What Smoking Gave Me

Nobody ever warned me about the effect giving up smoking would have on my mental health. If they did, I mustn’t have been listening. I’ve never been good at taking advice, in fact, I always thought I knew best.

I’d like to say that’s the reason I started smoking; because I thought I knew best, but to be honest I can’t remember why I started. How strange that I’m haunted by fleeting, insignificant moments of my past that sit on my shoulders and bite at my ankles, yet the habit that held my hand and cleared my mind for as long as I can remember has no inception. No birthday. It was just there. Until it wasn’t.

I remember when my struggles with mental health started. I remember when the dam broke. When it was time to clear house. I spent the best part of 3 years emptying that house. Once a week for 30 minutes. All the things I’d sold were handed to me on a pink sheet of A4 paper with reassurance that I’d had a good week. I usually had, and I loved what I'd done with the place.

I loved therapy because it never followed me out of the room. It never asked me how I was on a random Sunday night, or asked if everything was okay. I’ve always hated those questions. It usually meant I had to lie, or over perform to convince that everything was okay. Therapy was just there waiting for me. Until it wasn’t.

It was a safety net that reassured me I’d found a healthy way of dealing with my emotions. That my anxiety and depressive moods had a formidable foe that I’d forged myself. But for now, I’ll just pop out for a smoke. After all, it’s nothing too serious. What's the need to use my shiny new coping mechanisms? I’ll just have a cigarette and clear my head.

I was proud of what I'd built.

I didn't need to be ashamed of my mental health anymore because I'd gotten the better of it. I'd beaten it. It was a small chapter in my life that I wouldn't again revisit, but I could take pride in trying to help others, especially my male friends, be open about their struggles.

They could have a house just like mine.

I’ve been aware for a while now that my mental health will always be a challenge. That for as long as I live, it will too. I also believed that my healthy coping mechanisms would stand the test of time. That they would hold my hand and clear my mind.

The toughest part about giving up cigarettes is realising that behind all the smoke, my ways of coping weren’t as formidable as I’d believed for all these years. My mechanisms weren’t built on sand, but instead on Gold leaf and Golden Virginia Tobacco.

It can be incredibly tough to look in the mirror and admit that you’re not quite where you thought you were.

I gave up smoking 23 days ago at the time of writing, and according to my funny little phone app, I’m the healthiest I’ve been in years.

How clever the term can be.

My anxiety and low moods have no doubt heightened, but I’m relearning how to face them, this time with better knowledge and less fear. I can use the raw materials of the house that collapsed to rebuild. And if that falls, I’ll rebuild again.

My app tells me I’ve regained 6 days of life, so what’s the rush? I’ve got a little extra time to figure it out.