i quit smoking.

yes, you read right. I quit. not, “I’m trying to quit,” or, “i’m going to try to quit.” Past tense. fait accompli. To quote yoda, “do. or do not. there is no try.”

which makes it all sound so easy. In reality, if it were that easy, this would not be the third time I have quit. I have, in fact, done ths twice before.

The first time I quit, I had only been smoking for 3 years. I consciously (some would say self-destructively) took smoking up at the ripe old age of 19, when I was well and truly old enough to know better, and it’s probably no coincidence that I also had blue hair and a pierced nipple. What can I say, I was a late bloomer when it came to rebellion, and i took up smoking with a vengeance, no half-ways about it. I made up in enthusiasm what I lacked in gravel-throated experience.

And it was great. It got me through the awkward years of finding my way in new york, where i wasn’t sure what i was doing, or who i was doing it with. when I was old enough to be considered an adult, but too young to be taken seriously. it lent me gravitas in a city where being noticed takes supreme feats of effort, and where acting bored and jaded is a mark of sophistication. It passed the time waiting in bars for friends, attending bad art exhibitions, coffee breaks at minimum wage jobs.

I cultivated a sense of ennui, to hide my naked fear at being thought inexperienced/shy/dorky. Cigarettes were a critical prop in the facade.

Eventually, however, I got tired of *having* to smoke. I got tired of the chronic bronchitis which guaranteed me being given wide berth on the subway and necessitated sleeping in an upright position. I got tired of spending my meagre salary on pack after pack of cigarettes, or worse, “bumming” off friends. I got tired of standing in the rain/snow/sleet, pretending I was enjoying myself, rather than merely staving off a nic fit.

So I quit, cold turkey. My then-husband still smoked in front of me, trying to taunt and sabotage. Within 2 weeks I became unemployed and had to write my exams to finish my ba degree. A week later, my husband lost his job. I literally had smoking dreams, where I woke up pulling mightily on an invisible cigarette, full of guilt, the dream cigarette was so real and enjoyable. One memorable and distressed evening, I walked around for several hours with a cigarette in one hand, and a lighter in the other. And I still stayed quit.

I stayed quit for 7 years.

And then one day, I thought I could have *just one*. Which is how it starts for all of us addicts – smokers, alcoholics, shoplifters, heroin users. Whatever your fix, it always starts with one.

I wanted to be a non-addict. I wanted to be that person who has the occassional cig while they’re drinking wine, or has a cigar on holidays and special events. I wanted to have control. I refused to admit that I had a problem. For whatever reason, I can have exactly 2 sips of wine, and put the glass down – but I can’t have two puffs of a smoke and throw it away. I can go a whole 12 hour plane ride without craving heroin, but my hands tremble lighting a cigarette after they let me through immigration.

It’s a crutch – something to do when you’re bored, or hungry, or tired, or awkward, or upset. It’s not that I don’t need the crutch, because in a way, we all do. We all use a little something to prop ourselves up now and again – chocolate, a drink, shopping, chewed fingernails. We all have them, they’re just not all as easily identifiable as a lit cigarette.

And I guess I’ll just have learn to use a glass of wine instead.

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