The first time I smoked a cigarette was when I wanted to piss off my girlfriend at the time. I didn’t know exactly how to do it. I ended up worrying for about a week because I felt a burning sensation in my throat every time I swallowed.
She taught me eventually. Thus, I became addicted. I wasn’t and still am not a junkie. I’m not fully aware of how this can affect my life. I’ve avoided looking at the precautions on the packs and reading something about the consequences on the internet. Knowing that I don’t smoke every single day keeps me from worrying. It actually even makes me feel good about myself.
I used to be a social smoker. I often offered to keep the packs in my room since there was no way I’d even get my hands near a stick unless I’d be in a gig. Times have changed.
A few months ago, I acquired the habit of smoking every time my heart felt heavy. So now, here I am, in my little pink room, puffing the smoke out the window, fanning it away from my also pink curtains.
It usually made me feel better.
However, at this moment, I feel worse. The foul taste I have on my tongue only reminds me of how my very own father sexually abused me not once but so many times that I’ve lost count. The man who has been working extremely hard to put me in a prestigious school, the same man who carried me from our car to my bed when I used to pretend to fall asleep after an enjoyable night with my cousins turned out to be someone I’d hate for the rest of my life. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very grateful for everything he has done. There would even be points in my life wherein I’d also thank him for doing such disgusting things to me because it made me the strong woman I am today but right now, I am not strong. I feel so weak and unimportant. As the heat almost touches my fingers, I almost wish ending my life would be as simple as crushing this cigarette into the dirty white metal and
8 months since this cringe worthy post I never even finished. What was I thinking?