Did anyone hold a gun to your head the first time you lit one? No.
Did anyone make you buy the second pack? No.
Were you “addicted” on the second pack? Highly unlikely.
Or the third? No.
By the 20th pack? Probably but not badly.
When are people going to start owning up the fact that they make crappy choices. They allowed themselves to become addicted. Before any single one of you pipes up and says I don’t know what I’m talking about, YES I VERY MUCH FREAKING DO. Thanks! Now have a nice big cup of shut the f&$# up.
I started smoking as kid. I don’t mean high school age. I mean like 12. I’d steal one of my mom’s cigarettes. Unfiltered Pall Mall’s. Not often, but once in a while. Maybe one or two a week tops. That kept up until I moved out on my own to go to college. Then I bought them myself. Unfiltered Camel’s. Finals week = hell week, at least stress wise. One pack might last me a couple of months or more. Usually they’d be so stale, I’d throw them out and get a fresh pack Did anyone make me do any of this? No. Did I know it was bad for me? Hell yeah. Did I know it causes cancer and other problems? Hell yea. The whole hypocrisy of this is that I annoyed my mother into quitting. So I knew exactly what I was doing. Did it stop me? Oh, hell no. “I can quit any time.” and for a long time that was true. I’d quit smoking for years at a stretch. But something horrible would happen in my life and I’d go back.
When life pisses on my head, I reach for a pack of cigarettes. And life has pissed on me like cow pissing on a flat rock more than once. I quit for 3 almost 4 years this last time. I smoke right now. Why did I choose to go back? Why, when I’d already shaken the demon, would I pick it up again? Because some times it just sucks to be me. I don’t know what else to tell you. We nearly lost Dad this past Thanksgiving. Spending your holiday in ICU isn’t fun. Realizing that the man who went into ICU isn’t the one who’s come back out is even harder maybe. My 6’7″ tall father. The ex Marine Master Sargent. Our protector. The man who never ever made less of me for being his daughter and not his son. The man who taught me to drive race cars and shoot guns. The big, strong, tough, only-person-I’ve-ever-been-intimidated-by, man is now….. Well, he can’t walk any more. He’s not what you’d call “with it” by any stretch of the imagination. We’ve had to put the ferocious fighter, the man who taught me to be proud and independent, into a nursing home. It absolutely breaks my heart.
I could probably cope with that in other ways, but you see, I CHOOSE not to. It’s cheaper and simpler and less gut wrenching to smoke than it is to go see a shrink and work through my issues. I have other choices but I choose to stick with the devil I know.