Shadows of Smoke: How I Found Myself in Cigarettes

 

Keywords: cigarette addiction, teen smoker, Marlboro Lights, new beginnings, peer influence, family bond, emotional journey, urban life

It was August 1992 in San Diego, California, a sprawling city of sun-bleached streets and salty air carrying the scent of the Pacific. I was Sophie, 15, a nervous transplant from Omaha, Nebraska, where cornfields stretched endlessly and life moved at a slow, almost stagnant pace. My mom, Karen, had landed a job as a nurse at UCSD Medical Center, uprooting us across the country for her big break—more money, longer shifts, a fresh start after my dad walked out two years earlier, leaving behind just an old suitcase and an emptiness we never talked about. That morning, my first day at Westview High loomed like a dark cloud. “Sophie Marie, get down here now or you’ll miss the bus!” Mom shouted from the kitchen, her voice cutting through the clink of coffee mugs. I heard the flick of her lighter, the deep drag on her Camel Wide, and the soft hiss as she exhaled. She’d been smoking since I was a kid, a habit I knew well but had never touched—I’d never wanted to.

---

The Old Me: Judging from Afar

Back in Omaha, I’d pass the smokers outside school almost every day. They’d gather in a corner of the parking lot, leaning against rusted cars or sitting on curbs, wearing beat-up denim jackets, puffing smoke into the freezing air. I’d wrinkle my nose, the wind carrying that acrid smell of burnt tobacco, and think: How can they do that to themselves? So weak. I was the girl with straight As, always clutching my clarinet case under my arm, the student who showed up at parent-teacher conferences with a shy smile while teachers sang my praises. My mom would warn me constantly: “Don’t you dare start, Sophie,” she’d say, blowing out a cloud of Camel smoke as if it were the most natural thing, while I’d nod, smug in my moral superiority. My lungs were my pride, an untouched fortress, and I wore that certainty like a badge.

San Diego, though, was a different world. Everything felt bigger—the wide streets, the gleaming buildings, the palm trees swaying in the breeze. As I trudged downstairs that morning, dressed in new Levi’s and a faded Nirvana T-shirt I’d snagged at a thrift store in Omaha, I grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl and grumbled, “I’m coming, geez.” Mom stubbed out her cigarette in a chipped ashtray on the sink, the sharp scent of tobacco lingering in the small kitchen of our rented apartment. She snatched her keys, slung a worn leather purse over her shoulder, and we headed out. “You’ll do fine, Soph,” she said, trying to reassure me as she drove, the radio playing a low hum of Fleetwood Mac. She lit another Camel, cracked the window, and smoke trailed out in white wisps against the blue sky. “New school, new friends. It’ll be good for you.” I stared out at the teenagers spilling from cars and skateboards, tanned and confident, so unlike the pale, reserved faces of Nebraska. Near the school entrance, I spotted three girls lounging on a bench—long legs crossed, short skirts, lips glossy with shine—each holding a lit cigarette. Pathetic, I thought, my old judgment flaring up. “Have a good day,” Mom called as I stepped out, but my mind was already elsewhere, grappling with how I’d fit into this loud, dazzling place.

---

A New Friend: The First Spark

Inside, a sign read “NEW STUDENTS.” I gave my name to the clerk, who waved over a girl with an easy smile and a messy ponytail. “Hi, I’m Tara,” she said, her voice brimming with energy. “Sophomore, like you. I’m your orientation buddy.” She wore a cropped tank top and cutoff denim shorts, radiating a laid-back cool I secretly envied. “Thanks,” I muttered, still shy. “Call me Sophie.” We had English and history together, and Tara stuck by me all day, chattering nonstop about teachers, the watery cafeteria mac and cheese, and the campus shortcuts. At lunch, we sat at a corner table, and she pointed out the trio I’d seen earlier. “That’s Lauren, Mia, and Jess—the ‘Golden Girls,’” she said, rolling her eyes with a half-smile. “They’re the queens around here—perfect hair, perfect boyfriends, always smoking Marlboro Lights like it’s part of the vibe.” I smirked. “Sounds dumb.” Tara shrugged. “It’s exclusive. You don’t join—they pick you.”

After class, Tara walked me to the bus stop. We stopped by a tree along the way, and she rummaged through her backpack, pulling out a pack of Marlboro Lights. She lit one with a quick flick of her lighter, the menthol scent rising in the warm air. “Want a drag?” she asked, exhaling a thin stream. “No way,” I said, stepping back. “My mom smokes, but I don’t.” She grinned. “Not one of those preachy types, are you?” “Nah,” I laughed, loosening up a bit. “Just not my thing.” She took another drag, the smoke swirling around her, and I watched, an unexpected curiosity bubbling up. “What’s it like?” I asked, almost without meaning to. “Kinda harsh at first,” she said, “but then… it’s nice. Calms you down.” She held it out again, the cigarette dangling like an invitation. My heart sped up, hesitating. One drag won’t kill me, I thought, challenging my own resolve. I took it, inhaled lightly, and coughed as the warm, bitter taste caught me off guard. Tara chuckled. “Not bad for a newbie.” I handed it back, shaking my head. Never again, I swore to myself, clearing my throat.

---

Three a Day: The Silent Need

That “never” lasted exactly seven days. Tara kept offering, a casual ritual after school, and by mid-September, I was sneaking three Marlboro Lights a day. At first, it was just to test myself—I’d bum one from her, smoke in the alley behind the school, tucked between the graffiti-scrawled wall and overflowing trash cans, stubbing out the butts under rocks so no one would find them. It was a dare, a way to prove I wasn’t afraid, but it quickly turned into something else. I’d wake up with an odd feeling, an emptiness I couldn’t name, and before I even caught the bus, I’d be thinking about my next cigarette. During break, I’d seek Tara out, snag a Marlboro from her pack, and light it with hands that shook less each time. I’d inhale deeply, the cool menthol filling my chest, and for a moment, everything felt lighter—the homesickness for Omaha, the noise of this new city, the weight of being the “new girl.” At night, I’d smoke in my room, window cracked open, blowing smoke into the darkness while the radio played low. I’d stare at the cigarette and think: How did I let this happen? Me, who’d judged others for weakness, was now hiding my own secret, the smell clinging to my fingers like a confession.

