I Quit Smoking. Then My Body and I Started Talking.
I wasn’t able to properly listen until I was nicotine-free
I began smoking cigarettes regularly when I was 17. Both my parents were smokers (they’ve since quit), which sped up my decision to take up the habit. In the beginning, my brand of choice was Newport 100s. I liked the smooth mint flavor, its polluted, metallic sweetness. After my dad went to sleep, I’d smoke out of my bedroom window, then leave it open so the smell didn’t linger. I soon graduated to Marlboro Reds, savoring the dense, harsh smoke that settled on my insides like a concrete film. I adored this feeling — burning and scraping, like eating glass.
When I left for college in New York a couple years later, I began drinking heavily too, a reaction to troubled, turbulent relationships with both my parents. I smoked a cigarette every morning before I ate, between classes, and after hours with my bartender friends, sometimes until four in the morning. The punishing blows from each cigarette felt both terrible and delicious. I had no intention of giving them up.
At the time, my body felt indestructible, as though no matter what I subjected it to, it would survive. I deprived it of sleep, filled it with poisonous chemicals, and simply ignored the resulting headaches, exhaustion, and nausea. I treated my body…
