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I Quit Smoking

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I Quit Smoking

One Man's Battle To Quit Smoking

I started smoking cigarettes when I was 19 years old, on purpose and with short-sighted nihilism. I should be more accurate and admit that my best friend and I would smoke and drink beers during our silly younger days, when we would jump around holding tennis rackets pretending to be Mötley Crüe, but I didn't really start smoking full-on till I was 19.

I had briefly flirted with being a high school dropout (I took a couple years off and then went back and got my diploma), my parents had divorced and undertaken their own minimalist diasporas — my father moved from the shore of Jacksonville Beach, Florida, where I had grown up, out to the other side of the river, and my mother went off to New York City. So, there I was, 19 years old, with no particular education or prospects (I worked in the evenings making sandwiches at a famous sub shop), living week to week and feeling somewhat sorry for myself. And so I went down to the beach one night and made a stupid promise to myself. I stood and watched the dimly lit water as the waves gently rolled and said, "I will start smoking." I was unfortunately deprived the sentimentality of a dramatic sunset, as Jacksonville faces east, but the moment was nonetheless monumental.

And I really meant it: From then on, I was always to carry a pack of smokes and lighter around and would religiously light one up and stare pensively into the distance on breaks. I intentionally got myself hooked.

There have been numerous studies showing how tobacco companies have deliberately boosted nicotine levels in their cigarettes and how their marketing campaigns specifically target the young to generate brand loyalty at an impressionable age. I have no intention of psychologically profiling smoking or smokers, least of all myself; I’m just setting the table for my point.

Four weeks ago, after 25 years of being a cigarette junkie, I quit cigarettes (I hope) for good. With the aid of Chantix, prescribed by my physician, I set aside the horrible monkey that’s been riding my back. I can't say that there’s any secret or trick, certainly not any that I’ve discovered; the recidivism rate for tobacco smokers is atrocious, as you may already know.

In a certain famous 12-step program, they have a mantra they use when referencing the fight against addiction: "One day at a time." I am sure that’s useful for drinking, but for my personal battle, I’ve found myself repeating a phrase of my own: "Whatever the question, cigarettes are not the answer."  

So here I stand, fighting a private struggle that no one wants to hear about, since I dug this damned hole myself. I won't bore you with the details of my anxiety attacks or cravings or the sheer overwhelming desire to peel off my skin and see what’s inside me.

Whatever the question is, cigarettes are not the answer. I don't know what is — if I had the goods on the eternal verities, I would certainly be charging for the dissemination of that information. Talk about your "better mousetrap" — I’d wager having the answer to every problem would surely be worth at least a fat book contract and tour of the lecture circuit.

Anyway, if you, or someone you know is battling an addiction of any sort — be it cigarettes, booze, heroin (who am I to judge, I started smoking intentionally) — just remember that someone, somewhere, has undergone the same trials and succeeded. I don't know the question, I won’t lie to you about that, but I do know that cigarettes are not the answer.

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