Mom caught me once, out on the apartment patio. I was dragging fast, trying to finish before she got home from her night shift. The gate creaked, and I froze, the Marlboro Light still glowing. “Sophie Marie!” she snapped, her own Camel burning between her fingers. “What the hell is this?” My stomach dropped. “It was just this once,” I lied, my voice cracking. She sighed, crushed her cigarette against the metal railing. “I can’t stop you, but think about it. I started at your age—wish I hadn’t.” She walked inside, leaving me there, heart pounding. Guilt twisted in my chest, a tight knot, but the need pulled stronger. I stubbed out the cigarette and promised myself I’d quit—a promise I already knew I wouldn’t keep.

---

Seven in the Sun: A Teen Smoker’s Life

October rolled in, San Diego’s sun still blazing, and I was up to seven cigarettes a day. I’d save my lunch money, scrounging every dime from loose change, and buy my own packs at a corner gas station—the clerk, a greasy-haired guy in a faded T-shirt, never asked for ID, just pocketed my $4 and slid the Marlboro Lights across the counter. I smoked with Tara’s crew now, girls with chipped nail polish and loud laughs who took me in without a fuss. We’d hang out near the parking lot, leaning against seniors’ cars, swapping stories about boring teachers and parties I never attended. The need was real: mornings without a cigarette left me jittery, hands restless tapping on my desk, mind foggy until I could sneak to the bathroom and light up by the window. I’d stand there, watching the Marlboro burn, the white paper crumbling to ash, asking myself how I’d become one of those people I used to despise. I’m weak, I’d think, the words heavy like lead. But then I’d inhale again, the menthol soothing the storm inside me, and the guilt melted into a comfort I didn’t want to admit.

Mom started to soften too. After dinner, we’d sit on the sagging living room couch, the ceiling fan humming overhead, the TV flickering with “Friends” reruns. She’d light a Camel Wide, I’d grab my Marlboro Light, and we’d smoke together, smoke rising in quiet swirls. “You’re growing up,” she’d say, blowing a smoke ring I’d try—and fail—to copy. It was odd but beautiful—a fragile bond between us, something Omaha never gave us. I’d talk about school, she’d share hospital stories, and the sound of our drags became part of the conversation. “Just don’t let it own you,” she’d warn, but I knew it already did. I’d started keeping a pack in my nightstand, sneaking one before bed, the glow of the cigarette my last sight before sleep. It was my secret ritual, a way to hold onto myself in a city that still felt foreign.

---

Twelve and Hooked: Emotional Journey

Winter came, milder than Nebraska’s brutal cold, and I hit twelve Marlboro Lights a day. I tried quitting once, shaken by a biology class on lung cancer that left me pale. I flushed a pack down the school toilet, watching it swirl away, swearing it was over. By lunch, I was trembling, my body begging, and I rifled through Tara’s backpack for a spare. I found a crumpled one, lit it with sweaty hands, and smoked leaning against the wall, heart racing. Sometimes, I’d go to the beach alone after school, sit in the sand with waves crashing close, the salty wind mixing with my smoke. I’d stare at the horizon, wondering who I’d turned into—not the Omaha girl dreaming of college band anymore, but a teen smoker, chained to a habit I once mocked. Tara caught me smoking solo one day and smirked: “You’re one of us now.” I nodded, the cigarette between my fingers a reflection of me. I stopped fighting—it was who I was.

The need wasn’t just physical anymore. It was in my head, my heart—a crutch for the days I felt lost. I’d smoke on the bus ride home, hiding it from the driver, the window down to mask the smell. I’d smoke when Mom worked late, pacing the apartment, the silence too loud without her. It was my way of coping with Dad’s absence—he’d never sent a letter, not even a call—and the ache of starting over in a place where I was still a stranger.

---

Why It Stayed

Tara lit the first match, Mom made it normal, but I chose to stay. Marlboro Lights filled gaps I didn’t know I had—Dad’s vanishing act, the loneliness of a new city, the pressure to be someone when I didn’t know who that was. It wasn’t just weakness; it was survival, a lifeline for a girl finding her footing in San Diego’s chaos. I used to judge smokers for not seeing that—now I was one of them, and that truth cut deeper than any lecture.

---

Conclusion: A Smoker’s Truth

That year in San Diego remade me. From someone who looked down to someone staring at a cigarette, seeing herself. Have you ever started something you swore you’d never do? Felt a need creep into your soul, quiet and unstoppable? Share your story below—I want to hear you. Loved this journey? Follow the blog for more raw, real tales that hit the heart.

Tags: cigarette addiction, teen smoker, Marlboro Lights, new beginnings, peer influence, family bond, emotional journey, urban life, San Diego

From Judgment to Ashes: How I Became a Smoker

 

It was the fall of 1991 in Dayton, Ohio, an industrial city where the gray sky seemed to swallow dreams. I was Mara, 16, a skinny, determined junior at Roosevelt High. My life revolved around books, exams, and my Walkman blaring Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on repeat. Every morning, I’d rush across the school courtyard, past the smokers clustered near the doors. They’d huddle there, shivering in oversized flannel jackets, Newport cigarettes glowing between their fingers, menthol smoke spiraling upward like a sign of surrender. I’d look down at them—head high, both literally and figuratively—thinking: How can they be so weak? So easily addicted? I was different—my lungs were clean, my willpower unbreakable. Or so I believed.

---

Life Before the Smoke: Routine and Pride

My mom, Elaine, worked as a cashier at the Kroger on Main Street. She’d come home at night, worn out, her hands smelling of coins and plastic bags, her eyes sunken from working too hard to cover our two-bedroom apartment’s rent. It’d been just the two of us since I was 9, when my dad left for Toledo with a woman he’d met at a bar. He never sent a Christmas card or called—just vanished, leaving behind a broken Zenith TV and a stack of Elvis records I never played. I prided myself on being the kid who didn’t cause trouble: I’d make dinner (boxed mac and cheese or peanut butter sandwiches most nights), clean the kitchen, and keep my grades up. At school, I was the good girl—the one teachers praised, the one who never hung with the wrong crowd. The smokers in the courtyard? To me, they were the opposite—lazy, sloppy, slaves to a habit I swore I’d never understand.

---

The First Challenge: Peer Influence

Everything shifted on a chilly October afternoon. My best friend, Dana, 17, was one of them now. She was tall, with dyed black hair falling over her eyes, and a defiant edge that had drawn me to her since fifth grade. I was the bookworm who helped her cheat on tests; she was the rebel who dragged me into adventures—like the time we stole candy from the corner store and ran laughing to the park. Lately, she’d picked up smoking, influenced by her older sister, Kelly, a 22-year-old waitress who kept a pack of Newports in her jeans pocket. That day, I was waiting for Dana by the exit to catch the bus together. She lit a Newport, the lighter sparking in her hand, and caught me staring.

