Smokin'

Sunday, 19th October 2008
I gave up smoking two days ago. My housemates and I finally decided enough was enough. It had been a particularly heavy weekend for drinking and smoking: we all got pretty bollocksed. And if you smoke, you’ll know exactly how it is when you get pissed – you smoke and smoke like a fucking train. You got your pint in one hand, but it just doesn’t feel the same without a good ciggie in the other, does it?  Anyways, that’s what happened to us – me and Avi and Gaz - we got pissed and smoked lots.
         The house was a bit of a state afterwards so we had the fun job of cleaning it. We were still recovering from the drink, so after about ten minutes someone suggested a fag-break, which none us of could argue with. We were sitting around the table in the living room discussing the past few days when the idea of cutting down the fags came around. Almost immediately after though Gaz suggested quitting altogether:
         “Aye boys, I’ve had enuffa the fags. I’m quittin’ for good. They’re fuckin’ disgustin’          ya know. Any o’ you boys up for it?”
         Ah fuck I was thinking, it’s probably for the best, but do I really want to?           
         Then “Oh Gaz! You feelin’ alright?”
         A small nod. “Shit man, you’re serious.”          
         A pause, then “I’m in.”
         Well, there goes Avi. And now they’re lookin’ at me. Great. Ahhhh sod it. “I’m in”, I said reluctantly.   
         There was nothing fun about cigarettes. They didn’t make you look cool. They kill people. They kill people and we were those people. I didn’t much like the idea of getting cancer by the time I was 30 (I’d been told you could only get it after you’re forty, but I knew that was bullshit). It was definitely for the best. 
         We were determined to do it. To do it together. We’d get through it. Because we were going cold turkey we thought we’d have one more day of smoking to our hearts (dis)content.  A 12.5gram pouch of baccy should do the trick I reckon and paid for the supplies at Tesco. That was about 10 rollies each between the three of us, which was about my normal per day anyways (unless I was out on the piss). It was a horrible day for two reasons really – knowing that I’d never be smoking again; and because I was forcing myself to smoke when I didn’t want too. But I kept telling myself I may as well make the most of it, and so I soldiered on with the torture.
         We got to the end of the baccy and it was as if a huge weight had been lifted off my chest. The feeling didn’t last long though when Avi announced “no way is my last smoke gonna be a rollie. No way man.”  And so he ventured out to get a pack of Lamberts. Great, I thought, fuckin’ great. I won’t be surprised if I’ve given myself cancer today alone. Eventually we got through the pack, and the weight was once again lifted. Thank fuck for that, I thought, it was finally over.  I was serious about this. We were serious about this, and proved it so by making a Facebook group, inviting all our friends to help us in our struggle. We even said that if they ever caught us smoking there were allowed, no, encouraged to give us a hard, painful slap in the face.
         And so it had begun. The first day was the hardest of course. I had a class in the morning but couldn’t concentrate on anything. I just wanted to smoke. I tried to push the thought out of my head but the ugly face of death keep popping back in there. You know Judge Dread yeh? Yea, well all I could picture was a giant cigarette with a Judge Dread face on it, beckoning me to come back to the life I led before. I wasn’t going to go and silently gave Judge Ciggie the finger.
         He came back a few hours later when I was in another lecture but left fairly soon after. I’d beaten the bastard. Things were fairly easy after, but I began to notice everything smoke related: a guy sparking up down the street; that discarded lighter on the wall; the empty packets of Rizal’s that littered the road. I guess when you’ve lost something you notice it more. Kinda like what they say after someone’s died - that when you lose someone, everything seems to remind you of them. Walking to and from the uni was a problem – I walked past all the places I used to smoke and had the urge to just say fuckit and go back to my dirty, dirty habit. But I didn’t and managed to survive the first day.
         That night in bed I looked forward to the prospect of a life without the fags –things were looking up. I was gonna get in shape; I’d have more time for other things; I could get better organised and I’d be saving money at the same time. I was looking forward to it but at the same time couldn’t help wondering if I had made the right decision. I knew I had, but secretly wanted to go back in time and say no to quitting. But there was no point in thinking about it. I’d made my decision and I’d have to stick with it.
         The second day came and I figured if I wasn’t smoking anymore I’d have to find something else to fill the void. Everyone, after all, has their fix. And my new one came in the form of those small, rounded sweeties with the “o” in the middle. Polo’s! Hundred’s of sugary, minty polo’s! They became my refuge. Anytime I thought about cigarettes I’d pop a polo in and concentrate on getting the “o” as big as I could without breaking it! This wasn’t just limited to polo’s – every time I’d usually go to the shop for fags, I’d get a bottle of Coke instead. Yep, just a bottle of Coke and a pack of polos please.
         Of course a few times I felt the twinge of temptation, deep down in my stomach, but forced my mind onto other things. That’s the key – just don’t think about smoking and you won’t want to do it. It’s all in the mind really, isn’t it?  Just your head telling you that you need something when that couldn’t be further from the truth. 
         I’m now on my third day and things are getting gradually easier. Judge Ciggie has finally left; the temptation is on the way out and best of all I feel better for it. Even as I’m writing this I’m not craving a cigarette. And even if I was, I’ve got a packet of polos and a bottle of Coke in my reach.

