Oh the taste of that first cigarette in the morning. Sitting in the kitchen with the first cup of coffee of the day, this I think to myself has got to be the best feeling in the world. Now I know there are those of you out there who are thinking it’s not the best feeling in the world, actually, its slow suicide. I just can’t stop. I’ve tried to and at some point in the next few months I will try again. The problem is every time I try to stop, I feel resentful. I am not a chain smoker, I don’t smoke three or four packs a day I only smoke one pack. I am not one of those people who wake up three or four times a night to smoke. No, to me better then smoking is sleeping and I’d rather sleep. The reason why I feel resentful when I try to quit is because it’s the only pleasure I get out of this crappy life.
I grew up in a family of smokers. Everyone smoked and most of them smoked themselves to death. My own mother had triple bypass surgery because of all the years she spent smoking. It’s ironic that she had actually quit smoking two years before her surgery, which is lucky for her but she still has trouble breathing. The only reason why she quit was because she couldn’t afford to smoke any more, not because she wanted to.
As a kid I remember being in the car with my parents. Now the summer months weren’t so bad but in the winter, my sisters and I would be sitting in the back seat, all the windows up and both my parents would be smoking. If we complained they told us to shut up. If we wanted to roll down a window my mother would yell it’s too cold. How’s that for second hand smoke. It’s no wonder I smoke. Those two should have been arrested for child endangerment or abuse. But hey that was pretty normal back then. I remember my mother taking me to family doctor when I was sick. He’d have a cigarette burning away and my mother would light up as well as soon as she sat her butt in the patient’s chair and the kind doctor would say “here Marilyn, here’s the ashtray”.
I started smoking quite young. I was around fourteen years old when I picked up this nasty habit. I know its nasty but I can’t help it. Much to my shame I smoked during my first three pregnancies, but did manage to stop for pregnancy four and five. I really suffered. As soon as I gave birth I was screaming at my husband to get me some cigarettes. Luckily I only spent two days in the hospital with the last two. I remember giving birth to my first two children; they allowed us to smoke in the rooms. People back then didn’t know any better.
At least I can say that I didn’t smoke in the car when my children were inside. I smoke in the house though, but I live in a tropical country and my house is open all day with a fan going until I go to bed at night. Not like when I was a kid growing up in Canada, the long winter months, the house tightly closed and adults inside smoking and when we had company the smoke was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Maybe that’s why our mother threw us outdoors every chance she got.
No one forced me to smoke I decided all by myself. My cousin started first and I just naturally started. The first time my dad saw me with a cigarette he pulled it out of my fingers and yelled at me not to smoke, but it was ok to drink at the age of fifteen, such logic. I do have to say though that I do regret starting smoking. Now at the age of fifty-one my mortality is staring me in the face. I want to quit, so maybe I should try the patch or the pills they have now to help you quit. Or I could sit and stare at the disgusting pictures they put on the packages now, if that doesn’t make me quit, I don’t know what will.
I grew up in a family of smokers. Everyone smoked and most of them smoked themselves to death. My own mother had triple bypass surgery because of all the years she spent smoking. It’s ironic that she had actually quit smoking two years before her surgery, which is lucky for her but she still has trouble breathing. The only reason why she quit was because she couldn’t afford to smoke any more, not because she wanted to.
As a kid I remember being in the car with my parents. Now the summer months weren’t so bad but in the winter, my sisters and I would be sitting in the back seat, all the windows up and both my parents would be smoking. If we complained they told us to shut up. If we wanted to roll down a window my mother would yell it’s too cold. How’s that for second hand smoke. It’s no wonder I smoke. Those two should have been arrested for child endangerment or abuse. But hey that was pretty normal back then. I remember my mother taking me to family doctor when I was sick. He’d have a cigarette burning away and my mother would light up as well as soon as she sat her butt in the patient’s chair and the kind doctor would say “here Marilyn, here’s the ashtray”.
I started smoking quite young. I was around fourteen years old when I picked up this nasty habit. I know its nasty but I can’t help it. Much to my shame I smoked during my first three pregnancies, but did manage to stop for pregnancy four and five. I really suffered. As soon as I gave birth I was screaming at my husband to get me some cigarettes. Luckily I only spent two days in the hospital with the last two. I remember giving birth to my first two children; they allowed us to smoke in the rooms. People back then didn’t know any better.
At least I can say that I didn’t smoke in the car when my children were inside. I smoke in the house though, but I live in a tropical country and my house is open all day with a fan going until I go to bed at night. Not like when I was a kid growing up in Canada, the long winter months, the house tightly closed and adults inside smoking and when we had company the smoke was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Maybe that’s why our mother threw us outdoors every chance she got.
No one forced me to smoke I decided all by myself. My cousin started first and I just naturally started. The first time my dad saw me with a cigarette he pulled it out of my fingers and yelled at me not to smoke, but it was ok to drink at the age of fifteen, such logic. I do have to say though that I do regret starting smoking. Now at the age of fifty-one my mortality is staring me in the face. I want to quit, so maybe I should try the patch or the pills they have now to help you quit. Or I could sit and stare at the disgusting pictures they put on the packages now, if that doesn’t make me quit, I don’t know what will.
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