Here’s the truth. I never met a cigarette I didn’t like. And while I may have flirted with Kent, Marlboro, and Salem, for thirty-six years, my most constant partner in a two-and-a-half pack a day affair was Newport Light 100s. We became acquainted in a restaurant ladies’ room during a friend’s party when she said: “Try this, it’s cool.” And so, I did. And liked it! And was hooked. I smoked relentlessly, with abandon; in sickness and in health, in celebration and in grief, with people and without, in all kinds of weather, at all times of the day and night, in the USA and abroad.

I knew smoking was a health hazard. Nicotine was reported to be as addictive as crack cocaine. I was putting myself at physical risk and engaging in behavior smart people considered dangerous. I grew up to be a social worker, for God’s sake. I looked after people’s health and well-being. I should have known better, behaved better, and yet I continued to puff my life away.

Over decades I made numerous attempts to stop. There was the gum, though I always thought chewing was impolite; the patch which I tore off and held while sneaking a cigarette, returning it to my arm while praying not to have a heart attack. There was an appointment where I was hypnotized. Or was I? I remember getting up from a wonderful big leather chair, leaving the office to walk across the street and calmly, oh so calmly, buy a pack of cigarettes.

Somewhere, in the foggy part of my brain, I knew I was in trouble. Needing additional help, I went to SmokeEnders—twice—and the programs run by the cancer society and a religious organization. And perhaps for a few days, or even months, I managed to be smoke free. The abstinence never lasted. The years passed.

I tried to cover up the smell of smoke in my apartment with strategically placed potpourri, scented candles, and frequent sprays of room deodorant. My dry-cleaning bills were equal to one quarter of my monthly rent. I had the cleanest hair in New York from all the shampoo I used to rid myself of the tobacco smell. And for years I self-consciously greeted people in a mist of mouthwash and breath mints.

Family and friends urged and sometimes pleaded with me to stop, but I couldn’t give up my addiction for someone else. I knew it would have to be my decision, in my own time. And so I’d dance over and over to that old familiar song. I’d quit. I’d start. I’d quit. I’d start. I’d buy a pack. Smoke five. Throw the pack away. I’d go through my garbage looking for butts. I’d limit the cigarettes to hourly breaks; to being outside; to after meals. I made up my own set of rules for usage, but they varied from week to week. I saved my butts in a closed jar of water, taking a whiff whenever I was tempted to smoke. I’d make a “quit day,” create elaborate plans, but wouldn’t follow through. Bottom line? I didn’t want to give up my cigarettes. I loved smoking from the first prebreakfast morning drag to the last inhalation before I put out the lights.

So how have I been smoke-free for more than a decade? The answer is (drum roll please) I got sick of myself. The hiding, the sneaking, the plotting, the cleaning, the worrying—the whole damn insanity of it all. Let’s get real. I’m an addict. Nicotine was my drug of choice. I used cigarettes for the pleasurable pause, as a reward, to cover anger, to help me relax, to unwind, to moderate anxiety, and fill empty time and space. I self-medicated my feelings by swallowing smoke. I was committing passive suicide on a daily basis.

While I realized I was an addict, that knowledge didn’t help me quit. My addiction was larger than myself, completely unmanageable, and although I was disciplined in other areas of my life, I felt powerless to help myself sort this out. In my sane moments, I knew I was in trouble, and felt increasingly desperate. I needed to take an action so drastic it would consume me. I needed to leave behind what was safe and familiar. I needed professional help. I began to research the heavy-duty, big-name addiction programs. After much thought and with great fear, I decided to go as an inpatient to a renowned alcohol and drug rehabilitation center in Minnesota. They’d started a program for nicotine addiction, and I wanted in.

I was away from the world for nine days. In rehab. Scared. Isolated. No phone. No TV.  No electronics. Just eight other smokers—four women and four men, ranging in age from forty to seventy-five, from around the country—and me; all of us wishing to kick the habit. On the night before I turned in my cigarettes, I sat on the deck of the retreat center, wrapped in a blanket against the May chill until four in the morning, and smoked myself sick. I stared off into space, with the lights reflecting the lake to my right and straight ahead a hill with one single bench placed at the very peak. It seemed like a trek. Easy metaphor? You’re damn right! The will to finish the program, to get up that hill. And that first night, looking off in the distance, I vowed I would climb it before I went home.

