on cigarette-smoking

addictions, reflections, loneliness, god-complexes,

Trigger warning: very brief mentioning of suicidal ideation and self-harm.

Dear whomever,

It was inevitable I become a smoker. Predestined.

It feels like I’ve been asked if I was a smoker ever since I was young, teachers and friends sniffing me in the mornings, wondering, expecting. To me cigarette smoke isn’t a smell I can detect - throughout my years I’ve grown so accustomed to dirty air - I couldn’t explain to you what a cigarette smells like. It’s never bothered me, that question, truly. I knew my mother was a heavy smoker, I knew I wasn’t, and have never felt the need to prove it.

I’ve, admittedly, held some pride over the fact that my mothers lifetime addiction never made itself known to me. I tried, of course, a handful of times, to adopt her habit: a secret cigarette shared with my cousin in a forgotten bedroom at a family gathering, a handful of stolen ones from my best friend in college, Shisha, here and there, as is traditional of this country and culture, but my friends/acquaintances/colleagues would always rattle - You’re not smoking, you’re not holding it right, you’re not even inhaling. The way you smoke isn’t right, it’s funny, it’s fake.

The holding of a cigarette has a pre-requisite, of course: a cigarette between your fingers is not only an action, not an activity, no, it must be a decided thing, it must be sure, confident: it must be held and allowed to destroy. Unlike anything else. You can’t drink alcohol wrong, for example, even if yours tastes more like juice, even if you’re more or less lightweight. You can only smoke wrong: you must pull it inside, you must feel it in your lungs; the audience must see it being done in a certain way. Smoking, in the end, is a performance. Not an addiction to nicotine, but an addiction to the performative addiction to nicotine.

At least that’s just my opinion. (But also has been studied¹.)

My friend got upset, once, at my “wasting” of her cigarettes. I’d indulged in their habit only to fit in, only to join her in our breaks - perhaps as an act of love, in a need to belong - but to her, it was a waste if not done correctly. A test: they all stared at me, that group of half-friends, almost-anger in their gazes, insisting that I inhale, that I really smoke. Do it right, do it right, do it right. What’s the point if you don’t do it right?

I coughed, that day, so hard, so painfully, and she looked at me like she’d proved a point, her gaze like a mothers. See? I told you so. I was shocked that smoking was, in its essence, a painful activity. More importantly, I didn’t understand why it bothered them so much, that I had smoked just because. That I joined them in their act, not as an addict, not because I had to, but only because I wanted to be a part of their little ritual: the shared pack, the one lighter going around, the pull to converse.

I swore to myself I’d never repeat it, that I would never ask anyone for a cigarette: not just because of the disgust and pain of that cough, but due to the embarrassment of failing the thing that brought them altogether. I accepted my stance as an outsider that day, and continued as such. They stopped inviting me when they went out for cigarettes, and I would watch them from afar, huddled together, even in the cold, sharing, talking, laughing. I watched them until I left them, until their smoking took them away for longer periods, until we ceased speaking at all.

Some years later, I continued to watch people smoke - some would include me, many wouldn’t. My mother, my aunts, my siblings. I’ve always enjoyed watching the process, wondering about the mindset. They all differed, in minute ways. In the hold of the lighter, in the way they pressed their lips against the cigarette, the way their face changed as they lit the end. Their preferences on taste, on type, on distribution. It always interested me: offered me some insight into their minds.

There was a lover who would roll his cigarettes at night with unending focus, eyebrows coming together, fingers dirty with tobacco. He perfected it just as he liked to do with all things: the roll, the fold, the painstaking twist at the end. When he would take his first puff, his face would contort in a way I just cannot describe: a way that makes my thoughts muddle, makes the words in my head slow.

Something about men smoking eulogizes me, I admit. The ritual behind the action infuses me with a drug-like substance: the way his hands cup the air to allow the fire of his lighter, the way he holds his concoction, softly, between his lips. The way he breathes the disgusting in, with ease, with neediness and want. Everything about this act is sensual to me, when I’m across the right person, when I can watch them with my entire being.

Time slows.

His eyes would meet mine, always watching intently, unapologetically, and as he must, he would offer some to me, in a silent language, and how could I not accept? I always nodded, and he would reach over and hold it to my mouth. I didn’t have to raise even my arms, for this act, all I was asked to do was breathe.

He would smirk ever so softly after I’d pull away, as though it was an inside joke between us - as if he allowed me a cigarette as you would allow a child a sip of your soda. And then he would go on with his act, with this dirty act which has held everyone around me hostage for the entirety of my life. They speak of tobacco as though it’s this untamable beast, a nuisance, something they wish they didn’t do. But they do it, despite: they do it, religiously, like prayer, like mass. People smoke like I love: obsessively.

I am not an addict, in general. Things don't seem to hook me like they do others; you know, the alcohol, the coffee, the vapes and the cigarettes. Me, I don’t get addicted to physical things, really, not over long periods. A video game might hold me hostage for a few weeks, maybe a show, a book. But otherwise, I am free of the monster they speak of, the harsh need for coffee first thing in the morning, the waking up in the middle of the night for a hit of a vape, the shaking hands and headache for not doing whatever it may be. What I’m addicted to is completely intangible: love, lust, sadness, yearning, anxiety.

