Mandy Nolan’s Soapbox: Where there’s smoke

Smoking is gross. It stinks. It’s full of poison. It’s anti-social. It gives you cancer. It’s stupid expensive. It makes you look ten years older. But I loved it.

For years. It was like an abusive relationship I couldn’t leave.

Or I would, then a year later I’d be back.

Of course I’d had a few sneaky smoky hook ups along the way.

I thought about it. A lot. Even when I wasn’t smoking. I thought about it.

Every morning I woke up and had a ciggie. Then I thought about my next ciggie.

Even when I had given up and called myself a ‘non smoker’, I’d have the odd cig after a few drinks. Because that’s not really smoking. I hadn’t been a daily smoker for 20 years so I was fine. Wasn’t I?

I didn’t smoke when I didn’t drink.

I no longer smoked in the morning. I no longer smoked every day. Just occasionally when I was out. I called myself a ‘social’ smoker. Just one. Or two. Meaning, I didn’t buy my own ciggies, I just bludged them off people with raging addictions. Sometimes I’d offer $2.

I’d say ‘can I bot a cig? I don’t usually smoke’. They’d be so happy for company and not to feel like some sort of social leper they’d give me one. And my smoker’s denial would continue.

I’d find myself planning who I would bot a cig off after my first couple of drinks. That’s addiction, its long fingers, curled around my throat.

I never smoked when I was pregnant. I’d have long breaks. But not long after the kids were born I’d find myself sneaking off and smoking in the backyard. Like a teenager hiding from their parents. Except I was hiding from the kids.

Oh, the shame of it!

I don’t understand smoking. I know there’s the nicotine addiction. But for me it was more than that. It was the ritual. The smoke. The rancid smell. It felt rock n roll. It felt bad ass.

It was just bad breath.

It was so hard to stop forever.

I remember the smell of ciggies as something from my past. My Dad smoked. So did Mum for a while. Everyone did. People smoked in the bank, at the shops, in hospitals. Even the doctor.

There wasn’t a house in Australia that didn’t smell like an emphysemic lung.

I remember those car trips with smoking parents. It took my car sickness to another level.

After my father died (alcohol related) I pressured my Mum to stop smoking. I was around 7 or 8. And she stopped.

So when I started smoking at 17 she was surprised. ‘You hated smoking. You made me stop!’

I didn’t get it either. But it was compelling. I could feel it in every cell of my body. It awakened the obsessive compulsion of addiction. It sent tiny monsters of want followed by satiation surging through my blood. Yuck. It makes me feel ill to think about it.

It was only in the last few months that I realised it was gone.

The ciggie brain.

The burning desire for the burning fire. For the hot smoke in my lungs. For the blast of pollution from my lips. Gone.

Absolutely.

It is wonderful. I don’t think about it. And writing this, it’s like writing about another person.

I look at people sitting outside smoking and I wonder when, if ever, they’ll come inside. I hope so. But I know how hard it is. It feels like your best friend. But Big Tobacco isn’t your friend. It’s your killer. But even knowing that isn’t enough to stop. Crazy hey?

But if you do stop, it’s worth it.

Give it a crack. 

• Mandy Nolan’s Soapbox column has appeared in The Echo for almost 23 years. The personal and the political often meet here; she’s also been the Greens federal candidate since before the last federal election. The Echo’s coverage of political issues will remain as comprehensive and fair as it has ever been, outside this opinion column which, as always, contains Mandy’s personal opinions only.