Nicotine Addiction
Don't Believe Everything You Read

So you're physically addicted to nicotine. Are you absolutely certain? Everything you've heard tells you so, medical research, the government, your smoking friends. The physical addiction facts are pervasive, well documented, and irrefutable, or are they? I am not convinced. Let me tell you why.

Recent surveys indicate that millions of people in the United States want to quit. The link between smoking and death should be convincing enough to make anyone want to stop. Is it that people hope modern medicine will painlessly rescue them from their addiction when they really get serious about quitting? The nicotine patch, support groups, hypnosis, nicotine gum, and lots of other quitting aids are just waiting for them to say, let's get to it. I ran the gamut of all of these quitting crutches, then accepted my addiction.
The experts convinced me.

"I'll quit when I'm ready,was my promise to myself, said without much conviction. Easy enough to tell my non-smoking friends that I would, some day soon. Lying comes easy when you believe you are hopelessly addicted. I had a mental vision of what nicotine withdrawal pains would be like, and I wasn't interested.

I chuckled. Humor, sick humor about cigarettes danced in my head. A slender beauty dressed in a virgin white, passionately calling to my hungry lips, full bodied, firm, and filtered for my personal protection. Yup, that white stick was a sweetheart. It had seen me through thick and thin, trial, tribulation, celebration, and sorrow.

My darling was around even when told she wasn't wanted; she recovered when I threw her out the car window in a fit of anger; stayed handy though she knew I hated her. My soul mate didn't understand the words, it's over, and didn't get it when told, never again. When she wasn't around, panic sent me hurtling off to find her, to bring her back so I my lips could savor her one more time. Together, I knew we could face anything the world could dish out.

More and more I sought comfort with others who shared my habit. We would huddle together in inconvenient places, banned from social contact with holier- than- though non-smokers. It made me angry. My friend deserved better. I deserved better. Wasn't it my right to smoke? People who tolerated us for years, now sneered down their noses at us.

Then life took an unexpected turn. I found myself attending a three day seminar with a group of associates, all non-smokers. I had gotten so good at hiding my habit that none of them knew I smoked, and I did not consider coming-out an option. The world had made me ashamed of being a smoker, but not enough for me to change my ways. It would be tough, but hidden in my motel room, my secret would be safe. So as not to be tempted during the course of the first day, I left my cigarettes at home.

A busy day and evening followed, and I managed to keep the thought of not smoking out of my mind. Not smoking wasn't about quitting. I had no intention of quitting.

That evening, in the bar I dared not smoke since several non-smoking members from my group were at my table. Mercifully, the time to go to bed finally arrived. My friends headed for their rooms. I excused myself to purchase a newspaper. . . and secretly buy a pack of cigarettes. After all, it had been nearly twenty-two hours since my last smoke. I wanted one badly. I deserved one.

With that in mind I headed for the lobby gift shop to buy a pack. I had the gift shop in sight when the woman behind the cash register stepped to the front of the shop, and with what seemed an act of spiteful arrogance, pulled a chain linked gate down with a clatter. The CLOSED sign stared vacantly into the lobby mocking the futility of my mission.

Surely, there must be another place where I could get a pack of cigarettes. I searched frantically for a cigarette machine. Unable to find one, tired and depressed, I forced myself to the solitude of my room. I was alone without my friend for the first time in over forty years. That was my last thought before I fell asleep.

I awoke fearful of what I expected to endure, the pains of chemical withdrawal. Odd, no pain, only a sense of wanting something I didn't have. Another day without smoking. "Damn," I muttered to myself for not bringing cigarettes. I'd buy some later.

Then, for no particular good reason, I asked myself an important question. What if trying to quit was about losing a good friend? Could smoking be an emotional connection to cigarettes? After all, I managed to sleep the night through without having one. Eight hours without a cigarettes at night, even when my smokes were available, made me wonder just how controlling my addiction really was.

At noon I took stock, realizing that thirty-six hours had passed without a cigarette. My body seemed okay. At least there was no physical desire raging within me, demanding a nicotine fix.

I watched a group of smoking seminar participants gather outside. I was tempted to join them -- to bum a cigarette. I didn't.

Could I really live without one of the closest friends I ever had? I wondered what I would do when the pains of withdrawal from nicotine deprivation hit me? Would my body be able to withstand the chemical imbalance taking place inside it? I didn't want to stop smoking, but I admit the idea was starting to take root. After all, it had been two days without a cigarette.

It now has been over ten years since my last puff. I stopped smoking forever that day. I no longer think about the anguish of withdrawal, because it never came. Some ex-smokers tell me how they suffered when first deprived of nicotine. For me, it never happened. They accused me of lying. Interestingly, my experience is also true for some other ex-smokers. My count of such persons is now twenty-two. It is by no means a large enough sample to be of scientific value, and, of course I get plenty of answers telling me I am nuts. Nevertheless, I am always delighted to hear from those that didn't suffer physical withdrawal distress when they quit.

Yes, my emotional separation from smoking hurt. I quit without the help of pharmaceutical devices, or support groups, and without withdrawal spasms. I still look back at my smoking days with fondness. Who among us doesn't sorely miss an old friend? Simply put, it was an emotional tie I decided to get along without. I had been persuaded by science that I was physically dependent on nicotine and couldn't quit, something that turned out to be untrue.

I am irreverent about what researchers say regarding the physical addictiveness of nicotine. Why wouldn't I be? I am well educated enough to understand how some would think me brain dead for not embracing the research regarding the addictiveness of nicotine. I waited apprehensively for the symptoms of withdrawal to strike. I now believe smoking, for me at least, was a psychological dependency rather than a physical addiction. I rebel against the barrage of the sole point of view favoring physical dependency. In my opinion, it keeps smokers from trying to quit.

Why don't the experts on smoking cessation tell people they just might be an exception to painful physical withdrawal. Perhaps, if this fact were known, more of us would have the courage to stop smoking sooner. At the very least, we would summon the courage to try.

©Copyright 2006 by Raymond D. waier

rerurn to top of page