The first days without a cigarette

I remember my first puff so well. Together with a friend behind the electricity box by the tracks in Utrecht Overvecht. She had stolen two cigarettes from her father. Pall Mall, I think. ‘Yuck. *COUGH COUGH! How can people find this enjoyable?’ I was fourteen.

Now I am twenty-six and have been smoking for twelve years. You should know: I belong to the rebellious category. If something is ‘not allowed’, I want it even more.

When smoking suddenly turned out not to be so cool anymore, almost three-quarters of my friends stopped. I was one of the few who just couldn't say goodbye to that little roll of tobacco in paper. When non-smoking friends came over – by now – a cigarette was just lit five minutes after entering. ‘Jesus, Kiek, there's something about you. I only want to smoke when I'm with YOU!’ What does that say about me? No idea. But I found it nice.

Last Thursday evening, I smoked my last cigarette. Not at all very symbolic with a lot of fuss, just in the doorway of the sliding door with the idea that it might be the last one. Now we are five days later and apart from a few small grumpy attacks (and a ‘I'm feeling very emo or something’ feeling) it's going fine. Smoking is an act of resistance that only young people can afford to do debt-free, I read in the NRC. ‘There are very few serious smokers over thirty, maybe none, who do not feel guilty about the damage they inflict on themselves.’ I think I find myself in exactly that stage now. I suddenly become damn aware of my mortality. Suddenly thinking about the future, about my lungs, about possible children.

More than ever, I feel like I'm ready. I was increasingly smoking two cigarettes a day. And yet it feels strange to suddenly make my long-time friend an enemy. I think I'm just not going to do it. The type of ex-smoker who says ‘ew’ the moment they smell smoke. I always find that a bit childish. Everyone should know for themselves what they do, but I'm not doing it. That's the stage I'm in now.

Of course I'm going to miss it, the cigarette after dinner, the cigarette with that good glass of white, the cigarette during the call with that friend. The cigarette that you accidentally break in two when pulling it out of a pack, after which you feel bad, the cigarette on the first bare-leg terrace day, the cigarette with which you can just come back to yourself. The inspiration cigarette, the I-just-got-off-the-plane cigarette, the cigarette at the bus stop and the cigarette here in the garden at Amayzine, just after lunch. The cigarette as a pastime.

Anti-smoking guru Allen Carr hammers on the following: ‘Smoking is only fun because the cigarette temporarily relieves the addict from the nagging feeling that something is missing. For twenty minutes, the world is okay again. After that, the nagging starts again.’ I want the nagging to stop. I no longer want to stand with a shiver down my back under a rain-soaked umbrella in the garden, panicking while sucking on a stick. No, it's over, Kiek. It's good like this. And if I succeed, I'm damn going to buy a nice bag, that will make you feel good. But first, proof. Stay tuned!