Misstropolis

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Slash and Burn

by Jennifer Bruni

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I have spent a regrettably huge portion of my life swathed – albeit most of it furtively – in a cloud of cigarette smoke. I was a master closet smoker, dabbling in the dueling black arts of denial and deceit, nicotine and Dentyne, for well over two-thirds of my life. I smoked my first fag with a neighbor’s older sister, Doreen, who I can thank for introducing me to this thankless habit. She and my father, who, in his obsessive-compulsive fixation du jour, stockpiled packs of Trues in his sock drawer and glove compartment, lest the impending apocalypse destroy every last 7-Eleven in our vicinity.

I smoked, in part and in no particular order, because it was a great way to grab a break, because it gave me something to do, because it looked cool, because it helped me cope, because it made me feel more creative, and because it prevented me from shoving food into my mouth. But really I used cigarettes to numb my feelings. If I started to freak out, the almighty cigarette solved everything – at least while I puffed on one.

Once in a while I’d quit. I’d slap on a patch or travel the cold turkey route, but then I’d start smoking little by little until, like most addictions that seep and creep into your life, it became a full-time occurrence. Yet there were plenty of times when life was too hard to bear that I didn’t lean on cigarettes. When my beloved cousin Zachary killed himself a day after his 18th birthday, I didn’t smoke through any of the ensuing family horror. When the planes hit the World Trade Center, I was seven months pregnant, living in NYC, feeling my son spasm and shudder inside me, his tiny body absorbing the horror of those disorienting, TV-filled days and acrid, dream-filled nights. The rest of the city went on a bender, but I didn’t smoke. So I knew it was possible to cope with life’s stresses without turning to cigarettes.

I quit smoking on December 20th, 2006, at 4:48 PM, when I threw my fresh pack of American Spirits into my therapist Joyce’s fireplace. I went into her office that day and announced that I was ready to stop. No more bullshit. “Joyce, the fact that I am still smoking is completely fucking ridiculous,” I said. “I feel like I’m puffing up a big smokescreen to protect myself from the world. I need you to help me quit. But the thought of not smoking terrifies me.”

Joyce and I had worked together using EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) to help process my memories of September 11. She believed that if we examined the external emotional triggers that caused me to reach for a cigarette, and reformed my thought processes around them using EMDR, I would be able to quit for good.

And so I sat on Joyce’s couch and watched her hand as it moved back and forth, from right to left. We worked our way down the list of fears that had kept me smoking. If I gave cigarettes up, things would get worse: I wouldn’t be able to relax. I’d gain weight. I’d be more stressed. I’d be less creative. I linked each fear to a physical sensation, from a pain in my head, to my heart, to my gut. I then created logical responses to address each one of my fears, helping my brain integrate new, healthier beliefs. I realized that my vitality would only increase when I quit smoking, not the other way around. I left Joyce’s office elated. 

Shortly after that, my brother Nick came home from the Army for the holidays. In a final test from the universe, Nick took a small package out of his duffle bag and tossed it on the counter. “You can open this one now,” he said. It was two packs of American Spirits. “These are all natural. They’re supposed to be better for you than regular cigarettes,” he said, without a trace of irony. “Nick, this is my brand,” I said, “But I just quit three days ago!” I hid the packs for apocalyptic safekeeping until I came to my senses and threw them out the day after Christmas.

I quit smoking during the holidays, during my divorce, during one of the most stressful times of my life. And now, for the first time in more than 20 years, I don’t think about cigarettes, which is why I really feel cured this time. Quitting has been, to put it mildly, empowering. Eliminating the smokescreen that enshrouded my life has removed a layer of stress… and made me feel more alive. In fact, when I see people smoking I feel sorry for them – the true sign of the annoying Reformed Smoker.