“What’s up, Mara? Judging me again?” she teased, blowing a cloud of menthol smoke my way. The smell annoyed me, but I stayed quiet. “Wanna try?” she offered, sliding a cigarette from her pack with a sly grin. “No way,” I shot back, crossing my arms. “That’s for losers.” She shrugged, lit the Newport, and handed it over. “Just once. Prove you’re not scared.”

It wasn’t fear—I thought I was above it. But her taunt hit a nerve, as if refusing made me weak instead. I took it, fumbling with the lighter, my fingers clumsy. I dragged. The menthol scorched my throat, a mix of mint and fire, and I coughed hard, eyes watering. Dana laughed loud. “Keep going,” she said, her eyes gleaming. I dragged again, and a cool wave washed through me—a light buzz, almost comforting. Cigarette addiction breathed its first hello.

---

Three a Day: The Silent Need

Within two weeks, I was swiping three Newports a day from Dana’s pack. At first, it was just curiosity—I’d smoke behind the gym after school, tucked among the bushes, the cold wind stinging my face. I’d stub them out in an old soda can, terrified someone might see. But soon, it shifted. I’d wake up with a dry mouth, a strange restlessness in my chest, thinking about my next cigarette before I even brushed my teeth. It was like my body knew something my mind still denied. I’d snag a Newport from Dana’s backpack during break, light it with shaky hands, and inhale deep, the menthol soothing an anxiety I didn’t know I carried. I’d stare at the cigarette between my fingers and think: How did I get here? Me, who judged others, now hiding my own secret.

Mom almost caught me one night. I was on the porch, smoking quick before she got home from work. I crushed the cigarette on the railing when I heard her key in the door, but the smell lingered. “What’s that stench?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “Probably the neighbor,” I lied, heart pounding. She didn’t push, but I knew the risk was growing—along with the need.

---

Seven in Winter: The Teen Smoker

Winter hit hard, and I was up to seven Newports a day. I’d join Dana’s crew outside school, my old disdain fading into an awkward silence. They took me in without a word—I was just another flannel jacket in the crowd, the Newport’s glow between my fingers like a badge. I started buying my own packs at the corner store with money from shelving books at the library. The clerk, a middle-aged guy with a scruffy mustache, never asked for ID—just took my $3 and tossed the pack across the counter.

The need was stronger now. If I didn’t smoke at lunch, I’d get edgy, fingers tapping on my desk, head throbbing until I could duck into the bathroom and light a Newport in secret. I’d stand there, watching it burn, asking myself how I’d fallen so fast. I’m weak, I’d think, the word heavy on my chest. But then I’d drag again, and the world would settle—the menthol my comfort, my escape from Dayton’s dull grind.

---

Twelve in Spring: Self-Discovery and Surrender

Spring brought flowers, and I hit twelve Newports a day. I tried quitting once, after a health class lecture on willpower. I threw a pack in the school dumpster, swearing it was over. By dusk, I was back, digging through the trash with sweaty hands, heart racing, the need screaming louder than my shame. I found the crumpled pack, lit a Newport with trembling fingers, and smoked until I calmed down. After that, I stopped fighting.

I’d smoke on the bleachers after school, the city’s hum around me—honking horns, rumbling engines, the echo of a life I wasn’t sure I wanted. Dana saw me one day and grinned: “Told you it’s not easy to quit.” I exhaled a cloud of smoke, defeated. “I know,” I mumbled. The cigarette between my fingers was a mirror, showing a Mara I didn’t recognize—not the good girl anymore, but a teen smoker, no different from those I’d judged.

---

Why I Gave In

Dana lit the first spark, but I stoked the fire. Newports filled a hole I didn’t know I had—the boredom of long afternoons, the pressure to be perfect, the ache for a dad who never came back. It wasn’t just weakness; it was being human, needing something to hold onto when everything felt like it was slipping away. I used to judge smokers for not getting that—now I was one of them, and that truth hurt more than the first drag.

---

Conclusion: A Life in Smoke

That year in Dayton changed me. From someone who looked down to someone staring at a cigarette, wondering how I got there. Have you ever judged someone only to end up in their shoes? Felt an addiction sneak up like this? Share your story in the comments—I want to hear you. Loved this connection? Follow the blog for more real, soul-stirring tales.

Tags: cigarette addiction, teen smoker, Newport cigarettes, peer influence, self-discovery, urban life, emotional connection, Dayton

Mist of Surrender: My Journey with Cigarettes

 

It was 1972 in Mankato, Minnesota, a sleepy town where winters bite and summers hum with cicadas. I was Ellie, 14, a quiet girl raised on black-and-white TV—Walter Cronkite’s voice, Winston cigarette ads, and Sunday church with Dad. Mom bent rules, letting us skip homework for Bonanza reruns. Life was simple until a frigid January night shattered it: a trooper knocked at 2:43 a.m., announcing Dad’s death in a crash on the icy road from Minneapolis. Mom crumpled, sobbing into the officer’s chest, while Tara, my 17-year-old sister, and I watched from the stairs, helpless.

The Night Smoke Took Hold: Family Grief

Tara moved first. She darted to the kitchen, grabbed a Winston 100 from Mom’s pack, lit it with a flick, and pressed it between Mom’s trembling fingers. “Here,” she whispered. Mom dragged deep—once, twice, three times—and the shaking stopped, as if the smoke wove a spell. I stared, shocked yet mesmerized. The officer patted Tara’s shoulder. “Can you handle her tonight?” Tara nodded, glancing at me. “We’ll manage.”

That night planted a seed. The smoke wasn’t just tobacco—it was a lifeline, a dark promise whispering through the haze.

---

A House of Smoke: The Need Begins

Weeks bled into months. Mom faded into a shell, perched at the dining table, chain-smoking Winstons, her eyes lost in the snow beyond the window. Tara stepped up—cooking, washing, scrubbing—her hands always busy, a Winston dangling from her lips. I’d catch her late at night, folding laundry in the basement, smoke curling like tendrils around her. “How do you keep going?” I asked once, voice small. She exhaled through her nose, the cigarette glowing. “Smoking. It steadies me. You’d be surprised how it quiets the noise.”

I felt it then—a tug, a hollow ache in my chest. The smoking need wasn’t just Tara’s or Mom’s; it was creeping into me. The house reeked of it—stale, sharp, alive. I’d lie awake, the scent seeping under my door, my fingers twitching for something I didn’t yet understand.

