Here's a true-life tale I told during the Oral Fixation Show in Uptown Dallas earlier this month. I hope you enjoy reading
my “Cold Turkey” story as much as I did telling it.
I stood outside during a downpour and took a long drag
from my cigarette. I didn’t like smoking in my house, so I always stepped outdoors
no matter how rainy or cold it was. That’s how bad that addiction had its hold
on me.
After decades of smoking, I really hated cigarettes.
I’d known the little suckers my entire life since my parents smoked. But I
didn’t meet Mr. Marlboro personally until my early teens. I didn’t realize at
the time he would become my constant companion. And I didn’t expect it would be
such a struggle to say good-bye.
My family lived in the boondocks of New Mexico. The
population of the town where I went to school was mostly Mexican American. I stood
a head taller than most of the petite Mexican beauties. Somewhere I’d heard
smoking stunted a person’s growth, so I thought I’d give it a try. Anything to
stop growing.
When I was 13, I asked my 10-year-old sister to show
me how to smoke. She picked up her first cigarette when she was seven.
One night we stole some of my mom’s cigarettes and snuck
out the backdoor. I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was
watching. Coyotes could always be heard howling in the distance, but I didn’t
even notice the howling that night. My ear was listening for the back door to open.
I was afraid we’d get busted. We made it to where the backyard began to slope
down and walked a few more feet. I looked back one more time before sitting
down, out of sight.
In hindsight, I wonder if by stealing that last glance
of home, I somehow knew when I walked back through the door I wouldn’t be the
same innocent schoolgirl anymore.
My sister explained how to light a cigarette and
inhale, so I pressed one between my lips and lit the other end. But, I didn’t
inhale. I swallowed. And I hacked. And I coughed. And I gasped. Yet I pushed
on, bound and determined to learn how to smoke that night. And it quickly
became my refuge. A substitute for no friends around the corner like I had when
we lived in town. A source of comfort when I felt unlovable during those
awkward coming-of-age years.
So, there I was, stuck in the middle of nowhere,
lonely, and with no friends. Cigarettes helped ease that loneliness.
My ninth grade year we moved to California. I became
friends with girls who smoked. They looked so sophisticated making perfect
smoke rings. They knew more about boys, got to go to the beach with their
friends, and stayed out late at night.
Being raised Catholic and going to Catholic school, I
was sheltered most of my life, so it was hard for me to be cool like them. But,
at least I tried.
One time, I flicked away a cigarette while it was still
clenched between my teeth. The glowing tip separated from the cigarette and landed
on my upper eyelashes. The smell of singed hair… well, I never did that again.
I’m pretty sure I was addicted by eleventh grade. I’d
open my bedroom window upstairs and blow the smoke out. I didn’t want the smoky
haze hanging in the air in case my parents came to check on me.
In high school I began hiding my smoking from friends
and my new boyfriend. He’d smell smoke on me, but I’d say it was from Mom and
Dad smoking around me. In college, another boyfriend said he could taste
cigarettes when we kissed. I was very much aware guys might not like me if they
saw me smoke.
After graduating from college, I tried to quit for the
first time. I found a program that cost hundreds of dollars. Another boyfriend even
encouraged me to give it a try, and it worked…for awhile.
We eventually broke up, and I was alone once again. I
returned to smoking. It finally dawned on me that friends and boyfriends came
and went, but cigarettes were always there, waiting.
During the big milestones in my life—getting married,
having my first baby, turning 30—I always said I’d quit, but never did.
My husband finally did, but still liked his Jack
Daniels. I still smoked, but got tired of the partying. On top of that, he
started pulling away from our religious faith, and I took more of an interest in
it.
We were heading in opposite directions.
And then my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer. Her
hair began falling out from chemotherapy. My heart broke seeing her bald. I’d
cry listening to her throw up on the other side of the bathroom door. The one
person who had always been there for me, my one constant, was slipping away. And
yet, I clung tighter to my cigarettes.
She died three months later and in my grief, I finally
saw with my own eyes the consequences of her addiction. That’s what moved me to
give up cigarettes.
I’d been smoke-free for a year and a half when my
husband decided he didn’t want to be married anymore. Once again, I was
devastated by loss. I yearned for intimacy, but I didn’t want to fill that void
with alcohol, drugs, or sex. So instead I turned to my old faithful friend, Mr.
Marlboro.
I was embarrassed I started smoking again. I knew by
keeping it a secret, it wouldn’t just go away, so I asked three girlfriends to
pray for me.
But the struggle raged on. At night before going to
sleep, I told myself, “This was it. I was done smoking.” Yet in the morning,
I’d wake up craving a cigarette and pace like a caged lion. So, I’d drive to
the 7-11 to buy a pack. I’d smoke five cigarettes before work, and then shred the
rest in disgust. I’d flush them down the toilet, vowing I’d smoked my last one.
After work, the same thing would happen. Buy.
Smoke. Shred. Flush. Vow. This vicious cycle would start all over the next
morning. This went on for two months, with me spending $10 a day and only
smoking 10 cigarettes.
One Sunday I heard a pastor’s sermon about breaking
bad habits. He said you need to face the problem head-on one minute at a time. That
there was something that happens in the human psyche three weeks after quitting
cold turkey. If you can make it to that point, he said, you can quit anything.
I was skeptical. I’d stopped smoking before and picked up cigarettes again.
But, something inside me stirred.
One night, I’d sunk to the floor, exhausted by yet
another failed attempt to quit. I was just so weary from fighting this demon. I
didn’t know how to stop. Lying face down on the carpet, I cried out to God. I
told Him I couldn’t do this on my own. That I needed His help. I just bawled
and bawled, wiping my tears and nose with a soggy tissue. Why couldn’t I kick
this habit? I’d succeeded at so many things in life, but why not this one? I
felt like such a failure. And I didn’t want to die like Mom did. After what
seemed like an eternity, I finally got up and went to bed.
The next morning when I woke up, I didn’t go to the
7-11. After work, I still hadn’t gone. It was a miracle! My friends’ prayers
must have worked. I made it through the first day cold turkey. One day became
one week. And then two weeks. And then three.
At first, I’d crave cigarettes when I smelled one. But,
then I remembered that metallic-y taste from picking up the first cigarette after
I’d quit before. And I didn’t want to taste that again.
Three years later, my dad died from smoking. I wish I
could have inspired him to give up the habit. I miss Mom and him dearly and
wish they could’ve lived longer. At least I know I probably will.
Here I am eight years later, smoke-free. There’s no
longer the shame of being a smoker. And my first thought when waking up in the
morning isn’t about a cigarette. Instead, I get to lie in bed a few extra
minutes, thankful for another day of living.
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” - Philippians 4:13