I was exhausted, sick from all the hits of nicotine, but pumped with adrenaline and ready to detox. I met our group leader, an ex-smoker and alcoholic in recovery with a Mohawk, who arrived on a motorcycle while we were having breakfast. Our coed group quickly began to mesh as we engaged in the life of the program. We hiked the surrounding trails (although I’m not a hiking kind of gal), ate the prepared health-conscious meals and low-fat treats which were available throughout the day, attended group sessions, informational workshops, and went to individual counseling. After the first group where I felt animated and connected, the leader asked to speak to me. “Look, Jane,” he said, “you’re not the therapist here. You’re not in charge. I am. You’re the patient.” I got the message, took a step back, and was humbled and grateful. Letting go of the control, of the need to be in power, would allow me to be fully present. The week went on and we had massages, acupuncture, and yoga classes—and didn’t smoke, didn’t smoke, didn’t smoke.

We talked and walked and talked some more about our own lives and our smoking patterns. We expressed anger, frustration, sadness and regret over the actions and behaviors we’d long ago adopted to hide true feelings. The air was thick with emotion. We were all in withdrawal and bouncing off the walls. One night, a group of us who were unable to sleep broke into the kitchen and raided the refrigerator. We were college students on spring break! We had coalesced and became each other’s best buddies. There were shared highs and lows as defenses crumbled. We were a warm, funny, supportive group of grown-ups attempting what felt like the impossible. We laughed. A lot. And also cried. In the evenings we had meetings based on principles from Alcoholics Anonymous.

Did I want to smoke? Oh yes, oh please, oh pretty please yes. But I didn’t. I followed the scheduled program and allowed myself a number of meltdowns. I repeated the Serenity Prayer as my mantra and tried to hold on to the minute, the hour, and the day. I wanted to stay present and feel the feelings instead of inhaling them. The days passed and I graduated in a ceremony with hugs, handshakes, high-fives. And the hill? Well, you know the answer. I climbed it before leaving for the airport.

At home, I knew I was shaky and my recovery tentative. My body (physical dependency gone after three days of abstinence) no longer craved nicotine. My head did. My buddies were missing, distractions gone. And the store where I used to stock up was just a short block away. I forced myself to shop in other places. I couldn’t trust myself to be in my old haunts and not ask for cigarettes. Minute by minute, I was consciously choosing not to smoke. I felt as if I were in hell, wherever that was.

This is what I did do. I devoured the meditation books I found at my neighborhood bookstore. I made time for walks even if they were just to the corner or up and down the hallways of my apartment house. I cut straws the length of cigarettes and kept one in my mouth. I snacked on fresh vegetables, drank many bottles of water, and gave myself permission to have occasional food treats. I was edgy. I lined the entire border of my television with yellow post-its, each proclaiming “IF I SMOKE I’LL DIE” in black marker. In the evenings I’d read mysteries, watch TV, and if I couldn’t tolerate my feelings of impatience, anxiety, and boredom, I’d stand in the shower till the feelings passed. Time moved on and I was very clean.

Not smoking in those early days was extraordinarily difficult. I felt surrounded by triggers. I watched Casablanca, one of my favorite movies, and inhaled with Rick. I followed smokers on the street, breathing in their wake, and was suddenly conscious of the cigarette butts littering the sidewalk. My last few smoking friends were empathetic and so I stood with them in solidarity on smoking breaks until I realized it was like swapping spit with a sick friend. I had to stop this behavior. It took me longer to reply “yes” when a friend asked if I minded if he smoked.

I counted days of recovery and attended Nicotine Anonymous meetings in church basements and hospital conference rooms. I celebrated my first anniversary of abstinence in a parish hall. I could smell. I could taste. I was grateful. I could go off into the world without my armor. I was no longer dependent. I had learned that the desire for a cigarette would pass. And if I sat quietly and breathed through the feeling, I’d be okay.

Jane Seskin (www.janeseskin.com) is a licensed clinical social worker and the author of numerous essays and poems in national magazines and journals. Her latest book is Older, Wiser, Shorter: An Emotional Road Trip to Membership in the Senior Class. She has been a writer-in-residence at the Vermont Studio Center and Noepe Center For Literary Arts. For 20 years she counseled survivors at the Crime Victims Treatment Center in New York. She currently maintains a private psychotherapy practice with adult clients. Jane writes therapeutic sound bites (Emotional Band-Aid. Small Steps For Change.) on Twitter @jsauthorshrink.

Header image: The Fast by Audrey Jackson