I remember I had my first cigarette ever during my sophomore year of college. After a successful Walmart run with my roommate Mike, we were walking back to our dorm room in the middle of winter. Trudging through the snow, he lit a cigarette and offered me one. I haven’t seen Mike smoke before, but he had just broken up with his long-term, long-distance girlfriend a few days prior. A part of me felt some pity for him, and I figured I’d join him — even if I didn’t inhale but let the smoke gather in my cheek.

I started smoking casually at age 24, while living in Chicago. On weekends I’d go to bars, and I remember chain-smoking outside The Burlington or The Flatiron with Margarita (she’s a mom now) or Bryan (I think he grew up to be a firefighter) or a guy named Tre (who the fuck knows where he is now). During the day, however, nothing; I had no desire to have a cigarette or even buy a pack. I suppose I just wanted to fit in.

By the time I was 26, I moved to New York City for grad school, at Parsons. It was during this new phase in my life that I started to really smoke cigarettes. The stress of school, being away from family and trying to meet new people, and the coolness and blasé attitude of Williamsburg circa 2009 consciously willed me to smoke. Smoking a cigarette gave me that solitude, that little “me time” to gather my thoughts, realize how lonely and overwhelmed I felt, and look like a total badass (though no one did see me smoke on the roof of my old apartment). By the time I knew it, I was addicted to cigarettes.

When I’d visit my parents during the holidays, I wanted to preserve the impression of the “perfect, youngest child” and avoided smoking around them. My parents saw me as the baby of the family and “the successful one,” and deep down I never want to disappoint them. I’d wait for them to go to bed, where I’d then sneak into the backyard and light a cigarette (mind you, I’m in my late 20’s by then). After I was done, I’d toss the butt onto the roof, where it would collect into the gutter. My parents have since moved, but God knows — if the new owners of the house cleaned the gutters — how many cigarette butts they’d find.

It wasn’t always clandestine cigarette breaks, Dylan-esque moments of reflection, or (forgive me) smoke-and-mirrors. I can recall four instances when I quit smoking for long periods of time:

1. During 2010, where I began to feel physically ill. Nauseous. Weird stomach problems. I didn’t know what was the cause, nor did I ever go to a doctor — I didn’t have health insurance then. As a self-remedy, I quit smoking for 5 months and even became a vegetarian. I relapsed into meat and nicotine during grad school finals.
2. During 2012, when my doctor told me my blood pressure was elevated. I didn’t touch cigarettes for 7 months, and I even had an app to track how long I didn’t smoke. One day, during a time where I was laid off and relying on Unemployment checks (and quite frankly, I was just bored), I bought a pack of cigarettes for the hell of it. Big mistake.
3. 2016.
4. In early 2020, for 2 months I didn’t have any cigarettes. I was on the anti-smoking aid Chantix, and it helped immensely: I was slowly and surely weening off nicotine, and after cutting down on cigarettes for months, I was eventually smoke-free for 60 days. Psychologically and physically, I was in a good place; for once, I was on the path to feeling healthy. However, the first COVID-19 case came to New York, and as each day passed, more and more co-workers refused to come into the office. The news and the virus itself spread quickly, till one day it was just me and a fellow co-worker at our desks. We both knew that we’ll be working from home indefinitely, so I packed my work iMac and anything I needed. In the back of my mind, I also feared getting laid off again or furloughed (ahem). It was then that I decided to buy a pack of American Spirits — not as strong as my go-to Parliaments or Camel Blues, but enough to “de-stress” me and give me time to think. With my work stuff ready to be transported into an Uber, I stepped outside of my office to clear my head and have a cigarette. Yes, I started smoking again when the pandemic hit.

If it’s any blatant indication, I smoke when I’m stressed out or worried. Like my college roommate Mike who had just gone through a breakup, I turned to cigarettes as a coping mechanism. Again, despite the contrary and all scientific evidence, having a cigarette by myself calms me; I’m able to gather my thoughts, contemplate everything, and enjoy the quiet solitude. It’s psychological: I like being alone sometimes, and I guess nothing drives people away than the smell of cigarettes.

Recently, however, I was feeling ill — like, really, really ill: tightness and small pains in my chest, feeling dizzy and almost blacking out. My blood pressure was dangerously high. Constant tests had ruled out COVID-19, so I know it was my heart and blood pressure, and I know my diet and especially my smoking had become detrimental to my health. I’m getting older, and my habits were killing me. It was time for change (again).

So, as of this writing and as I’m chewing some expired nicotine gum, I haven’t touched a cigarette in over two weeks.

I don’t know, as fatalistic as I can be, I want to be there for my parents, my brother, my friends, and especially my dog. I figured quitting smoking (hopefully for good) will extend my life a little longer, so I can be with this puppy (I don’t want to smoke around Dusty, and a part of me feels my smoking gave Nico her cancer). I’d have a lot of regret leaving behind my family and friends, but I’d feel even more guilty for a dog — a creature wholly dependent on me — to be left alone without her owner.

I know for a fact that my blood pressure has returned to normal since I stopped smoking (I have a blood pressure kit at home, and I just came back from my primary care physician), and I’m saving so much money on not buying my usual pack or two a week. Working from home and self-isolating is also relieving a lot of stress, especially now that I’m full-time again and my social obligations are sparse. Who knows? Maybe with this pandemic and with this dog (and yes, with this expired nicotine gum), I’ll finally quit smoking for good. Wish me luck, but if I can handle and mediate my anxieties (and hey, writing on this blog is a perfect outlet), I think I’ll be fine.