Monday, 3rd November 2008
That was just over two weeks ago when things were going fine. Then came Halloween and progress came to an abrupt halt. We were celebrating and started to get a bit tipsy when the temptation came flying back. The weight had dropped back onto my chest and was slowly bringing me down. I was just starting to beat the temptation when Avi and Gaz started smiling at each other. They’ve had one! They’ve been bloody smoking. Sly bastards. They ‘fessed up to it, and Avi produced a half smoked box of Richmond’s. Their excuse for sparking up again was that Halloween was a “special occasion”. Ah hell, one won’t hurt, and I really could do with one. My lips felt like magnets, pulling the cancer-stick towards them as quickly as they could. I didn’t particularly like the cigarette, and felt a twinge of guilt for all the people I’d let down. But I needed one, and took my slaps’ punishment like a man.
         We didn’t have many that night, but agreed that we would quit again; until the next cause for celebration of course. The following night was that cause for celebration – it was a friend’s birthday party. I was the only one of our quitting trio that went but I managed to get through the night fairly successfully – I’d only had 3 to myself.
         It was another few days before I had any real craving again. This time it was at night. I wanted one before I went to bed but thought as I was pretty tired it wouldn’t be long till I was asleep and the cravings were gone. How wrong I was. It took me at least two hours to get to sleep and I woke on more than one occasion with sweaty sheets in a dazed slumber, the need for nicotine almost unbearable. I’m not sure why this didn’t happen during the first quitting phase but I guess my brain had finally accepted that I was being serious.
         The following night was just as bad, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed something to smoke. Fuckit I though, I’m gonna find a smoke. I checked every ashtray in the house (we hadn’t got round to cleaning them out yet) for a stray butt that was still worth sparking up. No luck. I even checked the fucking bin in the living room. Nothing in there except fag-ash and smelly takeaway boxes. Bugger. I must admit, I felt like a smack-head searching for my next hit. I knew this was silly; that I was just blowing everything out of proportion. I just desperately wanted something to calm me down so I could sleep (the previous morning I’d overslept and missed a lecture and didn’t want to do the same again).
         Eventually a thought popped into my head: what about the pipes? On that last day of smoking, Avi and I had used my pipes a couple of times, and I wasn’t sure if we’d cleaned them out. We hadn’t! Thank fuck for that! Slowly, my hand shaking, I lit the dried tobacco and took a dirty big drag. It was fucking foul, but it did the trick and I’d got my fix. I instantly felt calmer and finished the rest of it off as quickly as I could; worried that someone would smell the smoke from my room. I wasn’t worried about them finding out, or being disappointed. Oh no, I was worried because they might want some too. Y’know smokers’ code and all that – if you have tobacco, you share it. I didn’t want to share. I needed this. It was mine and mine alone.
         I still ended up having a crap night’s sleep and missing my lecture the next day. I need nicotine I told myself and decided to buy a pack of ten for the next night, so that if the same were to happen again, I could have one and to calm me down. It would be an emergency fag box, for those long nights followed by a morning lecture. If it didn’t work, I’d chuck them out straight away and be done with. If it did work though, I’d carry on until I could sleep easy without nicotine and get rid of them then. 


Saturday, 15th November, 2008
Strictly, I’m a non-smoker now, although I haven’t given up completely. I’m a student for Christ’s sake, it’s what we do. The emergency fag box worked for a while, but eventually I gave up on it and my sleep went back to its normal pattern. Looking back now, it probably wasn’t the lack of nicotine that kept me up. It was more than likely some unimportant worry at the back of my head that had some kind of subconscious hold on me. I smoke for celebrations – like Christmas, a close friend’s Birthdays or a Wedding, but I don’t go out and buy fags anymore. I’ve become a sort of social smoker – if someone offers me one; I may take it, or I may not. If I’m at a party I may have one, but I don’t buy them anymore. No, that’s what separates the smokers from the non-smokers. If you go out and buy cigarettes for yourself, you are a smoker. However, if you can blag fags and don’t buy your own, you’re a non-smoker. And that definition sits fine with me.