Almost 25 years ago today, I quit smoking cigarettes. I had smoked for about 20 years, sucking up a pack to a pack and a half a day. I wanted terribly to quit and vowed to before I turned 40. I made it with 6 months to spare. I wanted to quit because smoking cost so much, because it was bad for my health, because it made me stink, because it upset my parents, and because it wasn’t good for Linda or Jan. Those were all great motivators. But I have realized that the main reason I finally quit was that I was ASHAMED OF MYSELF. I was ashamed because I had spent 20 years addicted, a prisoner of tobacco. I was handcuffed to it. It went everywhere I went. It sometimes woke me up in the middle of the night and dragged me from bed. It wouldn’t let me watch a movie in peace or drink a cup of coffee without horning in. It made me stand outside with other folks also addicted, flipping our ashes onto butt-stained sidewalks, even if it was cold or raining or if the wind was at gale strength. And I knew that my friends who were not so addicted were both surprised at and sorry for my behavior. Damn, I was so ashamed for being prisoner of a habit that not only hurt me but hurt others, too.
So I stopped cold turkey. With prayer and determination and chewing on Nicorette gum, I survived the first tough 10 days. Then I tossed the Nicorette, which tasted disgusting and I was on my own. I have heard people say that quitting cigarettes is as difficult as quitting heroin. I don’t know if that is true, but it is really frickin’ hard. Though the physical need soon passes, the emotional addiction hangs on for years. For 4 or 5 years after I quit, I wished that they would discover that tobacco was good for you and that they would lower the cost of cigarettes to $.10 a pack so I could go back to my still missed addiction. For at least 15 years, and occasionally still, I smoked cigarettes in my dreams and was disgusted in those dream by my behavior. I find that to be really scary. I forgot to mention some little things, like the fact that for a year or so after I quit, I kept getting little sores inside my cheeks and on my gums. Our dentist explained it as having to do with bacteria that was in my system from the smoking. The bacteria wanted out, so it exited in lots of little canker-like sores. Eventually, I escaped the overtly emotional need I had to smoke, and began to hate cigarettes with the proverbial passion. I hate the smell, the look of them, and what they do to people.
There are a couple of other specific reasons I hate smoking. My Aunt Barbara and my Uncle Jerry, both smokers, died of lung cancer in their sixties. Barbara was my first friend. Jerry introduced me to theatre.
There is no place in my world for smoke. About 5 years ago, a virus attacked my heart, damaging it, and making it unable to pump the optimal amount of blood that it should, all the thousands of times it beats every day. When I first discovered I was sick, my heart was only moving about 28% of the blood in my heart per pump when it should be moving 55 to 60% per. Thank the Lord, great doctors, friends and family, it now pumps in the high 40 percents. Smoking didn’t do this to my heart. It was just the way of things. As a result though, I can’t visit nursing homes or hospitals regularly for fear of infection and such. Also, secondhand smoke is my enemy. I am supposed to avoid it absolutely, so I don’t want anyone to have a smoking lounge or smoking area anywhere in any public building that I might enter. And I am glad that smokers are forced to stand in little groups outside of buildings, pariah-like, away from non-smokers. And I hope you are ashamed. Don’t get me wrong. I am not ashamed of you. How could I be? I used to be there standing with you. I know how hard it is to give up that bastard tobacco. I’m not ashamed of you at all. I love you guys. . . even if I don’t know you! But I want you to be ashamed of yourselves, like I was, so that you can quit, too.
Well, people are saying, I wonder what got into Ellstrom’s craw to send him off on a diatribe. I’ll tell you. A couple of days ago, I got involved in a FB discussion about the new anti-smoking ads, which I don’t like because they are too graphic. I remember that when I was confronted by ads like that when I was smoking, that I had a little avoidance filter in my brain that immediately shut them out. I think gross ads are only scary for non-smokers and kids. I said that on FB and also mentioned that I was glad that people are forced to smoke in those “tawdry” outdoor groups. The earlier part of this blog explained why I feel that way. Well, I was immediately called out on FB about smoker’s rights. I don’t think there is a right to smoke just like there isn’t a right to take a little dose of arsenic everyday until it builds up and kills you. But I didn’t mind that. What bothered me was that a certain fellow who I have never met said, “Shaming people into anything is reprehensible.” I guess his mom never said, “Shame on you! Don’t you smear your finger paint all over your sister again.” When I took issue, he accused me of being “smug and self-satisfied,” suggesting that because I didn’t smoke, that I was feeling superior to others. So far from the truth. I look back on my quitting as a victory, but I far more often think about the foolish years I spent sucking cigarettes out in one of those “tawdry” little circles. So thanks, fella. Your comments got me to think about “Shame and the Art of Non- Smoking,” and to share my thoughts with some other people. Now, I hope some other people read it, because, as I said a week or so ago, to blog without having readers is like talking to oneself.