---

First Drag: The Craving Awakens

One humid July evening, Mom was at work. Tara waved me to the porch. “Try it,” she said, tossing me a Marlboro Red—not a Winston this time. “No way,” I snapped, but my hands shook with want. She smirked, lit it, and shoved it at me. “One drag. It won’t kill you.” I hesitated, then pulled. The burn hit—bitter, fierce—and I coughed, eyes watering. But beneath the sting, a warmth bloomed, a voice in the smoke murmuring, “Stay.” Tara laughed. “Again.” I did, and the need sank deeper.

That night, I smoked three more, alone in my room. The cigarette addiction wasn’t just physical—it was a hunger, a dark fantasy whispering I’d never be free.

---

Five a Day: The Need Grows

Weeks later, I was at five Marlboro Reds a day. I’d wake with a dry throat, my first thought the pack under my pillow. Lighting one, I’d inhale deep, the smoke filling a void I couldn’t name. Tara caught me in the kitchen once, mid-drag. “You’re hooked,” she grinned. I glared but couldn’t deny it—the need was a beast, clawing at me if I waited too long. My hands would tremble, my head pound, a voice hissing, “More.”

I tried resisting—hid a pack in my drawer for a day. By noon, I was pacing, sweat beading, the ache unbearable. I caved, smoked two back-to-back, the relief like air after drowning. The smoking need owned me.

---

Ten and Counting: Family Pressure and Cravings

By August, I hit ten a day. I’d bike to the gas station on Main, buying Winstons and Marlboro Reds with chore money, the clerk never blinking. I’d smoke in the woods, the haze a curtain between me and the world. Mom noticed one evening, catching me on the steps. “You too?” she sighed, lighting a Winston. She didn’t scold—just smoked beside me, our exhales syncing. “We’re low on cigarettes,” she said, a faint smile breaking through her grief.

The need wasn’t just mine now—it was ours. Tara pushed me harder: “Keep up, Ellie.” I’d light one after dinner, the craving a constant hum. If I skipped, my chest tightened, my thoughts spiraled—smoke became my anchor.

---

Fifteen in the Grip: Dark Fantasy Takes Over

At 15, I reached fifteen cigarettes daily. The need was relentless. I’d tried quitting—tossed a pack in the snow one bitter morning, vowing to break free. Hours later, the voice returned, cold and mocking: “You can’t.” I dug through the frost, lit a soggy Winston, and the haze laughed. Another time, I burned a pack in the yard, watching flames eat the tobacco. That night, dreams came—smoke with eyes, hands dragging me down. I raided Tara’s stash, smoked until dawn, the need a living thing.

School started, and I joined the burnouts behind the gym. “Church girl smokes now?” they teased. I exhaled Marlboro Red smoke, the craving my badge.

---

Twenty and Desperate: The Need Consumes

Now, I smoke twenty a day—Winstons and Marlboro Reds in a frantic mix. I wake coughing, chest raw, reaching for the pack before my eyes open. The need hits like a fist—dry mouth, racing pulse, a scream in my skull if I delay. I light one, drag deep, and the world steadies, the smoke’s voice purring, “Good girl.” Tara’s gone to college, but Mom and I share the habit, our talks over cigarettes the only bridge left from our grief.

I’ve tried escaping so many times. Last month, I flushed a pack, swearing it was over. By dusk, I was clawing through the trash, hands shaking, the need a monster I couldn’t kill. I smoked three in a row, dizzy but alive, the haze my master.

---

Why the Smoking Need Won

Tara sparked it, Mom fed it, but the smoke claimed me. It’s not just nicotine—it’s a dark power, a fantasy that binds me. The need is physical—shakes, aches—but it’s more: a void only cigarettes fill, a whisper promising peace. I need them like air, each drag a surrender to the beast I’ve fed.

---

Conclusion: A Slave to the Mist

That winter in Mankato remade me. From a quiet teen to a smoker chained by need, I’m lost in the haze. Ever felt a cigarette addiction this fierce? A smoking need you can’t shake? Share below! Liked this tale of craving and surrender? Follow for more raw stories.

The Smoke I Couldn’t Escape: A Summer of Cigarettes

 It was the last day of school in June, and I walked home from Jefferson High in Asheville, North Carolina, feeling lighter than ever. I’d been part of the church youth group for six months now—praying every night, reading the Bible, singing hymns that stuck in my head. At 15, I’d finally found something real, something that made me feel whole. That day, we’d sung “Amazing Grace” to close the meeting, and I’d made plans with my group friends to keep up our Bible study over the summer. The mile home flew by as I hummed the tune, the sun warm on my face, my sneakers kicking up dust on the quiet road. I couldn’t wait for two months of peace—time to read, pray, and just be me.

That peace shattered the second I opened the front door. The smell hit me like a slap—stale cigarette smoke, thick and sour, clinging to everything. My mom, Diane, was sprawled on the couch in the living room, a freshly lit Marlboro Red between her fingers, the TV blaring some daytime talk show. She grinned at me, her voice rough. “Hey, kiddo, congrats on finishing the year!” I didn’t answer—just glared and headed for my room. The happiness drained out of me, replaced by that familiar burn of anger. She’d been smoking since before I was born, and I’d hated it just as long. Lately, though, it felt worse—like every puff was a personal attack on everything I’d been building with God.

“What’s your problem now, Lily?” she called after me, her tone shifting from cheerful to annoyed. I stopped halfway down the hall, fists clenched.

“You know what,” I snapped, turning back. “I come home feeling good for once, and all I get is this—this poison you keep sucking down. It’s killing you, Mom, and you don’t even care!” My voice cracked, louder than I meant it to be. She took a long drag, exhaling a cloud right at me, her eyes narrowing.

“Don’t start with that holy nonsense again,” she said, her words sharp. “I’ve been smoking since I was 13—longer than you’ve been alive. I know it’s bad, but I’m hooked, and I’m not quitting. You nag me every damn day like you’ve got all the answers. Give it a rest.” She stubbed out the cigarette hard in the ashtray, her movements jerky with frustration.

I shook my head and stormed to my room, slamming the door. Lying on my bed, I stared at the ceiling, my Bible unopened on the nightstand. She didn’t get it—none of them did. My old friends, the ones I’d grown up with, thought I was boring now, too “churchy.” I’d tried to tell them about God, how He’d saved me from feeling lost, but they’d just laughed. Mom was worse—she didn’t even try to understand. I wanted her to see the light, to stop smoking, to live right so we could meet in heaven someday. I’d never touched a cigarette, never would. It was a sin, a fake high that dulled the soul. At youth group, we all agreed—smoking was a trap, and I was proud to stay clean.

