Addicted

Finding My Way from Hot Mess to Nama-Stacy

I quit smoking on January 1st at 11:00am. I’m a non smoker now but...I’m going to level with you guys, I’m still an addict.

Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of walking to the supermarket by my house and buying a loose Nevada. Just one. (Nobody would ever have to know.) I’d stand by the dumpster, with my dirty little secret, and flick my Bic at the end of that cigarette. The empty paper at the end would crackle as it ignited and glow red while I pulled that first drag of smoke into my mouth. It’s been so long since my body’s had a hit of nicotine, I’d feel it right away – that familiar lightness in my head and tingling in my fingertips.

That feeling -while oddly satisfying- isn’t what I miss, though. It may sound bizarre but the loss of the emotional support cigarettes provided me has been devastating. In the 6 months that have past since I quit smoking, the tobacco stains on my fingers and teeth have faded. However, it turns out that I was hiding a whole lot of crazy under that yellow sheen of nicotine.

When I was a child my parents were both heavy smokers and they had a disastrous marriage. I developed some odd associations with cigarettes early on in life. Some of my happiest childhood moments smell like burning. You see, people don’t stop in the middle of a wild, screaming match to light a cigarette, but they do when they’re having a civilized discussion after the fact. I didn’t understand the association at that time -I remember hating EVERYTHING about ciggarettes and constantly begged my parents to quit.

When I was 8 years old, my parents moved from an apartment in North Jersey with neighbors all around us to a nice house 'down the shore', where our closest neighbor was across the street.  My parents fights got crazier. My dad was a drinker and my mother had a truly spectacular temper. Big fun.

As my parents relationship deteriorated I began to feel very lonely and neglected. The first time I stole one of their cigarettes it was a desperate cry for attention. They didn’t notice. The second time I stole one of their cigarettes, it was because I’d fallen in love with smoking. I was 10 years old.

What started as a thrilling act of rebellion against my parents became so much more to me over the years. The cigarettes I snuck out of lunch in high school to smoke, established me as one of the ‘bad girls’ even though I usually felt more like a ‘super wimp’ inside. I smoked a cigarette with my best friend going over the Seaside Bridge the very first time we ditched afternoon classes to go to the beach. I smoked a cigarette with my first boyfriend right after my first kiss.

The irony of smoking cigarettes outside a chemotherapy center was not lost on me while I was waiting for my mom to finish cancer treatment or, later, at her funeral when those treatments failed. I smoked cigarettes with my dad in bars up and down the Eastern seaboard and when, at 25, a gynecologist told me that it would be impossible for me to have a child - through the fog of my despair - I heard that little devil who lives on my left shoulder whisper, ‘Well, at least now you’ll never have to quit'.

The day I found out I was pregnant with my son, my shock was so complete that I smoked a cigarette in between my 4th and 5th pregnancy tests and then all but stopped. My baby daddy, Ivo, still smoked and I’d occasionally sneak a drag but I amazed myself at my ability to do what was best for my unborn miracle child. Even his premature birth* didn’t send me back to my habit. I never wanted to smell like an ashtray when I held my baby boy. I never 100% quit but during my son’s early infancy I could totally pass for a non smoker.

My son’s father and I were on the street in Bogota, Colombia when my baby was 6 months old.  We’d just found out that our boy was going blind. I’d never felt so many emotions all at the same time. I couldn’t handle it all. Ivo lit a cigarette and I snatched it from his mouth. There was something I could control, a way to soothe myself! My oldest friend, Ciggy Butt, here to comfort me on my worst day. I hated my weakness in that moment, but that particular strain of self loathing was just a tiny fraction of the pain I felt. It was so easy to blow it away… in a puff of smoke.

Fast forward 10 years >>>

My son and I are back in Colombia at a bodega in Cali. I’d just bought cinco packs of cigarettes because when your in South America but your Spanish is 'muy terriblo' buying in bulk, when you find someone who understands you, is the way to go. In a moment of Yoda-esque wisdom my son told me that he loves me and wants me to be around for a long time. He asked me if I could quit smoking.

Mother Forker!!  

How do you say no to THAT?

Well, it was VERY difficult but I managed.

I told him that I couldn’t make him any promises (he knows I do not take promises lightly) but I would really try. I kept his words in my head and every time I lit up a cigarette I felt guilty about it. I wanted to want to quit smoking… but I didn’t really want to. You know what I mean?

The final push came in December of this year. My family had a bit of a financial crisis and we had to make some difficult choices. Quitting cigarettes seemed like the obvious choice. We’d both wanted to quit (theoretically) and at a pack a day each, a lot of our disposable income went to our shared vice. So we got really prepared, made a good plan and quit smoking gradually.

I’m lying. We did none of that.

We both quit cold turkey for New Years. Frankly, I’m vaguely surprised that everyone survived.  Sheer stubbornness and imagining the disappointment on the faces of the guys I love is the only thing that’s kept me clean. It’s been a nightmare. My fiance had been a heavy smoker, but he started smoking in his 30’s. He hated life for, like a week, and then immediately became his charming, well-balanced self again. He liked cigarettes, but I don’t think he loved them. Not like I did.

The moment my body realized that I was completely cutting off it’s nicotine supply I started feeling a low-grade, primal fear that hasn’t left me since. I don’t know how to cope with life. It almost feels like I spent my life sheltered behind a cloud of smoke and now the harsh light of cigarette free reality is overstimulating and disorienting. I’ve been trying one thing after another to comfort myself and nothing is working because the heart of the problem is… me.

I’ve slow-walked myself to the realization that I have to stop relying on outside influence to calm me down. Lately I’ve been drinking too much and I’m starting to suspect that I have a more serious oral fixation problem than I originally suspected… Freud would have a field day with me. I’m an embarrassingly ‘text book’ addict and I’ve realized that this time, I can’t fix it myself. I have some anxiety issues that I should probably address and I’ve decided that I should probably talk to someone about the things from my past that I used to hide in a cloud of smoke.

As I stand on the wild, untamed side of my journey to wellness, I am incredibly grateful for the support I receive from the people in my life. If you’ve made it with me this far, I’m keeping you forever and if I’m not returning your texts any more, just know it isn’t you. It’s me... and the fact that I can’t deal with you without a cigarette.

* I know.  I really, really fucking know.