2004-05-02 - 4:54 p.m.
The Grip
by
Amy M. Steier
When I first realized how ill my mother was, I was a zombie. I couldn’t think of anything other than her no matter what I was doing. I couldn’t concentrate on anything; my teaching, eating, even driving. I couldn’t listen to the radio because all I ever heard were sad songs. My preoccupation with death overshadowed everything. I couldn’t imagine my life without my mother and I still cannot. My mother suffers from emphysema and vascular disease as a result of smoking since she was nineteen. Her doctors have told her she has to quit smoking or it will kill her. She will be sixty-three in a couple of months and she couldn’t run to save her life, literally. She can’t breathe. In addition, she still smoked up until her angiogram. She has, what I refer to as, The Grip. I have it, too.
I am thirty-two and I have been smoking since I was a fetus. Looking at her, I do not want that to be me later on in life. I need to quit smoking, too. I understand her addiction because The Grip, too, has blessed me. The Grip is what I call the hold nicotine has on a smoker. No matter how many times you try to quit, The Grip keeps inviting itself over. You wind up smoking again, as I am right now. Even knowing how bad it is for me, I still seem to reach for it. The people who quit “cold turkey” do not recognize The Grip. They might not have ever been true smokers. True smokers will smoke no matter what they are doing or where they are. A true smoker brings cigarettes on a bicycle ride; unhooks the oxygen to have a smoke; lights up on the way from the car to the grocery store doors. No place is sacred to a true smoker. Everywhere is fair smoking game. Many of the “cold turkeys” had never been true smokers in the first place. The ones who were were able to quit “cold turkey” because their lives depended on it. The Grip has blessed me because I am going to learn something valuable from it and, hopefully, change my life for the better. My addiction to nicotine will kill me if I let it. I just don’t know if I have what it takes to defeat The Grip. The Grip feels like it’s my kryptonite.
Smoking holds many pleasures for me. I genuinely like the way it tastes. I like the way a cigarette looks in my fingers. I have long fingers, perfect for holding a cigarette well mannered. I like the way I feel after my first morning cigarette. I never smoke it down to the filter. I feel that’s ugly. I like when a man lights it for me, although it is rare because that only happens in a bar. I do not usually go to bars at all for ironic reasons. I do not like all the smoke. I don’t like anyone else’s smoke; only my own. I do not like the way it makes my hair smell. I don’t like the way it makes a woman look easy. To me, smokers have unresolved personal issues that they try to mask with smoke. Smoking, to me, is the longest way to commit suicide. Smokers have a death wish. I almost wish I could say that this does not apply to me, but it does. There is no way for me to be objective because I am a smoker. It’s just ironic that I could, at times, detest the one thing I have trouble giving up. I believe my addiction to nicotine has everything to do with my own personal unresolved issues. I’ve always walked on the darker side of life. Smoking came naturally to me.
When I was a teenager, I hung out with a rough crowd and took up smoking. I was about thirteen. My home life was difficult for a multitude of reasons. We didn’t have a lot of money, my parents didn’t get along, and there was a lot of fighting, sometimes domestic abuse. It didn’t make for a normal childhood, but it did teach me a lot about love and forgiveness, for which I am now grateful. Everyone had his or her outlets. My sister moved out at seventeen; my brother turned to drugs and alcohol; I became lost in the shuffle because I was so much younger. I found my own way in the world, despite the rough start. I did not use my experiences to go out and murder people or do bad things. I could have used my angst negatively, but I chose to embrace it. I managed to get a degree, blossom in my career as a teacher, and created a stable home life of my own. All the while I was still smoking. Smoking is the one thing I have done through all the difficulties. It has always been there. Smoking got me through tense times, final exams, job interviews, and celebrations. Smoking has been the one thing that has always been true to me. Whenever I needed it, it was always there. When I wanted to quit, it missed me. When I broke up with it, it wanted me back. When I was lost, it found me. How do you divorce yourself from a loyal friend like that?
I know smoking is bad for me, but I don’t know how to quit successfully. I would be throwing away years of friendship. Smoking is not, however, my friend. It tricks me into believing it is my friend. It is a habit that manipulates me. Smoking makes me feel complete, but leaves me empty. It cradles me in its arms, but also drives me away. It attracts me and repels me at the same time. It protects me, but leaves me vulnerable in the end. Smoking makes me happy, but it also rips out my heart. It feeds me and starves me. It allows me to see, but also blinds me from what I should see. It enlightens me, but brings out my fears. Smoking torments me. It deadens my nerves, but heals my soul; wastes my energy, but gives me life; supports my efforts, but throws me to the wolves anyway. I have a love-hate relationship with smoking that began before I ever knew it existed.
I keep asking myself why I still smoke if everything in life is okay. There are no more troubles. There are no unresolved issues. Everything has been dealt with and addressed, mostly. So, why continue to smoke? I honestly do not know. That is why I refer to it as The Grip. If I ever get over The Grip, I will defeat the biggest obstacle, as well as the constant support system, I have had for years. What would I put in its place? It’s a good thing I don’t drink. I have so many doubts about the kind of will power I am going to be able to have. I can do it; I just have to do it. Where to begin is the hardest part, the loneliest part, and the worst part. It’s gnawing at my soul, harvesting discord among the many parts of me that long to be free of it and the one part of me that longs to die. It is a horrible thing to say, but it is true. Smokers have a death wish that they may not even know they have. I am a smoker; therefore, I have a death wish. It is an awful thing, but completely in my control. Will The Grip finally peel its sticky fingers off me long enough for me to get away?