Dinner was silent. Mom picked at her food, her Marlboro pack sitting by her plate like a dare. I kept my eyes down, too stubborn to apologize for yelling. After, she grabbed her jacket and headed out—probably to her friend Tara’s place half a mile away. Tara was her smoking buddy, a loud woman with a gravelly laugh who’d been around since I was little. They’d sit on her porch, chain-smoking and talking trash about life. I didn’t care. It gave me quiet.

She came back late, the stink of smoke trailing her in. I was in the kitchen grabbing water when she tossed her keys on the counter and lit another Marlboro Red. “Tara’s coming over tomorrow,” she said, exhaling. “And you’re gonna stop with the attitude.”

“Yeah, sure,” I muttered sarcastically. “Back so soon—run out of cigarettes already?”

Her face hardened. “You don’t get to judge what you’ve never tried, Lily. You’re so high and mighty—maybe you should smoke one and see what it’s really like before you preach at me.”

I laughed, bitter. “Never. I’m not touching that filth. Goodnight.” I slammed my bedroom door again, her words echoing in my head. She wouldn’t dare push it—would she?

The next morning, I slept in, waking to voices in the living room. Tara’s laugh cut through the walls, followed by Mom’s low murmur. The smoke smell was already seeping under my door. I groaned, pulling the blanket over my head. I’d planned to spend the day reading Psalms, not dealing with this. Then came the knock—sharp, insistent.

“Lily, open up,” Tara called, her voice too chipper. “It’s just me. Can I come in?”

I sat up, wary. “Yeah, I guess.”

She stepped in, a Marlboro Red glowing between her fingers, Mom hovering behind her. Tara was big—tall and broad, with hands that could crush a can. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Your mom’s been telling me you’re making her miserable with all this smoking crap. We’re done with it, kid. You hate it so much, but you don’t even know what you’re hating.”

“I don’t need to try it to know it’s wrong,” I said, crossing my arms. “It’s poison—secondhand smoke’s bad enough. You should both quit.”

Mom stepped forward, her face tight. “You think it’s so easy? If you smoked, you’d get how hard it is to stop. Tara and I decided—you’re trying it this summer. Starting now.”

My stomach dropped. “What? No way. I’m not smoking—ever.” I stood, backing toward the wall.

Tara moved faster, grabbing my shoulder with one meaty hand. “Sit down, Lily. You’ve been a brat about this long enough.” She pushed me onto my desk chair, her grip firm. Mom pulled out her Marlboro Reds, shook one free, and lit it with a flick of her lighter. She took a deep drag, then held it out to me.

“No!” I shouted, twisting away. Tara’s other hand clamped my arm, pinning me. Mom’s eyes were cold.

“You’re doing this, Lily. Take a drag—inhale it. See what it’s like.”

I shook my head, panic rising. Tara tightened her hold, and Mom leaned in, pressing the filter to my lips. “Do it, or we’ll make you.”

I clenched my jaw, but Tara yanked my hair back, sharp enough to sting. Tears pricked my eyes as I gasped—and the cigarette slipped in. “Drag,” Mom barked. I took a tiny puff, blowing it out fast. It burned my tongue, sour and awful.

“Inhale this time,” Tara said, her voice low. Mom pushed it back to my lips. Scared of what they’d do next, I obeyed—pulled harder, sucked the smoke down. My lungs seized, and I coughed hard, dizzy and sick. They smiled, like they’d won.

“See? Not so holy now,” Mom said, taking the cigarette back for herself. I stumbled to my bed, head spinning, as they left me there. I prayed—begged God to forgive me, to stop this—but the nicotine buzz lingered, mocking me.

That night at dinner, Tara stayed. They smoked through their meal, and when they finished, Mom slid the pack to me. “Your turn,” she said. I stared, frozen. Tara chuckled. “Don’t make us twist your arm again.”

I wanted to scream, but the memory of that grip—of the pain—stopped me. Trembling, I took a Marlboro Red, fumbled with the lighter, and lit it. My first drag was shaky, but I inhaled, the smoke hitting smoother this time. They watched, satisfied, as I took six more drags, each one easier. Dizzy again, I retreated to my room, hating them—and myself.

The next day, they pushed three cigarettes on me. I fought at first—locked my door, tried to hold out—but Mom jimmied the lock with a spare key, and Tara dragged me out. “You’re not winning this,” Mom said, lighting one for me. I smoked it, then the next, then the third, my resistance crumbling under their stares. By the fourth day—four cigarettes—I stopped locking the door. The dizziness faded; the taste grew familiar.

A week in, I hit six a day. I’d wake up, and my hands would twitch until I smoked. I hated it—the sin, the stink—but my body didn’t care. I’d light a Marlboro Red alone in my room, inhaling deep, watching the smoke curl. Mom noticed. “Told you it’s not so easy,” she said, smirking. I didn’t answer—just dragged harder.

By mid-July, I was at ten. I’d tried quitting—threw a pack in the trash after praying all night—but by noon, I was digging it out, shaking as I lit one. The craving clawed at me, a need I couldn’t pray away. I cried, realizing I couldn’t stop—not yet. Mom and Tara had won; they’d forced it into me, and now it stuck.

August came, and I hit fifteen a day. I’d smoke with them now—on the porch, Marlboro Reds in hand, the Bible gathering dust. I surrendered—not to them, but to the smoke. I liked the weight of it, the burn, the way it filled the empty spaces. Mom stopped nagging; she’d gotten what she wanted. “You’re like me now,” she said once, exhaling. I didn’t argue. I’d lost God, lost myself, and let the smoke take over

As August stretched on, the humid air clung to me like a second skin. I was up to fifteen Marlboro Reds a day—sometimes more if Mom left the pack out. I’d wake up coughing, my throat raw, and reach for one before my eyes even adjusted to the light. The first drag was always the best—sharp and strong, cutting through the haze of sleep, settling my nerves. I’d sit on my bed, window cracked, watching the smoke twist toward the ceiling, the Bible still unopened on my nightstand. I hadn’t prayed in weeks. The words felt hollow now, like they belonged to someone else—someone I used to be.

