"Butt" head...

The hunger for change is the beginning of possibilities. Yet not all possibilities offer good promises..

There is a comical cliche I often hear that runs deep with me, that few may realize. "You're smokin' crack Brende!" Says my good friend Tim with a smile, often in response to me saying something that sounds outlandish and difficult to believe. In my own unique way, I simply pause, remember, and say, "No. . . I'm not."

I began smoking at the age of 14. Smoking starts as a fantasy, a facade. My desire to be feared was worth any price. I was scrawny. I stuttered. Insecurity owned me. Smoking would create the illusion that I was over the edge, too dangerous to be messed with. This would be a tall order, but it starts with an agreement. You have to put all your chips in. You have to move from puffing to inhaling and accept the payment of your purchase.

My neighbor buddy handed me my first cigarette. We were two blocks from home on a curbside. He dared me to "smoke it." I mustered up my courage, putting aside all prior countless warnings from my elders. The biggest one being, "certain death from lung cancer." I sat on the curb considering the price. Once convinced my life would be short and miserable anyway, I was ready to bind myself to the agreement. I put the Marlboro Red to my lips. Like the movies, I slid it a little to the side and fired up the lighter. Then I sucked in deep. Instantly my lungs rejected the new resident. My friend laughed as he watched me gag. Recollecting myself, I tried again. My lungs burned like fire. Could anyone really enjoy smoking? It was awful.

I was determined however to complete the mission. I was holding to the promise. I would not let one cigarette get the best of me. I bought my own pack of Marlboro's and continued to practice. In a short time, I became completely hooked. I was officially a "Smoker!"

In the beginning, it's a love relationship. Cigarettes became my most intimate allies. In every moment of stress they comforted me. In every thought of suicide, they offered another hour. With every question of whether I was cool, they had an answer. Even in the darkest of moments, they held out an ember of light. Yet, as it turned out, I discovered they ultimately wanted to call all the shots. They wanted complete ownership over my life.

They demanded my attention at all times. I found that if I was down to my last cigarette, I was riding my bike through snow and zero degree temperatures for several miles to buy my next pack. Sometimes, if I didn't have the money to buy a pack, I was mining through ash trays to smoke every butt down to the last tar soaked filter.

Most nights when I was drinking heavily, their buddies wanted in. I would easily smoke an extra 3 packs. I remember one party, I accidently swallowed three butt brothers chugging a beer that turned out to be an ashtray. In the end, the contract was making me a tar-soaked, ashtray-mouthed, soot-coughing "butt" head with a smaller backbone than when I started. I wanted out. But that would not be easy.

The bargaining for ownership goes deeper and darker. Once there is an established "need" to smoke, the "Big Dogs" come knocking. Joints, for example, look mostly the same, but instead of 5 minutes, they offer a stimulus package of 2 hours. Marijuana then connects you to three foot bongs and other smoking tools. In no time, Crystal Meth and Crack Cocaine, offering up to 8 hours of adrenaline pumping power, turn everything else into second hand smoke. Then comes the twist. Mere smoke becomes too slow. The only direct route to the blood steam introduces "the needle."

I took every step, hook, line, and sinker. After five years, I had taken smoking as far as I knew possible, and discovered a dead end.

Ironically, the only people by this point that "feared" me, were those once closest to me, now alienated by my psychotic episodes. I was ready and determined to break the agreement once and for all.

So I started with cigarettes. I went back to the curbside where the agreement first began. Attempting to quit sent me into turmoil. Peace and comfort were replaced with anxiety and stress. I would last a matter of hours before I came crawling back for my next fix. Finally, after a long morning of hacking soot, I packed my bags to leave for good. Cold turkey.

The first full day was the worst. Somehow there was a kind of voice whispering constantly. I could hear them calling out to me demanding I return. Yet, I resisted and held my ground. The next day, I rallied a small army. I challenged a group of co-working smokers at the printing company to join me in the exodus. We wagered $10 each. If you break, your $10 stays in the pool. The last one who holds out keeps the pot. Three days later, I was already stronger and $40 dollars richer. I felt as though I was establishing a newfound independence and freedom.

Three weeks passed and though I was still smoke-free, I was wavering. I was so edgy. Throughout each long day I was fidgeting and fretting. How could I possibly last? I had no foundation to build a new life away from my dependancy for instant gratification. The journey was going to take all of me. And I was not sure what I had left.

I would need another rescuer before this story takes a turn....