Smokey Smokerson

Hello. Guess what. That’s right, I’m torturing myself. That’s how it feels anyway, but deep down, in my rational grown up mind, I know my thinking is all skewy. The real torture of course is the routine inhalation of a noxious mixture of gas, tar, burning paper and god-knows-what else. That’s the real torture. Especially for my lungs, which have kindly tolerated such abuse almost every day for the last 26 years. Ugh. It’s silly. It’s also (sometimes) massively enjoyable, but ultimately it’s just really really silly. And quite expensive too.

In case you haven’t worked it out, I’ve given up smoking. Well, I’m in the process of giving up. I ran out of tobacco four days ago and I’ve promised myself to never buy any more again… But then I found some shitty old tobacco dust in a packet in a drawer, so I’ve been eking that out as far as I’ve been able, which has been… Well, it’s been quite unpleasant really, but I’ve discovered that the occasional shitty dust rollup has helped to stave off the worst of withdrawal’s headaches and dastardly moods. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I still have a headache and I’m still in a pretty horrible mood though, and even the shitty dust has run out now so… Yeah. Good innit?

The thing is, I started smoking when I was 15. That seems very young to me now, but of course at the time I felt like I knew what I was doing and I wasn’t going to take anyone’s advice at that age – good grief, why would I have done such a thing?! At 15 after all, we all knew everything already didn’t we? And I always said I’d stop when I turned 40, and I’m 41 now so it really is time.
I never even meant to start smoking anyway. For me, at 15, it was all about getting high; cigarettes were… Well, they were dirty, smelly, pointless things that didn’t get you stoned and which just made you cough. No, for me the tobacco was just an ingredient that was unfortunately necessary for making a spliff. But 15 seems very young now to have been making spliffs. Blimey, what was I thinking? It’s strange, finding myself in my 40s and realising that a lot of my lifestyle choices were actually based on decisions made by a 15 year old. And a stoned one at that. Hmm. I’m not feeling too proud of myself right now.

I’m not feeling much of anything very nice this week actually. I feel kind of cross and distractible and I’ve got lots of nervous energy, and I want to write my book but I can’t concentrate on it because Jesus Christ I just want a cigarette, but I know I don’t want one, I just… Gah. Actually I’ve sent a text to myself that I keep reading whenever I’m really feeling the cravings. Here’s what it says:

“Hello Sam, this is you writing to you. And here’s the thing: I know you think you want a cigarette, and it does feel a lot like a want, but the truth is that it won’t make you feel good. In fact it’ll make it quite hard to breathe. Also you’ll worry about your heart. So please don’t have one. Even a drag or two will affect your breathing and it’s not nice or good for you. The longer you go without one, the less you’ll want one and then… Guess what? You’ll have more money! And you’ll feel better! Pretty cool huh? Sent with love and kindness, from you. X”

…It’s quite a nice message to read, and I appreciate the kindness and the love with which I sent it, but… Damn, I want a cigarette. Even though I don’t want one. It would be nice though, even though it wouldn’t.

A few things have spurred me towards deciding to stop.
There are financial reasons: I can’t afford to smoke. It’s a really pricey hobby. But, I’ve spent so much of my life being skint and I’ve still smoked through it all so I can’t say that money is the driving force here.
Another reason is that I no longer smoke dope. I found myself growing increasingly bored of it towards the end of my 30s, and after a while I realised that something unexpected had come up in my relationship with it: I’d always thought it helped me to feel calmer, but it actually was making me feel a little bit anxious – Just a little bit – But a little bit all the same. I realised that when I was stoned, I was constantly living just a few seconds into the future, and worrying – catastrophizing in fact – about what was about to happen. I lived like that for years, under the illusion that a little spliff here and a little spliff there helped me to settle my mind, but… Well. There’s another piece of smoking-related skewy thinking. Instead of settling my mind it was giving me the heeby-jeebies. Pfff. Thanks for that, 15 year-old me, ya prick.
So I stopped getting stoned, and over the last few months I’ve totally lost interest in alcohol too. I’ve never been much of a drinker anyway, but it became really apparent this year that it affects my mood hugely, even if I only have one little drink. It’s such a downer. I feel better knowing this, and stopping drinking hasn’t really had an impact because I drank so little and rarely anyway, but it did draw my attention to the cigarettes… I kept thinking recently, “If I’m not getting high or drinking anymore, why am I still smoking?” …And I noticed that each cigarette makes me wheeze, and I smell, and I feel kind of yucky, and… I guess the worst part is that I don’t really respect myself much when I smoke. It’s like a secret that I have to keep from myself. I deny it. I deny the damage and the expense and the bare shameful fact of it, and I pretend that I’ll stop ‘soon’, whenever that may be, and… Well. I didn’t stop when I was 40, like 15 year-old me promised me he would did I? So now I’ve got to fucking do it. Thanks for that too, 15 year-old me. Dickhead.