Mom noticed the shift. She’d catch me lighting up in the kitchen or sneaking one on the back steps and just nod, like it was normal. “You’re getting the hang of it,” she said one morning, pouring coffee as I double-pumped a Marlboro Red at the table. Her tone wasn’t smug anymore—it was matter-of-fact, like I’d joined some club she’d been in forever. Tara, over for lunch that day, laughed her gravelly laugh. “Told you she’d come around, Diane. Kid’s a natural.” I glared at her, exhaling through my nose, but didn’t argue. What was the point? They’d forced this on me, sure, but now it was mine—whether I liked it or not.

The cravings got worse. I’d be fine for an hour, maybe two, then my hands would itch, my chest would tighten, and I’d start pacing. Once, I tried holding out—made it to noon without lighting up, determined to prove I could still fight. My head pounded, my mouth went dry, and I snapped at Mom over nothing. By one, I was tearing through my room for a stray pack, finding one under my bed with three cigarettes left. I lit one so fast the lighter singed my thumb, and that first drag hit like water after a drought. I sank to the floor, smoke curling around me, and knew I was done fighting. I didn’t just want it—I needed it.

School loomed closer, and I dreaded it. My church friends would see me—smell the smoke on my clothes, spot the pack in my bag. I’d spent months preaching purity, bragging I’d never touch a cigarette, and now I was chaining Marlboro Reds like Mom. I thought about quitting before the first day, going cold turkey to reclaim that old Lily. I lasted six hours—tossed my pack in the creek behind the house, prayed for strength. By dusk, I was back at Tara’s, begging for a spare. She handed me a fresh pack of Marlboro Reds, smirking. “Knew you’d be back, kid.” I smoked two on her porch, hating how good it felt.

The night before school started, Mom and I sat on the front steps, a rare quiet between us. She lit a Marlboro Red, passed me the pack. I took one, lit it off hers, and we smoked in sync—long drags, slow exhales, the embers glowing in the dark. “You don’t have to keep going,” she said suddenly, her voice softer than usual. “I pushed you into this—I know that. If you wanna stop, I won’t stop you.” I stared at her, the smoke stinging my eyes. For a second, I wanted to say yes—wanted to throw the cigarette down and run back to God. But my hand tightened around it instead.

“Too late,” I muttered, taking another drag. “I can’t stop. You got what you wanted.” She didn’t reply—just smoked in silence, the gap between us wider than ever.

First day back, I skipped the youth group meeting. I couldn’t face them—not with the nicotine on my breath, the pack in my pocket. Instead, I crossed the street to the parking lot where the burnout kids hung out—Shelly and her crew, all smokers. They’d always been the ones I pitied, the ones I’d prayed for. Now I was one of them. “Got a light?” I asked, pulling out a Marlboro Red. Shelly tossed me a Bic, grinning. “Church girl’s gone rogue, huh?” I didn’t answer—just lit up and smoked with them, the chatter fading into the buzz of nicotine.

By October, I was at twenty a day. I’d smoke before school, during lunch, after class—any chance I got. The Bible stayed closed; my prayers dried up. I’d catch Mom watching me sometimes, a flicker of guilt in her eyes, but she never said it. Tara just laughed, slapping my back like I’d earned a badge. “You’re tougher than I thought, Lily.” I didn’t feel tough—just empty, chained to the Marlboro Reds I couldn’t put down.

One night, I woke up gasping, my chest tight like something was crushing it. I stumbled to the bathroom, lit a cigarette with trembling hands, and smoked until the panic eased. Staring at my reflection—pale, shadowed eyes, smoke curling around my face—I didn’t recognize myself. I’d begged God to save me from this, but He hadn’t—or I’d stopped listening. The girl who’d sung hymns was gone, replaced by someone who couldn’t go four hours without a fix.

Thanksgiving came, and Tara hosted. Mom and I sat at her table, plates piled with turkey and gravy, Marlboro Reds burning in the ashtray between us. Tara lit one off the candle centerpiece, passing the pack around like it was dessert. I took mine, smoked through the meal, the buzz blending with the food. Later, sprawled on her couch, I lit another, staring at the ceiling as they talked about nothing. My stash was low—five left in my pack—and I felt the familiar twitch. “Got any extras?” I asked Tara, voice flat. She tossed me a fresh pack of Marlboro Reds. “Keep up, kid,” she said. I ripped it open, lit one, and let the smoke fill me.

That night, back home, I sat on my bed, the new pack beside me. I’d hit twenty-five today—more than Mom some days. I lit one more, inhaling deep, and watched the smoke drift. I didn’t pray anymore—didn’t even try. The Marlboro Reds owned me now, a chain I’d forged link by link over the summer. Mom had forced the first drag, but I’d taken the rest. I exhaled, the room hazing over, and surrendered completely—not to her, not to Tara, but to the smoke itself.

Smoking Took Me Over: How Cigarettes Hooked Me and I Can’t Quit

 

---

It was a stifling summer morning in Tucson, Arizona, the kind where the sun scorches everything and the dry air stings your throat. I was 16, sitting in the kitchen of our crumbling apartment—cracked tiles, a noisy fan that barely cooled anything. My mom, Diane, was across the table, sipping coffee and smoking a Marlboro 100, same as every day. The ashtray was already piled with stubs, and the smoke drifted up slow, mixing with the smell of stale coffee. I stared at her, pissed off, stirring my cereal. For years, I’d tried to get her to stop—nagged about the stench, lectured about black lungs, begged her. Nothing worked. She’d just look at me with those blank eyes and keep puffing. That morning, I’d had it.

I could tell she felt my anger—she always did, even if she acted like she didn’t care. But I was done talking to a wall. While she watched the news on our little kitchen TV, I got this crazy idea—not some genius plan, just pure frustration. If she wouldn’t quit, I’d show her how stupid it was. I’d smoke too. I didn’t want to—the smell made me sick, and I hated how it owned her—but I figured if she saw me with a cigarette, she’d freak out and ditch the habit. I reached over, grabbed a Marlboro 100 from her pack, slid the ashtray closer, and snatched her silver Zippo. I stuck the cigarette in my mouth, lit it on the third try, and pulled the smoke in. It tasted awful—bitter, chemical, like licking burnt rubber. I coughed hard, nearly spilling my coffee, but kept it between my lips, pretending I knew what I was doing.

