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

 

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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.