Inhale

Quitting is really f*****g hard

In one fluid motion, the flame met the dark end of a cigarette. The half German, half French girl held it in between her lips for a moment, puffing carefully before leaning over and handing it to me. I paused, and her dark eyes held mine, silently encouraging me. I held it gently; rolling its slim body between my fingers, wondering how such an innocuous object could be the subject for so many scary public service announcements. When I was younger I remember watching TV and screaming every time those emaciated cancer patients would appear on screen. I turned into one of those obnoxious kids who’d cough loudly if they passed a smoker on the street. And yet here it was, burning softly in my hand, beckoning me forward. What was there to be afraid of? Death? I was surrounded, practically engulfed by life, getting my a*s wet on the damp grass in Geneva, waiting for an outdoor concert to start. That wasn’t what was stopping me.

 I was with my old French exchange student Margaux and her friends. We sat tightly clustered together to conserve space in the giant park.  As soon as we’d sat down, everyone had promptly lit up, looking excessively glamorous while doing so. I hated them for it. My shirt was uncomfortably low, I’d squeezed my American-sized a*s into some leggings, and I’d slapped on too much black eyeliner. I felt like a dorky, gothic clown. They all looked so beautiful and carefree, like they were young and didn’t give a damn about anything. Meanwhile I was in Europe on vacation, avoiding a controlling boyfriend back home and the closest I’d come to cutting loose was indulging in my shopping addiction. So far all I’d gained were a few pairs of tight jeans and a shrinking wallet. I hesitantly tucked the cigarrette in my mouth. I’d had to promise my boyfriend I wouldn’t drink or smoke any weed while I was away, but he hadn’t said anything about cigarettes.

As I debated with myself the sky started to darken. The crowd hummed in anticipation, the body heat and chatter creating a palpable excitement in the air. Girls brushed the hair out their eyes and smushed together for pictures. People were falling over one another in heaps, kissing newly made friends and drunkenly mingling in the early night. I started feeling it, understanding the energy I’d been missing this past year. Here I was in a romantic European city, at the recent age of sixteen, and I couldn’t break out of my shell. Had I really been limiting myself so tightly this past year because a guy had forced me to? I didn’t want to be that person, and I felt regret creeping through me already. The cigarette was burning out, lying listlessly between my lips. I finally breathed in the smoke. A huge mistake. The cigarette fell onto the grass as I doubled over coughing, much to the group’s amusement. The half German, half French girl grinned. “You need to inhale slowly, otherwise it won’t feel good!” She sang in her lilting accent.

I struggled to respond, still choking on the noxious fumes in my lungs, embarrassed at my weakness.

I didn’t fall in love with smoking that evening. That came almost a year later. But I felt a weird satisfaction along with the ache in my chest. Suddenly I was a part of the scene around me. Later when the lights blazed on and the music started to pulse, I rose to my feet like everyone else. The DJ started to spin and we began to dance. I let a cute French boy put his arm around my waist and I lost myself in the music.

That first cigarette started something I didn’t quite understand back then. But in the next couple years as my life changed, some of my best and worst moments were accompanied by a cigarette. I met meaningful people and happened upon unique experiences.

Cigarettes gave me power. People criticize smoking, and for the most part, they’re right to. It is a disgusting, addicting, damaging habit that does more harm than most realize. But what I began to understand is that they gave me control. It was about being able to make the choice, the knowledge that it was my life, and I could hypothetically shorten it if I wanted to. I had control over my habit, my ritual, and it lent perspective where I didn’t used to have any. My ritual. It forced me to acknowledge my shortcomings, and accept that if I theoretically sacrificed one day for every cigarette I smoked, it was my sacrifice to make. I’m young and stupid. Isn’t that the recurring excuse? I’m young and stupid. I’ll grow out of it. I tell myself this every day. But every time I quit or tell myself I’m quitting I can never last very long. I refuse to call it an addiction; it makes me sound so weak. I’d rather refer to it as a necessary ritual, because it is an essential part of my thought process each day. I slow down, I reflect and I grow with each inhale. So no, it’s not something easily given up. I just quit a week ago and I feel somewhat lost without my obsession. It won’t last long, I might go out tomorrow and pick up a pack. I think there’s a moment in everyone’s life when we decide to quit. Really quit. I wish I knew when mine was and if it’s worth it.

Reviews

[PlotBunny]

I liked it. Really drawn-out and descriptive.

[A. Amos]

Interesting read with touch of a good subject, enjoyed the whole read

[nirvanakcid]

Good. While this doesn't seem as much like a story as it does a journal entry, I really like the analogy - cigarettes as a sort of way to have control over oneself.

[etceteraEtcetera]

This is interesting, I like the recurring theme of inhalation, the passive-aggressive denotation of addiction and obsession in juxtapose with anticipation and satisfaction.
Inspired, I hope you don't mind I may write a story about 'smoking' as well. Mine will be about a monkey though.
-d.James

[diaphanous]

Thank you. A monkey? Mind if I read that when you're finished?

[marck milderman]

You will get better. I like your story arc. I like the mundainity of it, the concert feel. I feel the sucking of the crowd and of the cigarette. Flesh out who these People ARE and this peice could go far.

[diaphanous]

Thanks, I'll work some on it more. This started out as a journal entry, which is why the "characters" seem a little flat.