Things my mother never told me
By Theo Navarro
My mother is the kind of mother that wanted her children to be prepared for anything. She gave us realistic warnings and honest answers to all of our questions; whether the issue was sex or dealing with schoolyard bullies, my mother tried to make sure we knew how to handle things. This doesn’t mean, however, that we always listened to what she had to say.
My mother had always told my sister and me that her only real regret in life was that she had started smoking. She told us that it was the worst thing she had ever done, that she hated being an addict and that it was a constant financial drain. She made it clear to us that smoking was bad, that smoking was something to keep clear of. At sixteen years old, being the typical ignorant teenager that I was, I started smoking.
For three years I inhaled twenty of those smoldering, white death-sticks a day. My lungs grew heavy, my fingernails and teeth became stained. I smelled like a cloud of poison and my wallet was suddenly put on a diet. I had been warned of all of these things, they were things my mother had told me.
Then came the day when I decided that enough was enough, that it was pathetic that the longest relationship of my life so far was between me and a group of inanimate objects that was literally killing me. I decided to quit; not only that, but I decided to quit the day after my last A-Level exam, when I was just hung-over enough that the simple act of getting out of bed felt what I had always imagined a massive stroke to feel like. I knew that if I managed to get through a day like that without smoking, then I should be fine.
My mother is a woman with a great many accomplishments under her belt, but quitting smoking is not one of them. I had no warning about the horror of withdrawal symptoms, they were things my mother never told me, things my mother never knew.
That first day was the worst, and I must admit that the withdrawal coupled with the hangover literally reduced me to a writhing mess on the sofa. I should think that watching someone quit smoking would be a better deterrent than all the things my mother had told me, because there are not enough stained teeth or wasted pennies to compete with the sickening realization that you were a real, honest-to-god addict; that you conditioned your body to be dependant on a poison, and that every ounce of suffering is completely self inflicted.
Another thing I wish my mother had told me was that without nicotine calming me down and keeping me relatively docile, I would become so much more antagonistic. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been a bucket of rainbows and sunshine or anything, but I found that my tolerance for those people who I was not very fond of had all but disappeared. At one point it took every single bit of self-restraint I could muster to avoid telling a colleague of mine exactly what I thought of him and his “other people will pick up my slack” attitude towards work. I had become so used to sedating myself with nicotine that I had almost forgotten how to calm myself down without the use of a poisonous chemical. I felt ashamed at myself for being so irritable and snappy; for a few days I was bitter and downright rude. How my family put up with my one-liners and sarcasm I have no idea, however I will forever love them for their patience. I became almost as poisonous as the cigarettes I was craving.
The worst thing though, what I wish my mother really had told me, was that quitting smoking makes you gain weight. A lot of weight. I had heard this before from strangers, but assumed I could get through it, or more honestly, felt that after gaining weight from exams (doing nothing but studying and eating does not make for the healthiest routine it seems) I couldn’t possibly gain even more weight. I was wrong, so very wrong.
I’ve considered actually starting smoking again just to kill my appetite. My mother never told me that one of the biggest obstacles in quitting smoking is getting rid of the oral fixation. I’ve been a nail biter since I was about four years old, oral fixation has been a struggle from the beginning for me. Being a smoker, though, intensified that oral fixation. I find myself, post-coitus, in my new and much rounder form, resting my fingers against my lips, unconsciously simulating the classic post-coital smoke. I find myself eating when I’m not hungry, because my mouth is unoccupied. I find myself moving my lips, or chewing air, and looking like an idiot.
My mother told me a great many things that illustrated the cons of smoking, but not once did she mention the sheer hell of not smoking. I quit a month ago and I still need to exert an almost constant conscious effort to not go out and buy a pack of toxic Pall Malls to calm my nerves. I find myself missing the poison perfume that wafts out of the end of the smoldering little bastards. I can see why my mother never quit herself.