She didn’t notice at first—too caught up in the TV. It wasn’t until my fourth puff, when I blew the smoke her way, that she turned. “What the hell, Lauren?” she said, faking shock. “You’ve been bitching at me for years about this, and now you’re smoking? You’re not allowed!” I gave a dry laugh. “I’m almost 16—I’ll do what I want. But this isn’t for me. I’m showing you how nasty this is. I’ll smoke till you quit. You don’t care about your body, but I know you care about mine. No decent mom lets her kid turn into a smoker.” I thought I’d nailed it. She went quiet, her face stiff, and I figured she was about to cave.

But then she hit back, too calm: “If I thought you’d actually become a smoker, I’d quit right now. But just playing with the smoke in your mouth? That’s nothing. Keep up the charade if you want—it doesn’t faze me.” My plan fell apart. She’d called my bluff, and I was stuck. If I wanted to shake her, I’d have to inhale for real. That’d get her. But just thinking about sucking that smoke into my lungs made my stomach churn—I knew it was wrong, knew it’d hurt.

The cigarette was half-gone, and I wanted to smash the stinking thing out, but that’d be giving up. So I copied her—brought it to my mouth, pulled the smoke, and tried to inhale. It felt like a punch to the chest. I coughed so hard I thought I’d choke, spitting it all out while she stifled a laugh. I tried again, slower, and held it for a second before letting go. No cough that time, but my gut twisted. I bolted to the bathroom, nearly puking, and stood there, panting, thinking how dumb this was. But I couldn’t back down—I had to prove it to her.

I spent the school day plotting. Mom’s Marlboro 100s were too harsh—I needed something I wouldn’t choke on every time. Some girls at school smoked Marlboro Lights, and I’d heard the 100s were milder. After class, I stopped at the Exxon on the corner. Grabbed bread and milk to blend in, then asked for a pack of Marlboro Light 100s. The clerk didn’t blink—just said, “Pack or box?” I mumbled “pack,” bought a cheap lighter pack, and left, feeling the weight of it in my backpack like a secret.

Mom left a message: “Working late, home by seven. Chicken’s in the fridge—make dinner.” Perfect—I had time to practice. I set the pack on the kitchen table next to hers. The Marlboro Light was white, cleaner-looking than her gold one—less intimidating. I tore off the cellophane, ripped the foil, and tapped it on my wrist—two filters popped up. I lit one and pulled the smoke—less brutal than the morning, but still rough. I inhaled slow, and my chest burned, but I didn’t cough. I let it out, a thin stream rising to the ceiling. Did it again, and again, pulling deeper each time. By the seventh drag, my head spun—sickening, but with a weird calm underneath. I stubbed it out halfway and sat there, waiting for the nausea to fade. It wasn’t good—just bearable.

When she got home, I was ready. We ate chicken and mashed potatoes fast, and she lit a Marlboro 100 right after. I grabbed my pack, lit a Light, and inhaled in front of her—no cough, just a smooth exhale. She looked surprised and said, “You’re serious, huh? Okay, I see you’re inhaling. Give me till Saturday to figure out how I’ll quit.” I nodded, but added, “I’ll keep smoking till then, to keep you honest.” She agreed, and I thought I had the upper hand.

Wednesday and Thursday followed the same beat. She’d get home from her insurance gig, light up, and I’d join her, inhaling carefully. After dinner, I’d have another, but never finished—my stomach still flipped, and I didn’t want to push it. But it was sinking in deeper than I’d planned. Friday afternoon, alone at home, I stared at the pack on the table. No homework, nothing on TV—just restless. I lit one without thinking. Inhaled deep, and this heat hit—not just my chest, but lower, a shiver I didn’t expect. I locked myself in the bathroom, cigarette in my mouth, and messed with my jeans. Another drag, smoke in the mirror, and my body lit up—fast, intense, a rush I couldn’t shake. I stubbed it out, freaked, but it stuck with me.

Saturday, I figured it’d end. She’d lay out her quit plan, and I’d stop too. But with morning coffee, I lit one without even noticing. Inhaled hard, felt the smoke fill me up, and the coffee tasted better—bitter blending with bitter, and I liked it. Really liked it. When we talked, she said, “I’ll quit in five weeks, with patches. I’ll drop from two packs to one, then cut five a week.” I said, “Fine. I’ll smoke till you’re done.” But as I spoke, I lit another, and she didn’t fight it. I was up to five a day—more when she was around—and it wasn’t just about her anymore. I’d feel this itch if I went too long without—hands twitchy, chest tight, like something was missing.

Monday, my pack ran dry. I hit the Exxon again—“Two packs of Marlboro Light 100s”—and the scrawny clerk chatted me up. “Smoke here if you want,” he said. I lit one right there, and he stared—every puff, every exhale, like I was a show. It felt weird, but kinda strong. At home, I smoked another in my room, that heat creeping back. I couldn’t stop myself—the rush came again, tied to the smoke, and I knew I was in deep. I tried quitting cold turkey once—went a whole morning without lighting up, swearing I’d drop it before she did. By noon, I was a mess—shaky, pissed off, head screaming for it. I caved, lit one, and inhaled like it was air. The relief hit, but so did the truth: I couldn’t quit. It owned me now.

Weeks rolled by, and I lost control. Eight a day—morning coffee meant two before school, one after, more at night with her. Fridays with her wine, I’d hit ten, maybe twelve. I’d try to skip one—tell myself I didn’t need it—but an hour later, I’d be clawing for the pack, heart racing, body begging. Once, I hid it in a drawer to test myself. Didn’t last half a day—dug it out, smoked two back-to-back, hating how good it felt. Sunday, we went to a Mexican diner. “Smoking or non?” the waiter asked. “Smoking,” I said, no hesitation, but I’d forgotten my pack. I bummed a Marlboro 100 from her, and that first drag after hours without was heaven—my whole body relaxed, but I hated needing it that bad. I bought my own pack from the machine, feeling eyes on me as I walked back.

By Wednesday, it was over. She caught me in my room—seven butts in the ashtray, pack in hand. “Need to talk?” she asked, smirking. I took a deep drag, blew it out my nose, and said, “I’m done bugging you. You were right—it’s crap, but it’s so damn good. I’m hooked, Mom. I can’t stop—I try, and it’s like my body fights me. And the messed-up part? I kinda like it now.” She chuckled. “No worries, kid. Want me to grab you a pack?” I nodded, lighting another. It wasn’t about her anymore—it was me, the pack in my pocket, the smoke I craved, this pull I couldn’t shake. I’d lost, and I wasn’t even mad—just stuck.

