier that year. I vividly heard her voice echoing in my mind. “If you EVER touch a cigarette, I will break all ten of your fingers!”
Did that stop me? What do you think?
I shrugged as Mike, Danette’s sometimes-boyfriend, extended a Marlboro Red to me. I slid it between my lips as he held up his gold-plated Zippo lighter.
“Wait a minute,” I said, pulling the cigarette from my lips. “What am I supposed to do with this thing?”
They all laughed at my innocence.
“Just inhale it,” Danette instructed. “Breathe in real fast through your mouth when Mike lights it. Pretend like your mom just walked in on you doing it and gasp, like you're surprised. You might cough for a minute or two, but you’ll get used to it.”
So I did. And man, did I cough! I hacked like an old coalminer for a good ten minutes as I struggled to finish the cigarette. I remember thinking to myself, “Why would anyone enjoy this?” But it seemed like the thing to do…it seemed like everyone I knew smoked.
For several months, I was a weekend social smoker. Terrified that my parents might find me out, I didn’t buy my own packs of smokes for nearly a year after I had my first cigarette. But eventually I gave in to the impulse and began smoking every day. I never smoked at home, so I started spending lots of time at my friends’ houses, where I could enjoy my cigarettes without fear of parental rebuke.
It went on that way for eight years. After about a year, I became a standard pack-a-day smoker. Of course, my parents did find out about it. They were quite upset--particularly my mother, who'd had such a hard time giving it up herself--but they realized that they couldn’t prevent me from smoking when I was away from home.
I remember one time, when I was about seventeen, I lit up a cigarette at a family barbecue in front of everyone. At that point, my entire family knew I smoked, so I figured it was no big thing. My mother, who was sitting across the picnic table from me, took one look at me sucking on my beloved Parliament Light and promptly burst into tears. I quickly stamped it out under my sandal and never smoked in front of her again.
In the spring of 2001, when I was twenty-three, I started thinking about quitting. Nothing in particular made me consider it..I just felt like it was time. Ninety-eight percent of my friends were still smokers, and though my mother occasionally nagged me about it, no one ever seriously asked me to quit. By that time, I was dating Brian and he didn’t smoke, but he never complained about my smoking; in fact, after a few drinks on the weekend, he would usually bum a smoke or two from me! Smoking was never a true addiction for him, though, which is something that still puzzles me to this day. If you’re not gonna go full-tilt, why bother at all?
Anyway, I was up to almost two packs a day at that point due to major job stress. But inexplicably, the pleasure I’d always gotten from smoking was steadily waning. Every time I lit a cigarette, I wound up asking myself why I was doing it. Many times, I would stub it out before I had smoked even half of it. I had also recently joined a health club and was feeling like the world's biggest hypocrite when, as soon as my workout ended, I'd leave the gym and light up immediately in the parking lot on the way back to my car.
I am not an impulsive person. I don’t usually make snap judgments about anything. And I certainly didn’t decide in a split-second to quit smoking. I actually thought about it for months and months before I decided to do it. But I didn’t dare tell anyone; I didn’t want to commit to it out loud. It seemed safer if I kept it to myself. I didn’t want anyone throwing it in my face if I failed.
Friday, July 27, 2001 arrived, and I decided that that would be my quitting day. As luck (or in this case, bad luck) would have it, Brian and a bunch of my coworkers were going to a happy hour after work. They wanted me to come with them. All day long, I sat at my desk and contemplated it. I knew that if I went to happy hour and had a few cocktails, I’d wind up with a cigarette in my hand.
I quietly told Brian that I wouldn’t be joining him for happy hour that night, that I’d decided to quit smoking that day and that I was scared to death I’d fail. Not being a true nicotine addict, he really couldn’t understand what the problem was. He didn’t recognize the correlation between booze and cigarettes for me. Namely, booze = lowered inhibitions = me saying, “Awww, what the hell! I can quit tomorrow!” = cigarettes.
I managed to convince him that I wouldn’t be upset if he went to happy hour that night without me. I went home (I was still living with my parents then) and brooded. And by “brooded,” I mean that I sobbed inconsolably for five straight hours, crumpled up on a lawn chair in the backyard as night fell upon me. Seriously. I wept as if my best friend died. And in a way, I guess that was true; cigarettes had been my friend for eight long years. Cigarettes, and the rituals that I associated with them, had seen me through many good and bad times. I was completely devastated about my decision to quit smoking, as much as I understood (with the small amount of sanity I had left at the time) that it was the right thing to do.
That night, I wondered if my life would ever be the same again. I wondered if I’d ever be able to go out with my friends to happy hour again. I couldn’t imagine ever having fun again without being able to smoke. I couldn’t imagine getting through a stressful day at work without taking a few well-deserved cigarette breaks outside. I couldn’t imagine sitting in rush-hour traffic in my car without puffing away on a Parliament Light. ESPECIALLY when I was in my car; that was my favorite time and place to smoke…the windows and sunroof open, music blasting.
But life went on, as life does. And to my surprise, it got easier for me to not smoke. I learned to sit out the cravings. I figured that just because I felt like I wanted to have a cigarette didn’t mean that I had to give in to it. Minutes turned to hours, hours turned to days, days turned to weeks. And the more time passed, the more determined I was to stick to my goal. I didn’t want to start from scratch all over again. What can I say? I’m very stubborn. When I set my mind to something, I don’t let anything get in my way.
My personal secret to quitting successfully? To never, ever, EVER smoke one more cigarette again. Ever.
I don’t mean to sound flip or cute. Not at all. But that’s what worked for me. It’s simple, but not at all easy. Not easy by a long stretch.
For a time after I quit, I had to stop hanging out with my smoker friends. This, as you might imagine, ruffled some feathers. And I did stop drinking for about six months after I stopped smoking. I just felt strangely incomplete with a cocktail in one hand but no cigarette in the other. Even now, I rarely drink.
Does that mean I’m not tempted to smoke now? Nope. Though it’s been almost six years since I quit, I still think about cigarettes every now and then. And I expect it will be that way for the rest of my life. It’s not often, but sometimes the urge to smoke hits me like a fucking stampede of cattle, and I have to take a few deep breaths until it passes.
Especially when I’m sitting in my car in traffic.
Labels: accomplishments, family, friends, health, life events, memories