I eventually buy my own pack, just a few weeks prior to when you’ll read this. I think it’s to make space for my sick minds quiet yearn for death, or perhaps partly to fill the void of organized prayer. I don’t know. I see a cigarette as a habit - a ritual - a thing to do with your hands - it is a lover that remains on the other side of your bed despite your constant cry of “I really do want to leave!” - a more powerful thing than its servant, always, - or perhaps, perhaps, for me it’s become a reminder, a faraway feeling, that I, like everyone else in my periphery, smoke - perhaps, in some way, this act brings me closer to belonging in spaces, like I had assumed it would in college - perhaps I was right that I should frequent smoking rooms, that the loneliness is exhausting, the being different tiring - that I should share any space with any being, and the easiest group would be the people who find me familiar only because I mirror their polluted inhale, exhale.

People like things that remind them of themselves. This much, I have learned in my life. We are selfish beings, only ever looking for mirrors, for reflections. Even the people who claim they are dating their opposites are in love with nothing but a reflection of themselves: perhaps two sides of the same coin, perhaps overthinkers of different topics, perhaps addicts of different taste, two people of different habits, two lovers of opposite extremes: and you’ll notice, after I’ve said this, that people don’t separate or fight over lukewarm issues, it’s always extremities, and most of the time, it is the disapproval of two things that are completely mirror-like in comparison. We are always clashing over reflections of the same fundamental issues.

So, you see, the smokers didn’t like that I didn’t smoke - the difference made them uncomfortable. They challenged me to an authentic pull of the cigarette: a test, an asking: Are you really like me, as you pretend? I coughed and there was a small, subconscious alarm, going off in their mind: Different! Different! Morally and deeply different! Can’t relate! Can’t relate! Can’t relate!

The reflection in the mirror changed. It’s a terrifying thing, of course.

@leylafleeur via X

Alas, it can represent many things, this pack that now sits in my purse, the newest companion to my wallet,

I am a writer, after all, so I can give you any metaphor, any comparison, and you will accept it, melt at it, wonder about it. This pack fills my void, my need for love, my yearning for companionship, my this or that. Anything goes, and I think it’s all of the above.

Anything goes, is what I would tell my students, when I used to teach essay writing: Just prove a point, whatever point you want. All you must do is give me evidence, reasoning.

That’s all?

That’s all.

As I write this, I think about when I was 12, reading about Augustus Waters and how he put the killing thing right between his teeth, but didn’t give it the power to do the killing.²

I do. I hold the cigarette between my lips, I cup the fire that brings it to life, I give it the power to do the killing. Maybe I’d like it to do the killing, to relieve me of the act. There is a silence that comes from my suicidal mind when I smoke - as though it is content now that at least I’ve resounded to do it slowly. An act of self-harm, a cigarette becomes, in my mind. A twisted companion that joins me for my walks, that listens to my frustrations, that quiets my worries.

The boy - the sexy, slow, unbearable boy from above - he did too, I believe, from my knowledge of him, from the way my mind thinks of him. The girl at uni, as well, who was my ‘best friend’ for a short while. In her urging for me to do the act in its entirety, in her wanting me to join in on the pain a cigarette brings, she meant for me to feel her hurt. Maybe.

We do everything to die - if you think about it enough, the act of living is only a walk towards death. But smoking, ah, smoking is only slightly different, and that’s the fun of it. Smoking can be a pointed aggression, an outward display of hatred for your body, of your life, of your lungs. A stress relief that only adds more stress. Most of all it is a gamble, a cyclical thing will never provide respite, no end, an almost fetishy Sisyphean pastime.

I inhale, in the present moment, and it doesn’t hurt so much - practice makes perfect. I light one after the other, make my way around the neighborhood, Still Woozy meandering in my ears. There is no coughing, no, but a specific burn which silences my mind in the perfect, perfect way - it’s almost sex, the relief it brings me orgasmic. And as you know, I’ve needed relief.

At the outdoor picnic table at work, the designated smoking area I’ve only recently allowed myself to step into, my colleagues joke about this new habit of mine, as though we’re old friends, as if we’ve been talking forever; suddenly I am a familiar thing, an easy conversation; all of it damning proof of my reflecting of them working -

It starts like this, they say, All casual, but then you can never stop. And I nod, cigarette in my mouth, Sure, sure, whatever. People talk about cigarettes like they are toxic relationships; it’s like listening to your friend complain about her shit boyfriend on a never-ending loop. Me, of course, I’m better, I will keep telling myself - I don’t smoke for the taste, or the addiction. I smoke because I should. I smoke because I deserve respite: I deserve brokenness, I deserve to counter my long life of wanting to be better, wanting to be good.

They wouldn’t understand my reasoning, my explanation, my ever remaining god-complex, and my complexity on top of that: reader, I would never be an addict just to be. I would never fall into a hole if it wasn’t my own doing. It would never be accidental. All I do is purposeful, even the bad. That’s what makes me worse than everyone else.

