Addiction takes away choice, empties wallet
I began smoking cigarettes sometime last February.
I used to go out to a small crevice between my house and a neighbor’s fence and, new at the practice, scald my hand two or three times before lighting up. I’d take my iPod and put it on the huge iron block of an air-conditioning unit behind the house, so whatever audiobook I was listening to at the time would resonate in the air. When I was done, I’d throw the smoldering butt into my neighbor’s ivy-strewn yard or stash it inside a soda can.
I remember it was frigid and windless, perfect for the aesthetic-minded smoker. There’s something about that cold that makes the line between smoke and air more defined, like black Japanese ink on a blank scroll. Breath in, breath out, watch the smoke rise, repeat. That was my favorite time to smoke.
There’s also something addicting about the whole secrecy business. Smoking, as an action, is now “inconsiderate.” What was once as commonplace as drinking black coffee is now pushed, unceremoniously but understandably, into concrete, forgotten corner-spaces between buildings. Naturally, people who enjoy solitude (i.e. non-social smokers) already enjoy those places. It is an act of separation from the crowd of bright-faced passersby. Having a smoke is just one more act of separation. You can spot out anti-social areas invariably by the long graveyards of cigarette butts — white and brown, sometimes marked with red lipstick.
There are two methods to react to the general anti-smoking stigma: You can smoke out in the open, walking around campus, weaving between lines of students, all but blowing smoke in their faces.
These “inconsiderate” smokers react to the stigma by rebelling against it whole-heartedly, daring the world to tell them to put it out. “Considerate” smokers have an air of vague embarrassment (as well as nicotine, as you might expect) that follows them around. They don’t smoke before class because they’re afraid they’ll reek (and they’re right.) They’re always conscious of the smell they might give off. They throw away butts in trash cans.
I was a “considerate” smoker.
I noticed the physical symptoms about six months later. My teeth, never in the best health, were a curdled yellow. The fingers of my right hand, lacking necessary circulation, were stained a corpse-like grey-yellow-brown. My acne, which plagued my youth, came back en force. My face was an archipelago of red and white spots.
At around this time, I had almost forgotten why I had started. I vaguely remember justifying it thinking, “Oh, I’m an English major. They’re expected to have vices.”
Or “Allen Ginsburg, Christopher Hitchens, Bertrand Russell, Martin Amis, President Obama — smokers (or ex-smokers) all. Why shouldn’t I jump into that distinguished pool?”
Or, “Well, it’ll help me drop weight and make me look cooler.” (Yes, I actually thought that.)
Only now did I realize that I only smoked because my body demanded it. My brain craved poison. People with addictions will go to any lengths to justify it to themselves and, if necessary, to others. Those explanations are all nonsense. Addiction represents the body’s triumph over the mind. Addiction can also resemble something like credit cards, which can be compounded to pay the others off. Addicted to food? Smoke, and you’ll lose weight. Addicted to cigarettes? Chew gum, and you’ll stop smoking so much.
In the end, you become a prisoner of the many shackles you’ve created.
I’ve officially “quit” Sunday for the first and, hopefully, last time. I’ve picked up an expensive pack of nicotine gum that numbs and coats my throat. It’s similar to having your mouth numbed at a dentist, without the large, scary needle. Inside the gum’s box are 100 individually wrapped pieces of gum (to keep out of the hands of children) and four stickers of different colors, which we are told to “apply to your calendar.”
Each sticker represents a different milestone, a one-week sticker, a seven-week sticker, a 10-week sticker and a 12-week sticker, like those poker-esque chips given out at AA meetings. It’s slightly sad that I might need encouragement from small calendar-stickers to get me through, but, at this point, I’ll take all the help I can get.
So, why shouldn’t you smoke? I’m not here to tell people what to do. I could rattle off the prescribed answers your parents give you: It’s bad for your health, it makes you smell bad, it’s expensive, kissing you will taste like licking an ashtray, it plays into the hands of large, unscrupulous corporations, etc, etc. This is all basically true.
The absolute worst part of it, however, is that you are no longer free to choose the way you live. What was once a choice is now an obligation. And it becomes a test of will to win back that freedom, which is what was always the most precious thing in the first place.