For close to two years now, I’ve carried the same pack of cigarettes daily with me wherever I go... and I don’t even smoke.
Before anything, I would like to put out this caveat: this is not an anti-smoking PSA. Smokers and non-smokers alike are tired of hearing the same advice being forced down their throats. I feel that choosing whether or not to smoke is a personal matter, and repeated commercials berating the practice probably achieves opposite the intended effect. It is my opinion that if you are of the legal age to buy cigarettes and other tobacco products, you should also be considered mature enough to make your own decisions regarding their use. It is, after all, your body and your life.
At any time of any given day, in the right side pocket of my dark blue down jacket is a pack of Marlboro Menthols. This statement on its own sounds perfectly ordinary, but when paired with the fact that I don’t smoke, some questions are bound to (and do) come up. The most common question is, of course, about why. People will often say: “What is the point of carrying cigarettes if you don’t smoke? You’re definitely trying to look cool or something. It’s for the image of being a bad boy, isn’t it”. It isn’t to look cool at all, I promise. The reason is far more humble than that. Bear with me, there’s a method to my madness.
The reason why I carry cigarettes with me is because it serves as a reminder of the days when I used to smoke. It was my escape from the stress of a tough day, my way to unwind and reset my mind. To me it was cathartic, kind of like squeezing a stress ball. There was just one downside: each pull of the cigarette was a dosage of poison straight into my bloodstream. I had greater aspirations in life that extended beyond college. I realized that if I wanted to achieve these things and enjoy them to their fullest, I would need to drop this habit. I needed to quit, but I also needed a reason. I found that reason when I came home for a long weekend, when the stress of an especially hard week got to me. In a conversation with my mom, the topic of how I was doing came up. I gave her the usual response of “I’m doing alright, nothing to worry about.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t entirely the truth. But you guys know: nothing gets by moms. She raised an eyebrow at me and gave me a small smile.
“I know you’re not telling me the whole truth,” she said, laughing. “You’re so easy to read. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. You’re a good person, and I trust you. I’m sure you’ll decide what’s best.”
That conversation is what drove the point home, the final straw that allowed me to quit. I realized that quitting smoking wasn’t necessarily for me. More important in my eyes was that it was for the people that truly cared about me, my parents in particular. It would be so incredibly selfish of me to knowingly inflict harm upon myself when all they wanted for me was success. My parents were good, honest, hardworking people that would give anything to help me succeed, even if it meant the shirt off their backs. They gave me everything that they could growing up, to set me up for a life they couldn't have had themselves. They raised me better than someone that knowingly smokes those opportunities away. I couldn't disappoint them like that. I owe everything to them, they played a huge role in making me the person I am today. They deserve a son they can be proud of. I owe them that much, at the very least.So to all that are curious, that's why I carry the pack. It serves as a reminder of a darker time, as close to rock bottom as I've ever been in my life thus far. But its also a reminder that the power is in my hands. Cigarettes don't light themselves, I have to choose to. And so long as my will holds strong, they won't ever be lit. I have better things to do, and I see even better things in the coming future.