My neighborhood smells fresh in the cool of tonight, countering my small prayer of self-destruction;

I like watching the trees in the air, I like walking past the smells of the plants, I like enjoying my quiet street, wondering what life lives behind this or that lit window. I walk, partly, to tell my therapist I did. I walked. I went for a walk. Aren’t I so good. I walked and I smoked, too: I balanced self-love with self-hatred. Aren’t I so complex.

I think I’ve become obsessed with destroying the image I believe people have of me: the cigarette between my fingers always sparks conversation, a gasp, a pair of wide eyes: You just don't seem like the type!

You’ve been so good until now, is sometimes said, as though I have actively resisted nicotine my entire life, as if I've been outrunning a monster, rather than simply be uninterested.

Why are people so taken aback by this thing, this small meaningless thing, the hotboxing of my lungs, turning them grey. What about me makes it so shocking?

It’s like when I had lunch with my coworkers once, and ordered a French Toast, which arrived to the table all beautiful with edible flowers and powdered sugar drizzled all over. It was an art piece. It looked delicious, and my coworker, who’d ordered eggs, said, Yeah - of course you ordered that. It’s so Amal.

What does that mean? What do these things mean, when people say them to me? The perpetual “that’s not you”, the contrast of “this is so you”. I blame it on the internet. Growing up on it means we’re obsessed with what I like to call niche-ing ourselves: being a clear image, choosing a hashtagable aesthetic. For the algorithm, of course, for the audience, so they recognize us as one specific thing, so they’re familiar, so they keep coming back for more.

I used to love when people would say This Is So Amal; I felt like it gave me a lens into what I was, but as I’ve grown older, it’s done nothing but annoy me. French Toast Is So Amal. Smoking Is So Not Amal. What the does that even mean?

The smoking, I think, disrupts the sort of Taylor Swift, girl next door, sweet and docile, innocent idea people have of me. I’ve found that when people say I’m innocent, they mean I’m stupid. That’s why the French Toast thing bugged me. My instinct was: Are you calling me childish? For ordering a beautiful, sweet, fun plate, rather than your boring hashbrowns and eggs? Basically - you’re saying I’m stupid. That’s a mean assumption. Maybe I’m mean. Imagine?

When they say sensitive, too, they don’t mean soft, they mean stupid. There are many ways to say stupid, I’ve realized, and in one way or another, when someone sees the opposite of their reflection in you, they think it, even if they don’t say it aloud: Stupid. Wrong.

Smoke the cigarette right, or not at all, you’re such a baby about it. Order the French Toast. Choose the floral top in the morning. Drink the colorful drinks, wince at the stronger ones. Take hits of the rolled thing only when they’re from your boyfriend, and cough childishly, make him laugh. Wear your skirts, your cottage-core-tomato-girl-dark-academia getup, and smile, all the time, be happy, all the time, That’s So Amal Of You. And only cry when it’s the end, or close to the end. Journal, in the night, beautifully, on your crisp white sheets, with sage burning beside you. Write your newsletters about heartbreak. That’s So Stupid. That’s So Amal.

My internal audience is displeased, I can taste it. The cigarette smoke destroys what I’ve made myself for them: the invisible fans and temperamental anonymous profile pictures that write imaginary tweets about me. It’s all about me. My mother claims I’m not the Sun, but I am. I am the Sun and everyone is obsessed with me. Everyone is waiting for my fuck up, for the asteroid, for the moment I do the math wrong, and it all falls apart. I realize now, as I write it, the deep psychological affect of being on Instagram pre-puberty has instilled in me: this ever-present audience, this desperation to please them, this fear of being cancelled. Will I be loved today? Will I be hated?

The air is cool in the night, my dear reader. Here in Jordan, we don’t have spring, we have winter and summer, and days in between which move between the seasons in a flurry. The day is unbearable, the night is cool. 7:00PM is the perfect time for walking, all you need is a long sleeve, and you will feel the fresh air wake you. And a cigarette - a cigarette is the perfect companion.

My hands, they smell like my mothers. The only part of smoking my nose could ever catch, in all my years of living under dark cigarette gloom, has been the sharp stench the act gives the hands: an utterly specific melt of sweat and tobacco and skin and burned something. It is a soft breeze over my tired mind. A nostalgic memory. A brief thought of peace.

Peace.

How much does that cost?

Tell me.

With love, as always,
Amal

when you sign up as my pen-pal, i will mail you about four letters a month, ranging between:

• a letter about a situation in my life and maybe what it taught me (personal essay)

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1. A study from the Harm Reduction Journal highlights how sensory experiences, such as the feeling of vapor or smoke in the throat and lungs, can play a critical role in smokers' enjoyment and reliance on cigarettes or e-cigarettes. Many smokers report that the ritual of smoking — lighting a cigarette, the sensation in the throat, or simply holding it — provides comfort beyond the physical effects of nicotine.

2. This is referencing a quote from John Green’s A Fault in Our Stars, where the main character, August Waters, makes it a habit to only hold unlit cigarettes in his mouth, and explains it as “a metaphor, see: You put the killing thing right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do its killing.”