Anxious Cigarettes

I was twelve years old when I finally stopped sucking my thumb. I did that on my own. My mum had tried multiple techniques; mustard, nail biting prevention liquid, shouting at me, confiscating my blanket. Yet, all the while I felt the need to rebel and continue to self-soothe by sucking my thumbs, rubbing the bridge of my nose with my index finger and inhaling the familiar smell of normality from my blanket (Which my dad would call my “smoke filter”). The sensations that satisfied the olfactory system helped me through a lot of stressful years, so of course I would never stop just because I was told too. I had to, and did, stop in my own time; when I was ready.

I was fifteen years old when I tried my first cigarette. I had been stressed out from school and home life,I needed that olfactory release again. A cigarette seemed like the adult approach at the time. I had recently dealt with my first break-up and I had started hanging with the wrong crowd of people. There wasn’t anything wrong with them, they just didn’t have ambition anymore. I asked to try it and was given one by a friend. I lay on the park bench in the pitch black, toking on my first cigarette and listening to Stay High by Tove Lo on repeat. Although the relationship had been short, it still hurt and the nicotine high was the closest feeling to an escape I had.

Having returned home that evening, I had spent most of my night upstairs - as most teenagers do. I normally had a curfew for my phones; nine p.m. every night. However, I had recently got a new phone from my father as a birthday gift. So, the phone my mum had got for me was on charge at the right time; whereas I was still using my other phone upstairs. On this night it was roughly twelve a.m. and I had been on the phone to a friend for the best part of two hours to help her with her mental health and relationship issues. Although this was the case, my mum insisted on stomping up stairs, snatching the phone out of my hand and taking it across the hallway to the bottom of her stairs; leading to her bedroom on the third floor.

She was sat on a chair facing my direction down the hallway; it was dark and resembled something out of a horror movie. She began scrolling and I knew what was coming. Why did you thank him for the lighter?! My head began to spin and my gut was throbbing, I knew this wasn’t going to go well. This churning sensation became so consistent over the years that my ability to predict conflict became practically psychic. The whole area dark; just my mum’s face illuminated from the screen, when she finally looked up at me, with eyes full of bitterness and hate. My mum would often boast about her “psycho eyes” but I never considered it something to be proud of.

“Have you got something to tell me?” She asked, her throat twitched with anger.

I had already planned my next move. I couldn’t win if I lied nor if I told the truth. So I told the truth anyway and dealt with whatever followed. She used to always say to me and my younger brother ‘If you own up to something, I will be less angry in comparison to when you lie to me.’ But this was never the case. Me and my brother both knew that you would get the same response either way.

“I tried a cigarette tonight. It was just one and I thanked him for giving me a lighter.” I calmly explained, hoping for the best possible outcome.

Although not physically possible, I could have sworn her eyes turned black. I could feel the tension suffocating me. Within seconds I had my back against the wall and could not feel the floor beneath my feet. My breathing was temporarily compromised and I didn’t know what to do except cry and try to say ‘sorry’ as much as it would take for her to loosen her grip. After what felt like a few minutes (but was actually probably only a few seconds), I was no longer in the air and was in fact being pulled into my bedroom; grabbed my the scruff of my neck, and thrown onto the bed. There was a lot of shouting and swearing. I didn’t respond much, just to continue the ‘sorry’ party I had begun moments before.

Needless to say it didn’t work. So my next option was to stay silent and wait for her to cool down in her own time. She finally decided she was bored and headed downstairs; my phone in hand. Prepare yourself, you know what’s coming. I took a deep breath in and waited for the inevitable cracks and shatters I would hear from below me. Both phones, smashed against the bricks outside, never to be used or enjoyed again. I felt my heart and freedom cry a little inside me. The feeling of your only escape being removed for the third time; it’s soul crushing. You should have just put both phones downstairs, stupid girl.

The next thing I remember is my mum explaining to me that my dad would be at the home soon so he could have his say too. I remember being stood in the kitchen making him a cup of tea upon his arrival. I don’t know if my dad had noticed how drawn out and scared I looked, or if he just wanted to piss my mum off but the only response I received from my father was,

“Listen, I can’t tell you off for smoking. I smoke plenty, and so does your mum. Just make sure you aren’t stealing any.”

I was baffled. My dad threw me a smirk and my mum’s rage had returned to the surface once more.

“Is that all you have to say?”My mum exclaimed.

“What do you mean? What do you want me to say? We both smoke Dannii, there was a high possibility she would end up a smoker too.” My dad replied, annoyed by her ignorance.

After a few moments silence, my dad decided he would leave and I headed up to bed. I remember crying myself into the early morning hours, just hoping that it had all been a bad dream. You’re so stupid. Why did you bother smoking? Why did you leave a trail? Why didn’t you leave your phone downstairs? How come you keep messing up? Start doing better.

I was eighteen years old when I finally left home. I remember going to my dads and feeling just as guilty and scared as I did feel happy and relief. Every time he lit a cigarette my heart would hurt and I’d feel a constant sensation down my spine; as if I was going to be scolded. My dad tried to help me as much as possible to understand that a lot of my childhood was not my fault; it’s just not that easy to accept it without closure. I began working as a care worker within a few months of saving home. I was nicely settled in my own home and with my beautiful cat, Missy. I was a domiciliary care worker, which means going from home-to-home to provide care. During my shifts, I would often pass by a little corner shop, which I would regularly use to purchase snacks and drinks.

One day, I was walking past on a hot day, when I realised I had some time spare. As I was walking around,I had the urge to try a cigarette again; like my body had reset it’s system. There were a couple times I had to argue it out, but my brain insisted on playing rough. You’re gonna get found out. She’s gonna come and scream at you. Who’s around, your dad won’t be happy. I finally just reminded myself that I am an adult now. I can make my own decisions. So I entered the shop, approached the counter, took a long and deep breath in,

“Twenty pack of Sterling Dual please. And a lighter!” I released with a grateful sigh afterwards.

The shopkeeper handed me over the cigarettes after checking my ID. I headed outside and unwrapped the thin plastic covering, which at the time felt as though I was removing an old part of me, in the healthiest way. I took out the first cigarette, held it between my teeth and lit it. Within seconds a sensation of nicotine-fuelled pride washed over my body. I was beginning to free myself from the unnecessary hurt.

What had began as a childhood soothing technique transferred into a bad adult habit, yet the habit helped me release myself from emotional chains holding me back. I still suck my thumb every once in a while, if things are really bad. I smoke daily. I believe there’s a lot of research that could be done to compare the children who used to suck on a dummy or their thumbs, are they more likely to smoke when they’re older?