A friend asked me via email yesterday why I started smoking again.  This post was my reply—with just a little more polish.

I started smoking again, for like the fourth time in my life, back in November. I didn't tell a soul, not even my boyfriend, who I lived with.

I came home one comfortable fall evening a little tipsy. And when I’m tipsy, I crave cigarettes.  Actually I’d been craving them off and on (and occasionally caved) ever since I “quit” almost two years prior.  I’d always find some lonely smoker who was happy to bum me a smoke in return for company, or a bartender who would take pity on me.  But on this particular night, after several cocktails and feeling the weight of a faltering relationship, I heard a voice say “That’s it. You’re buying cigarettes.”

I was quite functional in my inebriated state. And particularly upbeat, even under the harsh fluorescent lights of my neighborhood grocery store. I cruised through the entrance exuding the kind of energy that only the addicted on the cusp of a score can understand.

After a quick transaction and finally safe in my back yard, I surprised myself at how the series of actions that make up a habit can return so easily:  packing the cigarette box so the tobacco compresses against the filter; grabbing the tag and ripping away the outer plastic; and then finally tearing away the little flap of foil inside. All done within seconds. Before I even lit that first cigarette I realized that half of what I missed about smoking was pure ritual.

A heady mix of relief and pleasure rushed through me for seven glorious minutes while I smoked that cigarette.  And when it was over, I felt the exact opposite of how I did in the grocery.  I felt guilty over what I’d just done, and anxious about when I could do it again.

The same voice that told me to buy cigarettes piped up again: “well now smart girl what are you gonna do with the smokes?”

So I lit another one.

I hid my little pack of shame in our closet, tucked inside the pocket of a purse I never used, which was stuffed inside a plastic bin I rarely opened. To my knowledge, he never found it.  And if he did he never told me. But man I had a whole system worked out:  scoop the cat litter, carry the bag outside, smoke and watch for his car, stub out the butt and put it in the bag, tie it up and then toss into the trashcan.  I had a built-in excuse: "oh hey, just taking out the trash!" 

Unconsciously I wanted to get caught so we could address our problems. But at the time, unaware of my own motive and protective of my little secret, I was always careful to sweep away any trace of ash. I stubbed my butts out in dirt in order to not leave a mark on the cement.  As for the smell—the tell-tale sign of a smoker that’s damn near impossible to hide—I was always quick to jump in the shower (usually with a toothbrush) and go to bed long before he came home.

Gradually, I began to smoke more as the as the relationship continued to break down, but always in secret. I took bigger risks, like smoking when I knew he was on his way home instead of when I knew I had several hours. My unconscious motive was still there: I was becoming desperate for him to pay attention.

Now, almost 3 months after moving out, I see what a completely devolved state I was living in.  I am not proud of any of this. And I realize how shitty all of this sounds.  I wish I could have said, “Hey babe, you know what? I started smoking again. We need to talk.”

I've questioned whether or not the relationship could have been saved if I'd just opened up.  But I know myself better than to follow that line of thinking. I think maybe a better question to ask is how to do it better next time.

Quitting again is really going to suck.