And to make things worse (or better), I saw an interview with Bob Mortimer recently. I love Bob Mortimer, he’s one of my favourites. He’s one of the funniest, loveliest, most talented people on telly and he had a triple heart bypass when he was 55. He said in the interview that he didn’t see it coming – his heart was just… Full. Full of shite. So it stopped working.
And I thought… “Shit. I’ll be 55 in a few minutes, and I’m not really helping my heart much by smoking.” But I still want a cigarette, even though I don’t. So I’m grateful to Bob, for being honest in his interview. He’s a good guy.

But here’s what I keep coming back to. Here’s the real problem: my relationship with tobacco has been… I hate to say it, but it is such a reliable friend. It’s always there when I need it. It always provides. The warm comforting fill-me-up-ness of it, it’s available ALL the time. It’s seen me through all my highs and all my lows. Feel like shit? Have a cigarette. Bored? Feel sad? Here, have a smoke. Feeling insanely stressed out? You know what to do; have two for good measure. Oh, now you’re celebrating? Well it’s clearly fag time then. Hooray.
It’s a hell of a companion. And the routine of laying out a paper, filling it with tobacco, adding a roach or a filter and rolling then tapping and lighting and inhalingggggg…. Before pressing the tobacco pouch closed and blowing a smoke ring… It’s kind of heavenly, in a way.
And yes I know I’m talking bollocks. It’s not heavenly. It kills you. It’s a Jesus/Judas-like relationship, guaranteed to rat you out and stab you in the back (or the lungs) in the end. Unless you’re one of the lucky ones… Unless you’re one of these people who pop up every now and then… You know the ones. They’re in the news every so often:
“98 year-old reveals secret to a long life: coffee, cocaine and cigarettes.”
God knows I’ve told myself I might be one of those old people, even though I can’t stand cocaine and coffee plays sheer heck with my hemorrhoids. It’s funny though, how my brain will cling on hopefully to one unlikely tale of a long-but-unhealthy life in the face of thousands of tales of lives being cut short by smoking.

They say each cigarette takes 5 minutes from your life. Who ‘they’ are exactly I don’t know, but let’s roll with it.
I’ve been wondering how many cigarettes I’ve smoked. I’d guess, shamefully, it averages at more than ten per day for 26 years. Pffff. Do I really want to add that up? Let’s try it. Let’s assume I’ve averaged 15 a day. Ready?
That’s…. Jesus.
No, let’s assume I’ve smoked 12 a day.
Eek. basically I’ve probably smoked at least 113,880 cigarettes in my time. Fucking hell. I’m embarrassed. I’m so embarrassed that I’m considering editing this bit out, so that nobody ever reads it, but… That wouldn’t be very honest would it. Hhhhhh. It’s a wonder I can still breathe for goodness sake.
But while we’re here, let’s see how much shorter my life is going to be. If every cigarette takes 5 minutes off my life, how long is 5X113,880 minutes? Well that’s easy. It’s 9,490 hours. Cool, well I’ll have one more cigarette then. I mean… No, that’s quite a lot of hours. It’s actually a bit more than a year: 395 days. Damn.

In all honesty, I thought it would be more. But it’s still sobering, even though of course I’m already sober. But the good thing is that I’ve been reading about the effects of stopping smoking, and they sound pretty good.
After just a day without a cigarette, oxygen levels in my blood and brain will improve. After a week they’ll be way way better, and will only keep improving while my risk of having a heart attack will decline with each day that passes. After a month, the receptors in my brain that love the nicotine will have gone to sleep, and I shouldn’t physically crave the cigarettes anymore. After 3 months my blood circulation will have noticeably increased and my blood pressure will have reduced. At this stage in my life, both those things sound inviting.
After a year, my lungs will have significantly healed themselves. My risk of coronary heart disease will be reduced by half compared to the risk today. Isn’t that something?
After 10 years, the risks of developing lung cancer and all the other horrible smoking-related nastinesses will be halved. After 20 years, the risks will be the same as they are for anyone who’s never smoked. Blimey.

I still want a cigarette though. Except… Well, I don’t want one. I don’t want one. It’s not me who wants one. It’s those niggly little receptors in my brain who want one. But they’ll be gone soon enough.

So there we go. This has been a weird post for me to write – it’s taken some planning, and I don’t think I’ve executed it very well, and it’s not really one that I want my parents to read, even though I expect they will, so… Hi Mum, hi Dad. Love you.

Ugh. That’s enough writing for now. I think I’m going to go and sniff an ashtray, just to get my fix….

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