My Journey with Marlboro Red: A Smoker's Tale of Choice and Addiction

It was a humid spring afternoon in São Paulo, and I was on the balcony of our rundown apartment in the city center. I was 19, holding a cold coffee mug, the heat sticking my shirt to my back. The rusted railing creaked, and the street below roared with cars. I glanced down aimlessly and spotted Seu João, my neighbor from 302, lighting a cigarette at his window. He inhaled with a calm that clashed with the urban chaos, exhaling slow plumes of smoke into the gray sky. I stared, almost unconsciously, and thought, Why not? The next day, I scraped together some spare change—dirty coins from my jeans pocket—and headed to the corner store. I bought a pack of Marlboro Red. The bold red pack caught my eye, promising something I craved, even if I couldn’t name it.

The First Puff: A Secret Beginnings

That evening, I snuck back to the balcony, the pack tucked under my loose shirt, pressed against my waistband. I waited for Mom to hit the shower and Dad to lock himself in his room, tinkering with an old radio. My hands shook as I tore open the pack, pulling out a cigarette. The sharp tobacco scent hit me hard—almost too much. I grabbed the red Bic lighter from the kitchen drawer, the one Mom used for the stove, and fumbled. The first try barely singed the tip; the second, I sucked too hard, and the ember flared. I took a drag and coughed until my eyes watered, my throat scratching like I’d swallowed dirt. But I laughed—a nervous, silly giggle. “This is how it starts,” I whispered, eyeing the cigarette like it held a secret. I didn’t inhale that day—just played with the smoke in my mouth, blowing out clumsy shapes. It was my little rebellion, hidden from my parents.

Learning the Ropes: A Smoker's Routine

I got the hang of it slowly. I’d light one cigarette a day, always on the balcony, timing it for when Mom left for her night shift at the diner and Dad dozed off on the couch. I learned to hold the filter without crushing it, to draw the smoke without choking, to exhale quietly. A week in, I decided to inhale. I pulled the smoke into my mouth, paused, and let it slide down my chest. It burned a little, tickled my lungs, but I coughed less this time. Then came the dizziness—a soft wave that slowed everything down. I liked it, despite the bitter aftertaste lingering for hours. I stashed the pack in my backpack, buried under college notebooks, and tossed the lighter back in the drawer.

The Habit Grows: Sneaking Around

Months passed, and smoking crept into my life. I went from one cigarette to two, sometimes three, always dodging my parents’ notice. The smell clung to my clothes, and I’d blame Seu João or my college buddies from Arts school—where I went more out of stubbornness than love. During class breaks, I’d sit in the courtyard with friends, lighting a Marlboro Red and inhaling like it was second nature. “You’re turning into a real smoker,” Bia, my purple-haired friend, teased. I grinned, a bit proud, tucking the pack away. It felt like part of me now.

The Cravings Hit: Desperate Moments

The addiction snuck up on me, and with it came tough days. One afternoon, I was in the living room, pretending to study for a test, when the craving hit like a punch. It was this itch in my brain, a restlessness clawing at my chest, making my fingers twitch. My pack was in the bedroom, but Mom was cooking, humming a country tune, and Dad was reading the paper right next to me. No way to sneak to the balcony. I tried distracting myself—chewed my nails raw, doodled nonsense, chugged water—but it didn’t help. The nicotine withdrawal gnawed at me, a hollow ache screaming for relief. I mumbled about grabbing a book, bolted to my room, locked the door, and cracked the window. I lit up with sweaty hands, dragging fast and blowing smoke outside. The calm washed over me, and I almost laughed at how desperate I’d been.

Another time was brutal. It was a Sunday, and my parents stayed home all day. I’d smoked my last cigarette the night before, and the new pack was gone. The urge started small in the morning but turned into a nightmare by afternoon. I paced, muttering to myself, heart racing, anger bubbling up for no reason. I chewed gum, downed coffee, but my mind fixated on the next drag. Mom asked why I was so jittery, and I lied, “Just stressed about a test.” By five, I couldn’t take it. I grabbed bus fare, claimed I was studying at Bia’s, and raced to the store. I bought another Marlboro Red, lit it behind a tree on the street, and inhaled deep until the world steadied.

The Breaking Point: Surrendering to Nicotine Addiction

Then came the day I broke—at 21, during a holiday alone at home. I decided to test myself: no smoking, just for a day. I woke up fine, drank coffee, read a bit, but by two, the craving kicked in. It started subtle, then grew into this wild anxiety I couldn’t shake. My chest tightened, my hands shook, and I couldn’t focus. I told myself, Okay, just today, I’ll quit tomorrow. I grabbed the pack, lit up on the balcony, and smoked. The relief hit, but then it sank in—I wasn’t stopping. Not tomorrow, not ever. My heart pounded, panic rising as I pictured life without cigarettes. No pack in my bag, no lighter in my pocket—it felt like losing myself. I sat on the balcony floor, lit another right after, and watched the smoke drift. I stopped fighting. The addiction won, and I let it. It felt easier, truer to who I’d become.

Parents’ Discovery: No Shock Here

They found out one ordinary night. I was on the balcony, smoking and staring at the city lights, when the door creaked open. Mom stood there, apron stained with sauce, Dad behind her with his coffee mug. “So this is what you’ve been hiding?” she said, nodding at the cigarette. I froze, bracing for a lecture, but she laughed—a raspy, knowing laugh. Dad shrugged, pulling a pack of Continental from his pocket. “No surprise,” he said, lighting his own. “You think we didn’t smell it on your clothes?” Mom grabbed the kitchen lighter, sparked a Carlton, and sat beside me. “If you’re doing it, do it right,” she said, handing me the Bic. We sat there, three smokers in silence, smoke curling up together into the dark. No scolding, no drama—they’d been at it for years, and I was just joining the club.

Living the Smoker’s Life: No Regrets

By 25, I lived alone in a cramped Vila Madalena apartment, scraping by with illustration gigs and waitressing shifts. I smoked about 12 cigarettes a day, more on bar nights or late drawing sessions. My chest felt tight sometimes, and climbing stairs left me winded, but I brushed it off. “That’s how it is,” I’d think. Marlboro Red stayed my go-to—the harsh kick kept me sharp. It was there for tight deadlines, husky bar talks, and nights staring at the ceiling. One night, in a peeling-walled bar, a guy asked, “Ever think of quitting?” I laughed, voice rough from years of smoke. “Quit for what? This is me,” I said, lighting another with the near-dead Bic. The ember glowed, and I exhaled hard, smoke rising like a signature. I never regretted it—not the desperate days, not the moment I gave in. It’s me, pack in pocket, bitter taste on my tongue, living my way.