Young. Perpetually impressionable. We all are at some point, and those who say they weren’t are lying. Everyone knows the routine. You’re out somewhere, probably bored, and someone goes: “Hey, do you want a drag?” and there’s you, caught in the dilemma between doing what you’re told and being one of the so called ‘cool kids’. Suddenly your minds flooded with images of all those lung cancer videos and images they show you in school. Attempting to scare you straight. It doesn’t work. How can you take them seriously? When the people showing you this stuff are the same people returning your homework reeking of smoke with nicotine stained fingers and a yellow smile. It’s laughable really. So you take that drag. It can’t hurt, can it? Not a chance. Anyway, who cares? It makes you look awesome, right?
It makes you feel rebellious, doing something you’ll get in trouble for. And then you’re labeled, ‘The Smokers’. Cutting class to ‘chill’ in a smoke filled room. Endlessly terrified that ‘teacher’ will find you. Endlessly excited too. After all, you’re ever so young. Ever so naïve. Sense is wasted on you. So you continue. No harm done, nothing really matters at this point. But then something changes. You’ve stopped doing it to be cool. You find yourself needing it. Smoking alone on the balcony, deodorant in hand. Should the parents come home unexpectedly. But they smoke too. Who are they to judge you? But it’s not that, It’s their disappointment. It’s too late for them, why are you making the same mistakes? You’ve grown up listening to your father coughing his guts up in the morning. Extremely unattractive. Do you want that? Of course not. Vile. Disgusting habit. You think to yourself, lighting up another fag. You used to run, now you’re short of breath climbing the stairs.
How did this happen? You’re older, not much, but old enough to know a little better. So you decide, that’s enough. You have to stop now. So you do. Seems easy at first. Then you’re out and all you’re friends smoke and you miss it. Just one, I haven’t smoked all week. Just one will be fine. But its not. Its not enough is it? Nicotine patches don’t work. That’s not what you crave. It’s the action, the atmosphere, everything associated with it. But it is possible. If you keep at it. You will feel like you’re missing out. You’ll get moody. You’ll be buying milk from the shop the man behind the counter asks: “Is that all?” Is it? Surely it can’t be? Surely you’ve forgotten something? Then you realize. All it takes is a moment of weakness. Can you walk away empty handed? Course you can, as you pay hands shaking slightly. But soon the taste will repulse you. The smoke it your lungs Feels heavy. Alien. Dirty.
And it’s over. You’re in the clear. But can it last? The answer to that depends on you and you alone.