A year ago today, I stopped smoking. It was rather by accident. I went to bed a smoker, and woke up the next day assuming I'd be a smoker indefinitely. But that day I was not feeling well, and went to bed early, having had zero smokes. That night I had two seizures and woke up in the hospital. Because the doctors had no idea what caused the seizures (and indeed, never figured out why it happened), they told me not to drink or smoke for six weeks. And at the end of that six weeks, I thought - why not just keep not smoking?
In many ways, I loved smoking. The physical act of lifting the cigarette to my lips, of inhaling and exhaling, was so satisfying to me. The social nature of smoking with someone was so appealing. And, as embarrassing as this to admit, the whole reason I started smoking in the first place was to be a rebel, and a badass, and break the rules - and as someone who is now a boring old office drone married lady, I liked that connection with my more wild days.
But there was also a big part of me that hated smoking. I like to think of myself as an intelligent person, and every single day I was making the really stupid decision to endanger my health. I was disappointing my parents, the people whose approval I most want, which made me deeply ashamed. And as the years passed, I realized that this habit I was holding onto, something I started to try to make myself seem more adult and independent, was in fact wildly immature - and it was time to grow the fuck up.
It wasn't easy, especially at first. I'd be lying if I said I don't still miss it sometimes. I don't know if I would have had the strength to quit if a health scare hadn't provided the impetus. But it did, and I'm proud of myself, and I hope that I'll never go back.
THE END! Here's a pic of a corgi. He doesn't smoke either.
